"I need to think," I say finally. "I need to figure out what to do."
Poppy squeezes my hand. "You don't have to figure it all out tonight."
But I do. Because every day I wait is another day closer to showing, another day closer to my father finding out, another day closer to everything spinning completely out of my control.
I look at the pregnancy test on the coffee table, those two pink lines mocking me.
I'm pregnant.
With my dad's best friend's baby.
And I have absolutely no idea what happens next.
Chapter 4
Emma
Idrop my bag by the door and stand there for a moment, taking in the controlled chaos of my apartment/laboratory. The workbench against the far wall is covered in amber bottles of varying sizes, each one carefully labeled in my cramped handwriting. Rose absolute from Bulgaria. Neroli from Tunisia. Frankincense from Somalia. Raw materials I've saved for months to afford.
The distillation equipment sits on the shelf above—modest compared to what Daniela has in Florence, but functional. Mine. Bought with money I earned myself, mixing custom scents for boutiques and private clients who found me through Instagram.
My laptop is open on the desk in the corner, the screen dark. Behind it, pages torn from my notebook are taped to the wall—formulas, ingredient lists, brand concepts. The business plan for Essence is there too, printed and marked up in three colors of ink. Every detail mapped out, every contingency planned for.
Except this one.
I press my palm against my stomach beneath my oversized sweater. There's nothing to feel yet. No sign that everything is about to change.
A baby.
I'm going to have a baby.
The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea through me.Alight, girl, just breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
It doesn't help.
My shift today was a total shit show and I barely had time to even use the bathroom. I can’t wait for the day I can quit. Oliver’s is a cute little diner and it’s not far from here, but waiting tables is definitely not my jam.
I need to get my mind off all of this. Work. I can work.
I need to finalize the formula for the signature scent I'm launching Essence with—something clean and complex. Something that will prove to investors that natural fragrances can be just as sophisticated as their synthetic counterparts.
I pull out my journal and flip to the page where I've been documenting the iterations. Version twelve is close. The base notes are perfect—a blend of vetiver and cedar that's earthy without being heavy. The heart is good too—lavender and geranium, classic but elevated. It's the top notes that need work. Something bright to cut through the richness, something unexpected.
Bergamot, maybe. Or yuzu.
My hands move on autopilot, measuring out drops into a clean beaker. Three drops of bergamot. One grapefruit. A half-drop of pink pepper for complexity. I swirl the mixture, bring it to my nose.
It's wrong. Too sharp, the citrus overpowering everything else.
I dump it down the sink and start again.
This time I try yuzu with a touch of neroli. Better, but still not right. The balance is off.
I dump it. Start over.
By the fifth attempt, my hands are shaking so badly I nearly knock over the bottle of yuzu. I catch it at the last second, my heart hammering.
I can't do this.
