I should deflect. Should pull out my headphones, feign tiredness, create distance. Instead, I find myself turning toward him too, my notebook balanced on my lap.
"Women who are conscious about what they're putting on their bodies," I say. "The clean beauty movement has exploded in skincare and cosmetics, but fragrance has lagged behind. Most commercial perfumes are full of synthetic musks, phthalates, and chemicals that are potential endocrine disruptors." I'm warming to my subject now, the passion that drives me overriding my nerves. "I want to create somethingdifferent. Scents that are beautiful and complex but also completely non-toxic."
Grant's watching me with an intensity that makes me feel seen in a way I'm not used to.
"That's ambitious," he says. "The supply chain alone must be a nightmare."
"It is." I flip to a page covered in supplier contacts and cost projections. "Ethical sourcing is expensive. Real rose absolute, real sandalwood—these things cost so much more than the synthetic versions. And the market is saturated with greenwashing. Companies slap 'natural' on labels when it's ninety-nine percent synthetic with a drop of lavender oil."
"So how do you compete?"
It's the question I've been asking myself for months, the one that keeps me up at night. "Transparency. Storytelling. Building a brand that people trust." I catch myself, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry. You probably don't want to hear me ramble about the fragrance industry."
"Actually, I do," Grant says, and the corner of his mouth lifts, "I asked, didn't I?"
The flight attendant appears with the beverage cart, and Grant orders a scotch, neat. I ask for red wine, needing something to do with my hands.
"Your father worries about you, you know," Grant says after the attendant pours our drinks and moves on. "Living in that apartment in Brooklyn."
The mention of my father is like a splash of ice-cold water. "He's worried I'm wasting my time on a foolish dream. That I should be working at his company, letting him set me up with a nice corporate job and spending every day stuck in a cubicle."
"Is that what you think he wants?"
"That's what Iknowhe wants." I take a too-large gulp of wine, the cheap red bitter on my tongue. "He wants to controleverything. Where I work, who I date, what I do with my life. Just like he controls my mom."
Grant's quiet for a moment. "Your mother loves him."
"My mother is terrified of him." The words are out before I can stop them, sharp and way too honest. I've never said it out loud before, not even to my best friend Poppy. "She gave up everything for him. Her painting, her friends, her entire identity. She became Mrs. David Sullivan, and now she doesn't know how to be anyone else."
I can feel Grant's eyes on me, the weight of his attention, but I keep staring straight ahead at the seat in front of me. Why did I just say that? This is my dad's best friend, for fuck's sake.
"Is that why you won't let him help with your business?" he asks quietly. "Why you’re bootstrapping everything yourself?"
“So you know about that?” I ask.
Grant nods.
"I'm not taking his money because the second I do, Essence stops being mine." My voice is fierce now, all the frustration and fear I've been carrying pouring out. "It becomes his project, his investment, his thing to manage and control and eventually take over when I inevitably fail to live up to his standards."
"Why do you think he’d do that?"
"I just know he would." I finally look at Grant, and there's something in his expression—understanding, maybe, or sympathy—that makes my chest ache. "I need to do this myself. Prove that I can build something without him."
Grant nods slowly, his fingers tracing the rim of his scotch glass. "I understand that. The need to prove yourself."
"Do you?" The question comes out more challenging than I intended. "You're an extremely successful man, Grant. I doubt you've had to prove anything to anyone in a long time."
His laugh is low. "You'd be surprised. Money doesn't exempt you from the need to justify your existence. If anything, itamplifies it." He takes a sip of his drink. "People are always watching, always judging, always wondering if you earned it or if you just got lucky."
"Did you? Earn it?"
"Every goddamn dollar." There's steel in his voice now, the same steel I've heard when he talks business with my father. But then it softens. "But I also had advantages. Resources, connections. I'm not fool enough to pretend I did it without some help."
The honesty surprises me. Most men in his position wouldn't admit to having help.
"That's what I'm afraid of," I admit quietly. "That I'll need those advantages. That I'll struggle without them, and then I'll be exactly what my father thinks I am—a girl with big dreams and no way to achieve them."
"Emma." Grant shifts, and suddenly his hand is on mine where it rests on the armrest. His touch is electric as his palm completely engulfs my hand. "I've known you for your whole life and you're one of the most determined people I've ever met. That counts for a hell of a lot more than advantages."
