I can't focus, can't think, can't make my brain cooperate long enough to mix a simple formula I could probably do in my sleep under normal circumstances.
But these aren't normal circumstances.
I sink onto the stool by the workbench and bury my face in my hands, the scent of bergamot clinging to my fingers.
How am I supposed to launch a company like this? How am I supposed to pitch investors and secure funding and build a brand when I can barely measure out essential oils without my hands shaking?
What happens when I'm six months pregnant and can't stand for long periods? When I'm too exhausted to work sixteen-hour days? When the baby comes and I'm running on no sleep, covered in spit-up, with no time for anything except keeping a tiny human alive?
The business plan mocks me from the wall. I stand and cross to it, reading through the timeline I'd mapped out so carefully. Finalize signature scent by end of month. Launch website and social media campaign in six weeks. Pitch investors in three months. Start small-batch production by summer. Official launch by fall.
It's ambitious but doable. I've been working toward this for a year, laying the groundwork, building relationships, creating buzz. Everything is perfectly timed.
Except now there's a baby coming.
In seven and a half months, if my shaky math is right.
Right in the middle of my launch window.
I'll be showing by the time I'm pitching investors. Visibly, undeniably pregnant.
They're going to take one look at me and write me off. A twenty-four-year-old single mother trying to launch a luxury fragrance brand? Too risky. Too unstable. Too likely to fail when reality sets in and she realizes she can't do it all.
And they'll probably be right.
Fuck…
I could do this if I wasn't alone. If I had help. Resources. Someone to handle the business side while I focus on the creative work. Someone to pick up the slack when I'm too exhausted or too pregnant to function.
Someone like Grant.
The thought lands hard.
What if he offered to fund the entire operation? Get me a proper lab space, hire a team, connect me with the best suppliers and distributors, make sure I had everything I needed.
What if all I had to do was ask?
All I'd have to do is tell him about the baby.
My throat tightens. I can see it so clearly, the way it would play out.
I'd tell him I'm pregnant, and after the initial shock, he'd go into problem-solving mode. Because that's what men like Grant do—they identify problems and fix them.
He'd offer support, financial and otherwise. He'd probably want to get me a bigger apartment, something suitable for a baby. Maybe set up a trust fund. Definitely insist on the best prenatal care money can buy.
And I'd say yes. Because I'd be tired and scared and desperate, and he'd make it all sound so reasonable. So sensible.
Just like my father made it sound reasonable when he convinced my mother to give up her art studio because they needed the space for his home office. When he suggested she didn't need to work since he made plenty of money. When heslowly took charge of every decision until she didn't make any of her own anymore.
She probably didn't even notice it happening. Probably thought she was lucky to be married to a man who wanted to take care of her.
Now she's a ghost in her own life. Perfectly dressed, perfectly agreeable, perfectly miserable.
I press my palms against the workbench, the sharp edge digging into my skin.
I can't do that. I can't become that.
But I also can't do this alone.
