He's quiet for a moment, his expression shifting from anger to something else. Something that looks almost like pain.
"You're supposed to let me help you," he says quietly.
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication.
"Help me how?"
Even as I ask, I know. Know exactly what he's about to say. Can see it in the set of his shoulders, the determination in his eyes. He's about to solve my problem the only way he knows how.
With money.
"I'll fund it."
Three words. Three simple words that make me want to vomit.
"What?"
"Essence." He steps closer, his hands reaching for mine. "I'll fund it myself. Whatever you need—capital for production, marketing budget, operational costs. You won't have to worry about investors or Victoria's interference. You can focus on the work, on building the brand you've envisioned."
I can hear my own heartbeat, rapid and erratic.
"I'll give you whatever you need," he continues, mistaking my silence for consideration. "Complete creative control, Emma. I won't interfere with your vision. This would just be me—providing the resources so you can make it happen."
Something cold and sharp unfurls in my chest.
It's my mother's face. Sad eyes across a dinner table. My father's hand on her arm, steering her away from a conversation.The slow, steady erosion of a person who once had dreams of her own.
Your mother's little art business. Such a waste of time, Emma. She has everything she needs.
"You want to buy my company."
My voice sounds strange and distant.
Grant's expression shifts, confused. "No. I want toinvestin it. This isn't about buying anything. It's about giving you the opportunity to?—"
"To what?" The cold feeling in my body is spreading, turning my blood to ice. "To succeed? To build my dream? But it wouldn't be my dream anymore, would it? It would be yours. Your money. Your investment. Your?—"
"That's not—" He reaches for me, but I step back.
"Don't touch me."
The words come out sharper than I intended, and I see him flinch.
"Emma, please. Just listen?—"
"No." The ice is melting now, replaced by something hot and terrible. Anger. "No, you listen. Do you have any idea what you just did? What you just offered?"
"I offered to help you!" His voice rises to match mine. "Your business is in jeopardy because of my ex-wife. The least I can do is?—"
"Fix it?" I laugh, and the sound is ugly. "Solve my problems with your money? Make it all better because poor little Emma can't handle her own life?"
"That's not what I said."
"It's what you meant!" I'm pacing around the apartment because I can't stand still. Can't contain the fury building in my chest. "You saw a problem and immediately reached for your checkbook. Just like?—"
I stop. Can't finish that sentence. But Grant does it for me.
"Just like your father."
