"Don't you dare try to tell me this is different. Because you know it’s not."
"I'm not buying anything. I'm offering support. You keep saying you want to do this alone, but you don't have to. Let me help you."
"This is mine. Mine.” The words explode out of me. “The one thing I built that has nothing to do with you or your money or your world. And you want to—what? Write a check and make it yours too?"
"It would still be your company."
"But funded byyourmoney. Successful because ofyourinvestment. Grant Cross's girlfriend's little perfume business." I spit the words like poison. "That's what it would become. Every article, every review, every success would come with an asterisk. She didn't really do it herself. Her billionaire boyfriend bankrolled the whole thing."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" I whirl to face him. "Tell me honestly. If you fund Essence, if you make it possible for me to launch without Vance or any other investor, what does that make me?"
His jaw clenches. "It makes you a smart businesswoman who accepted support from someone who loves her."
"It makes me a kept woman."
The words hang in the air between us.
Grant's face goes pale. "That's not—Emma, that's not true."
"No?" I move closer, my voice dropping to something dangerous. "Ask my mother how fair it is. Ask her what it's like to accept a man's money and his support. Ask her how long it took before those dreams became his to approve or deny. Before she couldn't make a single decision without his permission."
"I'm not your father."
"How are you any different?" The question is vicious. Designed to wound. "You saw me struggling and your first instinct—your immediate response—was to throw money at it. How is that different from what he does?"
"I'm trying to help, not control you,” his voice cracks. “You’re struggling. What kind of partner would I be if I just stood by and watched?"
"The kind who trusts me to save myself!"
"You can't!" He runs a hand through his hair, frustration and fear warring on his face. "You don't have the capital. Don't have the connections to find another investor before you run out of runway. I swear I'm not trying to take over. I'm trying to give you options. To make sure Essence doesn't die because my ex-wife decided to be a bitch."
"And you don't see the problem with that?" I'm shaking now, my whole body vibrating with rage and terror. "You don't see how your money, your involvement, your generous support would swallow everything I've built? I don’t want to be dependent on you."
"It's not dependency. It's partnership."
Tears are streaming down my face now, hot and furious. I swipe at them angrily, hating that I'm crying again. Hating that even now, even in my rage, part of me wants to collapse into his arms and let him fix everything.
That's the most terrifying part. How easy it would be. How tempting.
"Emma, please." His voice is raw. "I'm not trying to control you. I'm trying to love you. There's a difference."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the stuffy air in the apartment.
"So are you saying that you'd rather let Essence fail than accept funding from me?"
Standing here, looking at Grant's earnest face and my laptop screen still glowing with rejection, I realize I don't know the answer.
"I don't know," I admit. "I don't know if I can separate your help from my fear of being controlled. Don't know if I can take your money and still feel like Essence is mine. And I don't—" My voice breaks. "I don't know if I can be with you and still be myself."
The words land like a bomb.
Grant goes very still. "What?"
"This is what I was afraid of." My heart is hammering double-time. "From the beginning. In Florence, when I left that note. I knew being with you meant risking this. Risking becoming someone I don't recognize."
"Emma, stop." He follows me, his face pale. "You're spiraling. You're letting fear?—"
