I delete the message without responding. Engaging with Victoria right now would be a mistake. Would give her exactly what she wants—proof that she got under my skin. Proof that she still has power over my life.
But God, the rage I feel toward Victoria is so much easier than the painful knot of emotions I have about Emma.
Victoria is the villain. The outside force. The enemy I can blame.
Except that's not true, and I know it.
Victoria created the circumstances. But I'm the one who showed Emma exactly what she was afraid of. I'm the one who confirmed every terrible fear she has about powerful men.
I pick up a pen from my desk—Mont Blanc, limited edition, another stupid expensive thing—and turn it over in my fingers.
I've spent my entire adult life accumulating tools like this. Things that signal success. Wealth. Power. The ability to shape the world according to my vision.
And now I'm supposed to what? Put them all down? Pretend I don't have resources that could help Emma? That seems just as wrong. Just as much of a lie.
A thought crystallizes slowly, like ice forming on a window.
Partnership isn't about me solving her problems. It's about us facing problems together. And right now, the problem is thatmy default setting—fix it, fund it, control the outcome—is toxic to the woman I love.
So what the hell do I do?
I stand, pacing the length of my office.
Emma doesn't want my money. Doesn't want me to rescue her. And definitely doesn't want to be saved.
She wants to save herself.
So what if—and the idea forms slowly, carefully—what if I'm not the solution? What if I'm just... the door?
I stop pacing, the thought taking shape.
Emma's business is viable. Her scents are incredible. Her vision for clean organic fragrance is exactly the kind of thing that investors in this market are looking for. Vance knew it. That's why he was enthusiastic before Victoria got to him.
The problem isn't Emma's business plan. It's not her talent or her work ethic or her vision.
The problem is that Victoria poisoned the well. Made sure the one investor who was perfect for Essence walked away.
But Victoria's reach isn't infinite. There are plenty of people in this world she doesn't control. Connections she doesn't have.
Connections Idohave.
I move back to my desk, my heart starting to pound. Not with the adrenaline of a deal about to close, but with something more fragile. More uncertain.
Hope, maybe.
I pull up my contacts, scrolling through names. Not investors. Not venture capital firms. Not anyone who would see this as a favor to me.
Someone who would see Emma for what she is. Who would recognize talent and vision and determination.
My thumb hovers over a name.
Chelsea Harrington.
I haven't talked to Chelsea in almost two years, not since she sold her cosmetics company to Estée Lauder for nearly a billion dollars. We served on a nonprofit board together back when she was still building her business from a small storefront in Brooklyn. Before she became the face of clean beauty. Before she was on the cover of Forbes.
She did everything herself at first. No investors for the first five years. No family money. Just her vision and her willingness to work a hundred hours a week.
Exactly the kind of person Emma would respect.
