My phone sits face-down next to my notebook, Grant's unanswered text from yesterday burning a hole through the screen.I love you.Three words I've wanted to hear, and when he finally says them, I can't bring myself to respond.
Because what if Samantha's right? What if I'm kidding myself about maintaining my independence? What if everyone looks at us and sees exactly what she sees—a transaction disguised as a relationship?
The nausea that's been my constant companion for weeks surges, and I grab the ginger tea I made earlier. It's cold now but I force it down anyway.
I need to work. Need to lose myself in the precision of perfumery, where everything makes sense and follows rules. Where I'm in control.
But I can't focus, and Grant's text keeps echoing in my head alongside Samantha's venom.
My phone buzzes. I flip it over, half hoping, half terrified it's Grant.
It's Poppy.
Poppy:You alive over there? Want company?
I should say yes. Should let my best friend come over and distract me, help me process yesterday's nightmare. But I can't face Poppy's well-meaning concern right now.
Me:Swamped with work. Rain check?
Poppy:Of course. Love you.
Me:Love you too.
I set the phone down and stare at my scattered materials. Bottles and beakers, notebooks filled with formulas, samples I need to send to potential investors by the end of the week. My entire future, distilled into glass containers and scent strips.
I grab my jacket and wallet. I need air. The cafe down the block has good coffee (even though I’m drinking decaf these days) and quiet corner booths, and maybe a change of scenery will help me think.
The April afternoon is cool and bright, the kind of spring day that makes New York feel almost friendly. I walk the three blocks to the cafe with my hands shoved in my pockets, grateful for the anonymity of the crowded sidewalk.
The cafe is my favorite kind of busy—full enough that the ambient noise creates privacy, but not so packed that I can't find a table. I order a decaf latte and claim a corner spot near the window, pulling out my notebook to review some notes.
Maybe now I can see what's wrong with the base notes and fix the balance that's been eluding me.
I lose myself in calculations, in the precise measurements that govern scent composition. Top notes need to be bright, volatile—bergamot and lemon verbena. Heart notes should add complexity—iris and jasmine. Base notes ground everything, give it staying power. Vetiver, sandalwood, a touch of amber.
But something's still off. The formula that looked perfect on paper keeps falling flat when I actually blend it.
I'm so focused on my notes that I don't notice a woman approaching until she's standing right beside my table.
"Emma?"
I look up.
It’s Victoria fucking Cross.
Her blonde hair is styled in an elegant bob and she's wearing a Burberry camel trench coat. Everything about her screams wealth and taste and the kind of polish I've never aspired to.
Her smile is brilliant, showing perfect white teeth. "I thought that was you! What a wonderful coincidence."
"Victoria—" I start, and she's already pulling out the chair across from me, settling in like we're long lost friends.
The coffee I just sipped turns to acid in my stomach.
"I—" My brain scrambles for what to say. "It’s so nice to see you."
"I hope you don't mind me joining you." She doesn't wait for an answer, just signals the barista with the kind of casual authority that says she's used to being obeyed. "I saw you through the window and thought, 'Victoria, you simply must say hello.'" Her eyes sweep over me, assessing. "It’s been such a long time."
“It has.” My brain is totally short circuiting right now. How can this possibly be happening again? And certainly she knows about me and Grant… I can’t imagine Samantha didn’t tell her.
