Chapter Three Sloane
T he morning after my drink with Chloe, I wake to find my reindeer sweater draped over my desk chair, still faintly smelling of expensive scotch.
The events of last night flood back. The handsome stranger, the ruined suit, the way his eyes seemed to see right through me.
I push the thoughts away. I have more important things to focus on today.
Like quitting my job.
My resignation email sits open on my laptop screen, cursor blinking accusingly at the end of a sentence I’ve rewritten twelve times. How do you politely tell your boss that their creative vision is suffocating yours?
My phone buzzes with a text from Chloe: Still going through with Operation Freedom? Need moral support?
I smile, typing back: No turning back now. Letter’s almost done.
Almost being a relative term. I’ve been staring at this same paragraph for an hour, trying to find the right words. Professional but firm. Grateful but determined. The kind of letter that won’t burn bridges but also won’t leave any doubt about why I’m leaving.
My tiny studio apartment feels even smaller this morning, cramped with the weight of this decision.
Sketches and material samples cover every surface, the physical manifestation of dreams that have outgrown this space.
A half-finished piece sits on my workbench—another design that pushes the boundaries of what Moth to the Flame considers “marketable.”
The sun streaming through my window catches on a crystal I use to study light refraction, sending rainbow patterns dancing across my walls. It reminds me of that moment in Tonic, when Cole’s scotch caught the light just before disaster struck. I wonder what he—
No. Focus, Sloane.
I turn back to the resignation letter, forcing myself to finish it before I lose my nerve. The final version is diplomatic but clear:
Dear Jasmine,
I am writing to formally tender my resignation from my position as Senior Designer at Moth to the Flame, effective January 15th.
While I deeply appreciate the opportunities for growth and development that Moth to the Flame has provided over the past three years, I believe it is time for me to pursue my own creative vision.
I will ensure all current projects are properly transitioned and documented before my departure. Please let me know how I can best assist in making this transition as smooth as possible.
Thank you for your mentorship and guidance.
Best regards,
Sloane Whitmore
Before I can second-guess myself, I hit Send. The letter feels both too formal and not formal enough, but it will have to do.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s my mother.
“Sloane, honey,” she says when I answer, her voice carrying that particular tone that always makes me feel like I’m sixteen again.
“I got your message. Are you sure you can’t make it to Christmas?
Your father’s already planning his traditional oyster roast, and your brother’s flying in from Seattle. ”
I close my eyes, guilt gnawing at my stomach. “I’m sorry, Mom. I just... I can’t this year. I’m making some big changes with work, and I need to focus on getting everything set up.”
“Changes?” Her voice sharpens with interest. “What kind of changes? Did you finally get that promotion?”
“Not exactly.” I bite my lip, debating how much to tell her. “I’m actually leaving Moth to the Flame. I’m going to start my own line.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“Your own line,” she repeats slowly. “Sloane, honey, is that wise? In this economy? What about your health insurance?”
Classic Mom, going straight for the practical concerns.
“I’ve thought it through,” I say, trying to keep the defensive edge out of my voice.
“I’ve been saving, and I have some potential investors interested.
” A slight stretch of the truth, but better than telling her about all the rejection letters.
“But you have such a good position now,” she persists. “Stable income, benefits, a clear career path. Why risk all that?”
I stand up, pacing the small confines of my apartment. Through my window, I can see the Manhattan skyline, a reminder of why I came here in the first place. To create something bold and daring. “Because I have to, Mom. Because if I don’t try now, I never will.”
She sighs, and I can picture her expression.
The same look she wore when I announced I was going to Parsons instead of following Dad into medicine or her into law.
“I just worry about you, sweetheart. New York is so expensive, and the jewelry business is so competitive... As it is, you’re in an industry that’s so volatile. ”
“I know,” I say softly. “But I have to try. This is my dream.”
“Dreams don’t pay the rent,” she reminds me gently. “Just... promise me you’ll be careful? And that you’ll reconsider coming home for Christmas? You shouldn’t be alone during the holidays, especially with all this change happening.”
“I promise I’ll be careful,” I say, dodging the Christmas question. “I have to go. I need to get to work.”
After hanging up, I stare out the window—dazed. Am I determined, maybe, or just desperate? Lost? Confused? Have I lost my freaking mind? The conversation with my mother has left me feeling... feeling... hell if I know.
I look at my phone as if Jasmine will have already responded, then tuck it and my portfolio into my bag. The weight of the unanswered email feels like a bomb waiting to go off.
The subway ride to work is a blur of nervous energy.
I clutch my portfolio closer, drawing comfort from the familiar leather texture.
Inside are the sketches for Midnight Frost. My vision, my future.
I flip it open, studying the designs I know by heart.
Each piece tells a story of transformation, of beauty found in darkness.
Moth to the Flame’s offices are located in the heart of Manhattan.
The brick walls and exposed pipes on the inside usually feel inspiring, but today they feel oppressive.
I make my way to my desk, noting how Jasmine’s office door is already closed—a sign she’s in one of her “creative visualization” sessions.
“You look like you’re either about to throw up or take over the world,” Maya, my assistant, observes as I sit down. “Possibly both.”
I manage a weak smile. “Let’s go with option two.”
She leans in, lowering her voice. “Seriously, are you okay? You’ve got that look you get before a big presentation.”
I glance around to make sure no one’s within earshot. “I’m giving notice today.”
Maya’s eyes widen. “Holy shit. You’re actually doing it? The independent line thing?”
I nod, pulling out the envelope. “As soon as Jasmine finishes her morning meditation.”
“About time,” Maya says, grinning. “This place has been holding you back. Your stuff is way too edgy for their ‘delicate feminine aesthetic.’” She makes air quotes around the phrase we’ve both heard in countless meetings.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say, trying to ignore the flutter of panic in my stomach. “But maybe hold off on celebrating until after I survive this conversation.”
“You’ve got this,” Maya assures me. “And hey, when you’re a famous designer, remember who supported you before it was cool.”
I laugh, some of my tension easing. “You’ll get an employee discount for life.”
The morning crawls by in a haze of anxiety. I try to focus on my current projects—a spring collection that’s all soft pastels and butterfly motifs—but my mind keeps drifting to the envelope in my drawer. To Cole’s intense gaze when I told him about my designs. To my mother’s worried voice.
Finally, around eleven, Jasmine’s door opens. She emerges in a cloud of essential oils, her silk caftan floating behind her as she moves through the office. I wait until she’s settled at her desk before gathering my courage.
“Jasmine?” I knock lightly on her open door. “Do you have a moment?”
She looks up, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Sloane, yes, come in. I was actually hoping to discuss the spring collection with you. I’m not feeling enough lightness in the butterfly wings. They need to almost float off the metal, you know?”
She clearly hasn’t seen my email yet. She’s been in her “creative visualization” session all morning. I step inside, closing the door behind me. My heart is pounding so hard I wonder if she can hear it. “Actually, I needed to discuss something else with you.”
She gestures to the chair across from her desk, and I sit, staring at the desk between as if it’s a bridge I’m about to burn.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought,” I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. “And while I’m incredibly grateful for everything I’ve learned here, I believe it’s time for me to move on.” I take a deep breath and add, “I emailed you my letter of resignation.”
Jasmine’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rise. She hits a few keys on her keyboard, my assumption that she’s unlocking her screen. “Move on? To where?”
“I’m starting my own line,” I say, lifting my chin slightly. “I have a vision for pieces that are different from what we do here. More experimental, more...”
“Edgy?” she supplies, a hint of disapproval in her tone. “Yes, I’ve seen your personal work. Very... interesting. But surely you understand that’s not what the market wants? Women come to us for beauty, for delicacy.”
“With all due respect,” I say, gripping the arms of my chair to keep my hands from shaking, “I think there’s room in the market for different interpretations of beauty. My designs speak to women who want something sharper, something that reflects the duality of their own nature.”
Jasmine sighs, finally pulling up my email. She scans the letter quickly, her expression unreadable. “I see you’re giving me plenty of notice,” she says finally. “But given the sensitive nature of our designs, I think it’s best if we make this effective immediately.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. “Immediately? But my projects—”