Twenty-four
Ellory
I touch the sore spot near my hairline where the stitches are—three in total, hidden beneath a sweep of hair. The skin’s still tender, but I’d ripped off the bandage the moment I was discharged. I’m not letting this slow me down. And with some good makeup you can’t see my black eye.
I’ve heard from Inspector Lenning, but they don’t know much.
My jewelry hasn’t shown up at any of the pawn shops.
I’m not confident they’re going to find who assaulted me, but I’m focused on this new line of jewelry, and if anything, my scar is a reminder of how far I’ve come.
Of what I’m fighting for. This isn’t just a pitch. It’s my legacy on the line
Antoine enters my office, holding a necklace, bracelet, earrings, and a matching ring. The stones are delicate, iridescent discs about the size of dimes, set in platinum. They shimmer like frosted bubbles—ethereal, modern, mesmerizing.
“I love it,” I breathe.
“We’ve got five more designs ready,” he says with a grin. “Jamie’s setting them up in the conference room.”
I take a steadying breath. “Let’s do this.”
Antoine glances at me. “Where’s the dress?”
I stop short. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not in the boardroom. Not on the dress form.”
My pulse spikes, and I nearly break into a jog in my stilettos. “It was steamed and ready, set for you to place the jewelry on before the meeting.”
We rush to the boardroom. Empty.
“It’s missing,” Antoine says.
Just then, Heather strolls by with her coffee, her smile smug. “All set for your meeting today?”
The sight of her makes my blood boil. “Where is it?”
Her hand flutters to her chest. “What are you talking about?”
“This building is covered with cameras. If you’ve taken Night to Remember, you’ll be caught, and I’ll prosecute you for theft.”
Heather tilts her head, feigning confusion. “ Night to Remember? What’s that?”
“You know exactly what it is. If you’re trying to ruin today, you’re going to be sadly mistaken.”
She steps in closer, her voice low. “When I run this place, I’ll have full discretion over who stays and who goes. You might want to watch your tone with me.”
It takes everything in me not to slap the smug grin right off her face.
My father walks up with his arms open. “My two favorite ladies.”
Heather looks at me and nearly dares me to say something. I take a deep breath and fake a smile. “Are you ready for our board meeting?”
“Yes. Everyone should be here shortly. Are you ready?”
I nod. “Absolutely.” I’m going to find out what she did with the dress, and she’s going to pay for this. “I need to get a few things done before we get started.”
As I walk away, Heather says, “Good luck.”
I nod, voice steady. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure you don’t need me in this meeting?” I hear her ask Papa.
My fury coils tighter. She wants me rattled, unraveling before the board. Instead, I force my shoulders straight and keep walking, rehearsing every line of my presentation in my head. If she thinks stealing a dress is enough to break me, she’s underestimated me.
Later, when the boardroom doors close and she’s left standing in the hallway, her smile slips. I catch the flicker of disappointment in her eyes before the wood seals her out. The sight steadies me.
She may have the dress, but I have the room. And I’m going to own it.
A continental breakfast is laid out beside the presentation screen. The black velvet dress form stands empty.
My stomach twists, but I force my expression neutral.
“Veronica,” I say quietly, catching my assistant before she slips inside. “I need you to get the security feeds for this morning. Hallways, boardroom, everything. See if you can pinpoint when the dress was taken.”
Her eyes widen, but she nods sharply. “I’ll get on it right away.”
I straighten my shoulders and look through my notes I don’t need. Antoine carefully arranges the new jewelry on the bare form, his touch precise, reverent. And without the dress, the pieces somehow stand out even more—like constellations against a night sky. Almost otherworldly.
My stomach twists, but I force my face into calm neutrality. Heather wants me to falter, wants the board to see me stumble. Not happening.
One by one, the board members arrive, —including my father. We haven’t spoken much since his cutting words to Matteo, and today is not the day to provoke him. One wrong move and this could collapse before it begins.
Normally, they’d grab coffee and settle in, but today they linger, drifting through the displays.
“These are beautiful,” my Aunt Ellen says, lightly brushing her fingers over the necklace.
Her reverence steadies me. The pieces are working. They’re telling their story. “I love them,” I say quickly, claiming them as mine.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the briefest shift in my father’s expression. The hard lines around his eyes soften. A glimmer of pride. Maybe this won’t fall apart.
He clears his throat and turns to the group. “All right, everyone. Please take your seats. We’ve got a full agenda, but I think we can all agree we should begin with Ellory’s presentation. Any objections?”
Heads shake. All eyes swing to me.
Antoine slips into the back row with the rest of the design and marketing staff.
I step forward, spine straight, and click to the first slide. “Let’s start with our buyers.”
A graph appears on the screen. “In the last decade, the median age of our clientele has increased by ten years. If that trend continues, we’ll age out of relevance.”
Murmurs ripple through the room.
“But it’s not too late,” I say firmly, keeping my voice upbeat.
I flip through data from Tiffany & Co. and other competitors, showing the same decline.
“Younger buyers aren’t drawn to traditional luxury.
Wages are down, housing prices are up, and most won’t buy their first home until their forties—if at all.
That’s assuming they’re white, well-employed, and lucky.
And those numbers don’t even reflect the diversity we see within our own team. ”
I let that settle. Then, steady and sure, I say, “Millennials care about sustainability, ethical sourcing, and individuality. Flashy displays of wealth don’t impress them. They want meaning.”
“But we’ve always catered to the elite,” Aunt Ellen says, cautious.
“True. But now every legacy brand is chasing the same elite one percent. To stand out, we need to be bold.”
I advance the slide to Paris Fashion Week and the media frenzy around our diamond dress. “I know many of you questioned whether it was worth the million dollars I spent.”
A few sheepish glances confirm it.
I flash the next slide—headlines, rave reviews, fashion blogs, reposts from celebrities. “Designers are already prepping diamond-infused looks for spring. Prices for these stones have jumped two hundred percent. But here’s our edge.”
I pause, letting the anticipation rise. Even without the dress in the room, I can feel the momentum shifting. The data and the vision are enough.
“The supplier—Luster—is right here in San Francisco. And they’ve already been approached by nearly every major couture house and haberdashery.”
I click to the next slide, which lists more than forty potential applications.
“Traditionally, these accents are made of glass or resin. But Felicity Ford stitched diamonds into couture. She’s not the first. But she is the first to put rough diamonds on her lines.
Carbon miracles. And the ripple effect? It’s only just beginning. ”
“But millennials can’t afford couture,” CFO Miles Anderson interrupts.
“They can’t,” I agree smoothly. “But they can buy a necklace. A ring. A pair of earrings. These pieces carry the same allure because they’re made of real diamonds. From Olivier.”
I advance again. “One couture collection birthed forty looks. In the next quarter, over four hundred knockoffs will flood the market. This is our moment to lead or be left behind.”
I outline our exclusive agreement with Luster, then add the quiet interest they’ve had from Van Cleef, Bulgari, and others. Names heavy enough to shift the room. “If we hesitate, they’ll scoop up what we don’t claim.”
“We need to move,” Aunt Ellen says at last, her tone decisive.
The room erupts—side conversations, rapid questions, sparks of energy catching like fire.
Then my father’s voice cuts through the noise. “Why can’t other designers get these stones from someone else?”
I’ve been waiting for that.
“Look at the size of these stones,” I say, calm but firm. “This is a major pipe, rare, possibly even unique in its yield. And only Dante Marino and his cutters know how to work them to this quality.”
Johanna Price, one of our luxury brand consultants, leans forward, her brow furrowed. “But if we rely on a single supplier, aren’t we exposing ourselves to risk?”
“For now, yes,” I admit. “Luster has enough to supply what we want, and if we move forward, we’ll have their stones exclusively for ten years.
But that window won’t stay open long. By moving first, before the rest of the industry, we position ourselves as the destination for couture-grade diamond jewelry.
We won’t be following the trend. We’ll be setting it. ”
Several heads nod, pens poised over notepads. The murmurs are more thoughtful now, less skeptical.
“I don’t love the name ‘rough diamonds,’” Johanna adds.
“Neither do I.” I click to the next slide. “We’re branding them as Fire and Ice Diamonds, and we’ve filed the paperwork trademarking that title. Our campaign tagline is Redefining Traditional.”
A ripple of approval moves across the table. Even my father leans back in his chair, a rare smile tugging at his mouth.
Miles drums his pen on the table. “Let’s talk numbers. Upfront costs? Profit margins?”
I walk them through our projections—stone acquisition, labor, metals, markup. “We’re estimating a minimum five-hundred percent profit margin.”
A beat of silence follows. This time it’s not doubt. It’s charged, impressed silence.