I'm clutching the folder with Athena Capital's preliminary materials, trying to even out my breath.
When the doors open to the lobby, I step out onto the street into bright afternoon sunlight, and I finally let myself feel it.
"I did it," I whisper to myself.
Grant is waiting for me in his car right outside the front door. His driver gets out and opens the door for me and I scoop in next to Grant.
"I did it. Grant, I actually did it," I say louder than I meant to.
His smile is brilliant. "I knew you would, baby." He takes me in his arms and holds me tight.
"They said yes. They want to invest. Half a million dollars. That's—" I laugh, the sound slightly hysterical. "That's real money. I can scale production, hire help, actually pay myself a salary."
"You earned it." Grant's hands frame my face, gentle and reverent. "Every word of that pitch, every formula you developed, every relationship you built—that was all you. I'm so proud of you."
The tears come then, hot and fast. Relief and joy and the overwhelming validation of having someone believe in my dream enough to invest in it.
"Thank you," I say. "For understanding what I needed. For giving me the chance to prove it to myself."
"Always." He kisses the top of my head. "You're going to change the industry, Emma. I know it."
I pull back, wiping at my eyes and probably destroying my mascara. "I need to call Poppy. And I need to—God, I need to let this sink in. Grant, I have real investors. I'm going to launch Essence."
His laugh is warm. "You are. And I get to watch you do it."
By Saturday, the news has finally started to feel right—like I can hold onto it without feeling like it might evaporate.
Athena Capital sent over the term sheet. My lawyer—Grant connected me to an attorney who specializes in startup funding, another door opened rather than a problem solved—says it's an excellent deal. Fair valuation, reasonable equity stake, and a commitment to a second round if I hit my growth targets.
It's happening. Essence is actually happening.
Which makes tonight's charity gala feel less daunting than it might have otherwise.
I stand in front of the mirror in Grant's bedroom, smoothing my hands over the dress I bought specifically for this event. It's emerald-green silk, sleeveless, with a high neckline and a dramatic back. The fabric drapes beautifully over my baby bump—twenty-one weeks now, officially more than halfway through.
Grant appears behind me in the mirror, devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo. "You look stunning, baby."
"I look pregnant," I say, but I'm smiling.
"You look stunningandpregnant." He rests his hand on my stomach, his touch warm through the silk. "How are they?"
"Active." One of the twins—or maybe both, I can't tell yet—has been doing somersaults all afternoon. "I think they're excited about tonight."
Grant's smile is soft. "Are you ready for this? It's going to be a lot of people. A lot of questions."
The gala is one of New York's major charity events—black tie, three hundred plus guests, the kind of party where million-dollar donations are announced from the stage. Grant serves on the board of the organization and he's been expected to attend for months.
He asked if I wanted to skip it. Suggested we could make an excuse and avoid the scrutiny.
I said no.
Because hiding feels like shame, and I'm done with that.
"I'm ready," I tell him. "Let them whisper. I don't care anymore."
His eyes in the mirror are fierce with pride and love. "That's my girl."
He helps me with my necklace—a gorgeous delicate chain with a whopping diamond pendant that he surprised me with last week—and we head downstairs to the waiting car.
