Chapter Two
Quinn
T he email from my now ex-business partner glows on my computer screen with all the warmth of a corporate termination notice:
Assets and client lists have been divided per our agreement. You’re welcome.
I stare at Bethany’s two-sentence farewell to our three-year partnership, her pristine punctuation somehow more cutting than any angry outburst. Always precise, always controlled—right up until she isn’t.
Real estate values in the Design District aren’t getting any lower, my realtor had warned when I signed the lease on my new office space last week. But after spending the past month extricating myself from Bethany’s chokehold on our shared business, I’d have paid double just to get as far away from her toxic personality as possible.
As a twenty-seven-year-old, starting over has been a scary rollercoaster ride. In my early twenties, it was never supposed to be part of my five-year plan. The industrial space I’d saved up for and bought may have drained my savings, but it’s mine. No more walking on eggshells, no more forced smiles, and especially no more watching Bethany systematically dismantle everything we built together.
My personal laptop screen flickers, then dims—again. “Not now,” I mutter, jiggling the power cord. The battery icon flashes red despite being plugged in all night. I’ve been through three “fixes” with tech support, but like my former partnership, this machine seems determined to die a slow, painful death.
A new laptop will have to wait. Between the down payment and basic furnishings, my startup capital is stretched thin enough. My mother’s voice echoes in my head: Always keep six months of runway. Business is business, but bills don’t wait for clients.
In the early days, Bethany and I had seemed like the perfect match. But the cracks started showing not long after Nathan left my life last year. As though the professional disappointment made her true colors emerge. She began micromanaging everything, a suggestion here, a revision there, questioning my judgment after the NorthStar merger with Knight Industries became public. The real tension started brewing four months ago, but the official split was finalized just a month back, leaving me scrambling to establish my own client base. Then came the client poaching. Suddenly, accounts I’d cultivated were “better suited” to her direct management. The final straw was her new approach to crisis management: treating clients like marks to be exploited rather than partnerships to nurture—exactly the opposite of how I’d always operated during my three years of building our reputation for integrity.
“These people need us more than we need them,” she’d argued. “They’ll pay whatever we ask. Why leave money on the table?”
“Because reputation matters more than quick profits,” I’d argued. “Because trust, once broken, is almost impossible to rebuild.” I’d learned that lesson the hard way, professionally and personally.
I close my laptop with more force than necessary. Though the interior of her office was lit, Bethany’s door was closed the day I left our office building for good. Her “goodbye” was exactly how she likes it: present but inaccessible. A perfect metaphor for our entire partnership and friendship.
The windy weather hits like a wall as I step outside. Texas weather can be so unpredictable this time of year. My phone buzzes just as I reach my car. My best friend’s name, Lyla Clark, lights up the screen. I swear, every now and then the universe has perfect timing.
“Hey, girly,” I answer, already feeling lighter.
“Is it official? Are you finally free of the toxic bitch?” Lyla’s voice carries its usual mix of humor and concern.
“Damn right.” I manage a small laugh. “And I feel like celebrating.”
“Yay!” she cheers. “I know just the thing. You and me, Gloria’s Mexican Grill, lunch on me. What do you say, in fifteen minutes?
Trust Lyla to know exactly what I need. As one of Dallas’s most sought-after wedding planners, she’s my personal Wikipedia of industry gossip. Her stories range from runaway brides to mother-in-law showdowns that would put reality TV to shame. Each tale more dramatic than the last.
“You’ve got tea to spill?” I pull onto the highway, already anticipating the distraction.
“I’ll do you one better. I’ve got an opportunity for your first-ever gig as a solo PR consultant.” There’s a smile in her voice. “But getting the details will cost you a couple of margaritas.”
I laugh. “Done.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re settled into Gloria’s sleek interior. The restaurant’s signature margaritas prove once again why they’ve won “Best Mexican Grill in Dallas” three years in a row. And just the first sip alone reminds me why I love their bartender, a generous pourer who values the tequila more than the mix.
Lyla’s petite frame sits across from me in a booth, pastel lavender waves bouncing slightly past her shoulders as she talks. Those hazel eyes, always quick to catch the slightest detail, sparkle with excitement.
“And go!” I demand, reaching for a tortilla chip and dipping it in salsa. “What’s this mysterious opportunity?”
“First things first.” Lyla leans forward as her expression turns serious. “How are you really?”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Good. Not great but decent enough. The new office is…sparse. But at least I can say it’s mine.”
“And the witch?”
“Exactly as you’d expect. Cold, precise, and no doubt cursing my name to whoever will listen as we speak.” I try for humor but can’t quite hide the bitterness. “Did you know she’s already rebranded the firm? ‘Elite Crisis Management.’ As if the original name wasn’t pretentious enough.”
“Don’t worry; her decisions will catch up to her in the end.” Lyla’s tone carries absolute conviction. “You were always the better strategist anyway. Remember the Thompson wedding?”
I wince at the memory. A groomsman’s ill-timed Instagram post had nearly revealed the location of a million-dollar celebrity wedding Bethany and I’d spent months keeping under wraps. While Bethany had pushed for aggressive legal action, my softer approach—bringing the groomsman into the security strategy—had preserved both the privacy and the relationships.
“Speaking of weddings…” Lyla’s expression turns serious as she swallows a chip. “The opportunity I told you about. I have a client who specifically wants you.”
My heart skips a beat. “What? For real?”
“Remember a Kiera Young?” Lyla watches my face carefully. “Does her name ring any bells?”
At first, nothing comes to mind. But then the image of a sweet brunette on a video call pops into my head. Kiera Young, a sweet woman I’d met her a few years ago during a virtual conference series on women in business. We happened to be in the same breakout rooms three weeks in a row, sharing war stories about being young women in male-dominated industries. Over time, our conversations had continued over social media, but a lot of time has passed since we last talked.
“Yeah, I do,” I reply. “What is she asking me for?”
“She’s getting married!”
“No way, good for her,” I praise.
A gleam in Lyla’s eye tells me there’s more to her story. “She reached out to me last week about wedding planning. And when she saw my previous work with your PR strategies, she practically lit up. Said you two had met in the past, and that you were exactly who she and her fiancé needed.”
The timing almost seems too perfect. Who knew an old conference connection would come back to ask for my services? Especially for her wedding, a moment in someone’s life that’s so personal. I’m beginning to think the universe has an interesting sense of humor.
“Did she…” I swallow hard. “Did she say why me specifically?”
“She said your insights during those virtual sessions really stuck with her. Something about how you handled that influencer crisis last spring.” Lyla’s expression softens. “No matter the reason, Quinn, she specifically asked for you. Said you were the only one she trusted to handle this with the right touch. And trust me; this wedding is going to need someone who really knows their way around high-profile events.”
I raise an eyebrow at that cryptic comment, but Lyla’s already moving on, pulling up her calendar. “So are you in?”
Hope and anxiety war in my chest. A year ago, I would have jumped at this chance without hesitation. But that was before Nathan, before I learned how quickly professional trust can shatter personal relationships.
“I’m not saying no,” I begin carefully, “but after everything with Nathan and Bethany…” I trail off, the memory still raw. But at the same time, I can’t deny the fact I need the money.
Lyla reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “Hey. What happened with both of those people wasn’t your fault. You know that, right?”
Do I? Even now, I’m not sure who leaked those details about Knight Industries’ pending acquisition. I only know I was at my cousin’s wedding at this off-grid retreat in New Mexico—one of those digital detox places where they lock your phone in a box when you arrive.
The venue had one landline for emergencies, but otherwise no connectivity. I’d completely disconnected for the ceremony and reception. When I finally got back to civilization and could check my messages, my world had already imploded. I had so many angry text messages from Nathan about betrayal and trust. By the time I landed in Dallas, he’d blocked my number and flooded social media with photos of himself with other women—at clubs, parties, and always with that calculated look that told me each image was meant for me to see.
“The point is,” Lyla continues, “you can’t let one bad experience stop you from taking chances. Especially not now, not when you’re finally free to build something that’s truly yours. When a potential client asks for you personally, that must mean something.”
She’s right. I’ve spent the past year rebuilding my career one brick at a time, proving to myself by building relationships with smaller clients and careful strategies. Maybe it’s time to step back into the world of bigger opportunities.
“How soon does Kiera want to meet with me?” I ask, my decision officially made.
Lyla’s smile could power the grid. “Next Wednesday at two o’clock. I’ll pick you up since your new office is in the direction of their place.”
“Have I mentioned lately that you’re the most wonderful bestie ever?” I smirk.
“Yes, but I never get tired of hearing it.” She raises her glass. “To new beginnings?”
I clink my glass against hers, letting myself feel hopeful for the first time in weeks. “To new beginnings.”
And to finally putting the past where it belongs—behind me.