Chapter 7
I stared at my computer screen, my chest tight and hollow at the same time.
This couldn’t be happening.
The email from Vitality Juice sat open like a fresh wound, each word a twist of the knife. Three weeks of work. Three weeks of late nights and skipped meals and "just one more adjustment" until my eyes burned. All of it trashed in five brutal paragraphs that ended with a thinly veiled threat to find another designer. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling, as if they'd forgotten their purpose.
The shock hit me in waves. First came the numbness, as if someone had injected ice water into my veins. Then the heat of embarrassment crawled up my neck and flooded my cheeks. My mouth went dry. The room seemed to shrink around me, the walls of my home office pressing closer.
"We find the concept fundamentally misaligned with our brand identity," the email read. "The color palette is juvenile and lacks the sophistication our customers expect. The typography choices appear amateurish at best."
Juvenile. Amateurish.
The words stung worse than if they'd called me incompetent outright. I scrolled back up to the top of the email, hoping I'd somehow misread it the first time. I hadn't.
"If you are unable to deliver a concept that meets our standards, we may need to explore other design partners who better understand our vision."
My stomach clenched. I pushed back from my desk, the wheels of my office chair squeaking against the hardwood floor. The contract with Vitality Juice represented almost forty percent of my monthly income. I'd turned down three smaller projects to focus on their rebranding, assuming the relationship would continue.
Stupid, stupid mistake.
I stood up, my legs unsteady. The room spun slightly as blood rushed from my head. I steadied myself against the edge of my desk and took a shallow breath that did nothing to calm the riot in my chest.
Was I really that bad? Had I completely misunderstood their brief? I'd sent progress updates throughout the process. They'd given feedback, sure, but nothing that indicated they hated the entire direction. In our last check-in call, their marketing director had even used the word "promising."
My chest tightened again. I forced myself to breathe. In for four, hold for four, out for four. The technique Ethan had taught me when I mentioned my occasional anxiety.
Ethan. The thought of him sent a complicated flutter through my stomach. We'd been seeing each other for almost a month now, ever since that day I'd stumbled upon his secret room. The memory still made me blush—both from embarrassment at my invasion of his privacy and from the unexpected thrill of discovering someone who understood that part of me.
My phone sat on the counter where I'd left it during my morning coffee. I could call him. He'd told me I could call anytime. "Day or night, little star," he'd said.
I picked up the phone, then set it down again. What would I even say? "Hi, a client hates my work and I'm having a meltdown"? How pathetic would that sound? He was a successful psychologist with actual patients who had actual problems. My professional crisis would seem trivial.
And what if he was with a client? I had no idea what his schedule was today. I didn't want to be the needy girl who couldn't handle her own business setbacks.
I walked back to my office, determination temporarily overriding panic. I'd fix this. I'd open the design again, figure out where I'd gone wrong, and create something so undeniably perfect they'd have to accept it.
The design file loaded, filling my screen with the vibrant color scheme I'd developed based on their "fresh, energetic, forward-thinking" brief. I'd incorporated elements of vintage fruit crate labels with modern, clean typography. The concept board included application mock-ups for bottles, promotional materials, and their website. The work was good. I knew it was good.
But now, through the lens of their rejection, I could only see flaws. That shade of green was too acidic. The font was trying too hard. The overall aesthetic was juvenile.
Tears blurred my vision, turning the colors into hazy smudges. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my sight, but the tears kept coming. A drop splashed onto my keyboard. Then another.
"Damn it," I whispered, wiping my cheeks with the heel of my hand. This wasn't helping. I couldn't see the design clearly, let alone fix it, when I was crying like a child.
I closed the laptop harder than necessary and pushed away from my desk. My head throbbed with the beginning of a tension headache. I stumbled to the living room and collapsed face-first onto my couch, burying my face in a throw pillow. Maybe if I just lay here for a while, the solution would come to me. Or maybe Vitality Juice would send a follow-up email saying it was all a mistake, they'd meant to send that to some other designer.
I almost laughed at how pathetic that fantasy was. But I wasn’t laughing—I was crying. Tears ran freely down my cheeks and I sobbed, ugly, loud cries of anguish.
The doorbell rang, cutting through my spiral of self-pity. I lifted my head, momentarily disoriented. I wasn't expecting anyone. Maybe it was a package delivery that needed a signature. Or a neighbor with a misdelivered mail.
I dragged myself off the couch, wiping my eyes and cheeks, though I was sure my face still showed evidence of crying. Whoever it was, I'd get rid of them quickly and go back to my crisis.
I opened the door, and my heart stuttered.
Ethan stood there, tall and solid, holding two coffee cups from Bean Around Town, the café three blocks from my apartment. His smile, warm and easy, froze when he saw my face.
"Lily," he said, his voice dropping to that lower register that made my insides turn to jelly. "What's wrong?"
I opened my mouth to say "nothing," the automatic response I'd perfected through years of keeping my problems to myself. But my throat closed around the word, and instead, a small, broken sound escaped.
Ethan stepped forward, coffee cups still in hand. "Let me in, sweetheart."
I backed away, more in surrender than invitation. He followed, kicking the door closed behind him with one foot. The soft click of the latch felt like permission to fall apart.
"Had a break in my appointments. Thought I'd surprise you with a coffee." His eyes never left my face as he shrugged off his jacket. "Looks like my timing was good."
Another small sound escaped me—half laugh, half sob. Good timing? He had no idea.
"Can you tell me what happened?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm. Not a request. A direction.
The tears I'd just managed to dry started again, hot and unwelcome. "I—" My voice cracked. I tried again. "Work. A client."
Ethan stepped closer, one hand coming to rest on my shoulder, thumb brushing against my collarbone. "Take a breath," he instructed. "Nice and slow."
I did, the air shuddering into my lungs.
"Good girl," he murmured, and something inside me loosened at the praise. "Now let's sit down, and you can tell me about it."
His hand slid from my shoulder to my upper back, guiding me toward my own couch like I was a guest in my apartment. I let him lead me, craving the steady pressure of his palm against my spine. We sat, his body angled toward mine, knees almost touching.
"I got an email," I started, the words tumbling out faster as I spoke. "From Vitality Juice. My biggest client. They hated the design. Everything about it. Three weeks of work and they said it was juvenile and amateurish and misaligned and they're going to find someone else and I can't afford to lose them and I don't know what I did wrong because they never said anything in any of our meetings and—"
"Breathe," Ethan interrupted, catching my flailing hands in his. His hands were warm and dry, encompassing mine completely. "You're spiraling."
I nodded, embarrassed by my outburst. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize for having feelings," he said, squeezing my hands gently. "Just slow down so I can understand what you're going through."
I took another breath, more steadily this time. "They rejected my design concept. Completely. After approving all the preliminaries."
Ethan nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. "And this upset you."
It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. "Of course it upset me! It's a huge account, and I've been working my ass off on this project."
"I can see that," he agreed, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of my hand. "But there's more, isn't there? I can see it in your eyes."
I looked down, unable to hold his gaze. How did he do that? How did he see past my surface emotions to the deeper currents beneath?
"Tell me what you're really afraid of, Lily," he said softly.
A tremor ran through me. "That I'm not good enough," I whispered. "That I never was. That everyone's going to figure it out sooner or later."
Ethan released one of my hands to tip my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes again. "That's imposter syndrome talking. It's not reality."
"But what if it is?" My voice cracked. "What if I've just been lucky so far, and this is where my luck runs out?"
"Do you believe that?" he asked. "Really believe it?"
I started to nod, then paused. Did I? I'd built my client list through hard work and genuine talent. One rejection, however harsh, didn't erase all that.
"No," I admitted. "But it feels true right now."
Ethan's expression softened. "Feelings aren't facts, little star."
"I should be able to handle this," I insisted. "It's just business. It happens to everyone."
"Of course it does," Ethan agreed. "But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. Especially when it touches on deeper insecurities."
I blinked at him, surprised by his perception. "What do you mean?"
"This isn't just about one design," he said, his eyes gentle but knowing. "This is about your sense of worth, isn't it? Your fear that if you're not perfect, you're nothing."
A sob broke from my throat, raw and painful. Ethan pulled me against his chest, one hand cradling the back of my head. I cried into his shirt, months of stress and years of self-doubt pouring out in messy, ugly tears. He held me through it, murmuring soft words I couldn't quite make out but found comforting nonetheless.
When the storm passed, leaving me hiccuping and drained, he handed me a tissue from the box on my coffee table. I wiped my face, embarrassment creeping in to replace the emotional release.
"I'm sorry," I said, not meeting his eyes. "I don't usually fall apart like this."
"I know," he said, a hint of disapproval in his tone. "You bottle it up until it explodes. That's not healthy, Lily."
I looked up, surprised by the gentle criticism. "I just—I didn't want to bother you with my work problems."
Ethan's eyebrows drew together. "Is that what you think? That your problems are a bother to me?"
"I know you're busy," I said weakly. "You have important work. Real people with real problems."
"And you're not real?" he challenged. "Your problems don't matter?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
I fidgeted with the damp tissue in my hands. "I just . . . I want to be strong. Independent. I told you that. Not some needy girl who falls apart over an email."
Ethan sighed, taking my hands again. "Lily, look at me." I did. "Needing support doesn't make you weak. It makes you human. And I'm not interested in a relationship where we only share the easy parts of our lives."
"I'm not used to having someone to call."
His expression softened. "I know, sweetheart. But you do now. You have me." He paused, studying my face. "I'd like you to get used to that."
I nodded, a fresh tear sliding down my cheek. He caught it with his thumb.
"I think what you need right now isn't more adult problem-solving," he said, his voice taking on that quality that made me feel small and safe. "I think you need a break from being grown-up Lily for a little while." He tilted his head, eyes steady on mine. "Would that help?"
I found myself nodding, the movement small and vulnerable.
Ethan's smile was warm and sure. "Good girl." He stood, pulling me gently to my feet. "I'm taking you to my place. You're going to pack a small overnight bag, and I'm going to take care of everything else. Okay?"
It wasn't really a question, but I nodded anyway. "Okay."
"What about the client?" I asked, reality intruding. "The design—"
"Will still be there tomorrow," he finished for me. "With a fresh perspective and a rested mind. Right now, you need to let it go." His voice firmed. "That's an order, Lily."
A shiver ran through me at his tone, but it wasn't fear. It was relief. Someone else was taking charge. Someone I trusted. I didn't have to figure everything out right this minute.
"Yes, Sir," I whispered, the deference falling naturally from my lips.
Ethan's eyes darkened at the title. "Go pack your bag. I'll wait here."
***
E than's house welcomed me like an old friend. He guided me through the living room with a gentle hand at the small of my back, past the kitchen, toward the hallway that led to the room I'd discovered by accident. The room that had changed everything between us.
My stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation as we approached the door. The last time I'd turned that knob, I'd been snooping, letting curiosity override my sense of boundaries. I'd expected a home office, maybe a workout room. Instead, I'd found . . .
Ethan opened the door, and warm light spilled into the hallway. He stepped aside, letting me enter first.
"Welcome, little star," he said softly.
The walls were painted a soft blue that reminded me of twilight, dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars that formed actual constellations. A bookshelf lined one wall, filled with picture books and colorful toys. The floor was covered with a plush white rug that looked like a cloud, scattered with pillows in various shapes—stars, moons, planets. A low table sat in one corner with art supplies neatly arranged.
Ethan closed the door behind us, his presence solid and reassuring at my back. "This is your place whenever you need it."
My place.
"What happens now?" I asked, my voice already sounding different to my own ears—a little higher, a little less certain.
Ethan moved to stand in front of me, his height more noticeable now that I felt smaller inside. "Now we help Lily become little Lily for a while." He brushed a strand of hair from my face, his touch gentle. "Would you like that?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Words, please," he prompted gently.
"Yes," I managed. "I'd like that."
His smile was warm approval. "Good girl. First, let's get you into something more comfortable."
He led me to a white dresser painted with silver stars, each drawer marked with a little picture instead of a word—clothes in one, toys in another. He opened the clothing drawer and pulled out a set of pajamas—soft flannel printed with constellations on a deep blue background.
"Let's get you changed," Ethan said, setting the pajamas on top of the dresser. He turned to me, hands moving to the bottom of my sweater. "Arms up."
The instruction was so natural, so matter-of-fact, that I obeyed without thinking. He lifted my sweater over my head, folding it neatly and setting it aside. My jeans followed, his movements efficient but unhurried, leaving me standing in my underwear and bra.
In any other context, this undressing would have been sexual. But this was different. His touch was caring rather than arousing, practical rather than passionate. He was undressing me the way a parent might undress a child—with purpose rather than desire.
And yet there was an undercurrent between us, a charge in the air that wasn't sexual but wasn't entirely innocent either. A form of intimacy deeper than physical attraction, built on trust and vulnerability.
He unhooked my bra, replacing it with a soft cotton camisole that matched the pajamas, then helped me step into the pajama pants. The flannel whispered against my legs as he pulled them up, settling them at my waist. The top followed, buttons fastened one by one from bottom to top.
"There," he said, smoothing the fabric over my shoulders. "Comfortable?"
I nodded, running my hands over the soft material. "It's so soft."
"Only the best for my little star." He guided me to a full-length mirror hanging on the back of the door. "Look how pretty you are."
I stared at my reflection, startled by the transformation. The pajamas changed more than just my clothes—they changed how I held myself, how I perceived myself. My posture was different, less rigid. My face looked softer, more open.
His eyes met mine in the mirror. "This is a safe space, Lily. Nothing bad can touch you here."
I believed him. Something in me unwound at his words, a tension I hadn't realized I was carrying. My shoulders dropped. My breathing deepened.
He led me to the cloud-like rug, lowering himself to sit cross-legged and patting the space beside him. I sank down, the plush surface cradling me. Without thinking, I leaned against his side, seeking his warmth and solidity.
"What would you like to do first?" he asked. "We could color, or play with clay, or build something . . ."
Clay. That reminded me, we had to pick up our items from the pottery workshop. I considered the options, surprised by how appealing simple creativity sounded. "Color," I decided. "I want to color."
Ethan reached over to the nearby table, pulling a sketchbook and a wooden box toward us. He opened the box to reveal colored pencils—not the cheap kind, but professional-grade ones with soft, vibrant leads. The artist in me recognized their quality, even as the emerging little girl in me simply appreciated their pretty colors.
"These are special," he said, running his fingers over the pencils. "They make the colors look exactly how you want them to. No pressure, no expectations. Just play."
He opened the sketchbook to a blank page and set it before me. I picked up a blue pencil, the same color as the walls, and made a tentative mark on the page. The tip glided smoothly, leaving a rich line that satisfied something deep inside me.
I added another color, then another. Without planning, a picture began to emerge—a night sky, stars scattered across the darkness. I lost myself in the process, in the pure joy of creation without purpose or judgment. No client would see this. No one would critique it. It existed only for the pleasure of making it.
Beside me, Ethan watched quietly, occasionally murmuring encouragement when I added a particularly nice detail. His presence was comforting rather than intrusive, a safe harbor rather than an audience.
"You're doing so well," Ethan said, his voice that perfect blend of gentle authority that made me feel both praised and protected. "Such beautiful colors."
I looked up at him, a smile spreading across my face without my conscious direction. "Thank you, Daddy."
The word slipped out naturally, without thought or embarrassment. It felt right, like a key finding its lock. His answering smile told me he thought so too.
"You're welcome, little one." He reached out to brush my hair back from my face, his fingers lingering. "Your hair's getting in your eyes. Would you like me to fix it for you?"
I nodded eagerly. He rose and retrieved a brush and several colorful hair clips from a small basket on the dresser. Settling behind me, he began to brush my hair with long, gentle strokes. The sensation was heavenly—soothing and stimulating at the same time, raising pleasant shivers along my scalp and neck.
"Close your eyes," he murmured. "Just feel."
I did, surrendering to the rhythm of the brush and the gentle tug when he encountered a small tangle. He worked methodically, section by section, smoothing and arranging my hair with careful attention. I felt myself melting, tension draining from my body with each stroke.
When he finished brushing, he sectioned my hair and secured it with clips—little stars, I discovered when I reached up to touch them afterward.
"Perfect," he declared. "Would you like something to drink? I have apple juice in a special cup just for you."
I nodded, suddenly aware of my thirst. He returned moments later with a sippy cup—adult-sized but designed with the same star pattern as my pajamas. I accepted it with both hands, the familiar weight triggering memories of childhood comfort. The juice was cold and sweet, exactly what I needed.
"Good?" Ethan asked.
I nodded, taking another drink. "Good."
He settled beside me again, one arm draped protectively around my shoulders. "What else would you like to do, little star? We have plenty of time."
I considered the options, my gaze drifting to the art supplies. "Clay," I decided. "The squishy kind."
Ethan retrieved a container of modeling clay in assorted colors, setting it on the low table. I moved to kneel in front of it, opening the container with eager fingers. The clay was soft and pliable, yielding easily to my touch, different to the clay we’d used at the workshop. I broke off a piece of blue and a piece of yellow, working them together until they formed a satisfying green.
As I played, shaping the clay into simple forms—stars, hearts, a little house—my mind drifted. Ideas bubbled up from somewhere deep and untapped, flowing through fingers that worked without conscious direction.