My phone buzzes again. Then again.
I finally pick it up.
Grant:How's it going?
Grant:Emma?
Grant:I'm worried. Please just let me know you're okay.
The concern in his messages should feel comforting. Instead, it feels suffocating.
Because I'm not okay. Nothing is okay. And I don't know how to tell him that his ex-wife just destroyed the last piece of my life that was still mine.
I type out a response.
Me:I'm good. Just busy. Will call you later.
Another lie. They're getting easier.
I set the phone face-down on the desk and look around my apartment.
I think about all the work I’ve put in: the formulas, the relationships with suppliers, the brand identity I created from scratch.
I’m getting so close.
But my plans aren’t sustainable without funding. Without the capital to scale production, hire help, actually launch the product line I've spent so long perfecting.
I could keep going as I have been. Small batch, selling at farmers markets and local boutiques. Barely breaking even, building slowly, hoping for organic growth.
But that was never the plan. The plan was to launch properly. To make Essence into something significant. To prove that I could compete in this industry on my own merit.
To prove Dad wrong.
But maybe my father was right, and I am just a naive girl who got in over her head.
The tears come suddenly, hot and angry. I press my hands against my eyes, trying to stop them, but I can’t.
I'm so tired of crying.
Tired of feeling broken and powerless and small.
My phone buzzes again, but I ignore it. Can't deal with Grant's concern or Poppy's cheerful check-ins or anyone who might expect me to be okay.
Because I'm not okay.
I’m twenty-four years old. Pregnant with twins. Disowned by my father. My business gutted by my boyfriend's ex-wife.
The studio suddenly feels too small. Too full of ghosts—of the version of myself who worked so hard for what I wanted. Who thought passion and hard work were enough.
Who didn't understand yet that sometimes, you can do everything right and still lose.
My father's voice echoes in my head.You threw your life away the moment you got into bed with him.
The email's final line burns behind my eyes.We wish you the best of luck with Essence and your future endeavors.
Both of them, in their own ways, writing me off. Dismissing what I've created. Proving that I was never going to make it on my own after all.
I pick up my phone. Stare at Grant's worried messages.
