11. Adair
Adair
I pull a crisp, fitted blazer from the hanger and slip it over the silky blouse I picked out last night. The satin feels smooth against my skin, but there’s a slight tremor in my fingers as I button it up.
Today isn’t about dressing up in my most professional clothing or putting on a strong face—it’s about proving I can hustle as hard in heels as I do behind a juice bar.
If I want Citrine and my product line to succeed, I can’t rely on whims or “maybe” promises.
That’s why, on this Saturday morning, I’m suiting up to make my own opportunity happen, not waiting for it. I roped Sue in to man the shop for the entire day.
As I stand in front of the mirror, I take a deep breath, running through my plan in my head. I’ve read every article and interview I could find on Evelyn Thatcher.
She’s the former governor of Florida, retired but not idle. Thatcher has been investing in startups, especially those run by women, since she retired from politics. She’s selective, but her backing has helped more than a few brands go big .
And that’s exactly what I need right now.
Citrine isn't enough, not as it is. I’d banked on its location next to the yacht club being the golden ticket. My market research had practically screamed success with a prime spot like that. I’d envisioned yacht club members coming in droves, looking for a touch of relaxation and luxury.
And yet, that flood of clients never came. Turns out, young money doesn’t care about aromatherapy or lymphatic drainage—tequila, Botox, and whatever’s trending on TikTok.
The monthly boost from Parker helps. It keeps the lights on, lets me bring in help here and there, even breathe a little easier. But it’s not a rescue boat. Citrine’s still drifting.
His inheritance could be the game changer. But that’s a long game, months away, at best. And too many variables could blow it up before we ever get there, so I'm not resting on my laurels for that.
I can’t bank my future on a “maybe,” not when I’ve worked too hard to get here. And I’m too proud to go crawling to Bets, asking her to pour more money into Citrine after she already invested so much in the buildout and operations of the place.
No, I need a new investor, someone willing to take a chance on my products, not Citrine.
I shake off the thoughts as I grab my bag, double-checking that I have samples of my line. My packaging sparkles in the light. My body hums with a little burst of pride in what I’ve created. Organic, sustainable, luxury products, everything that today’s health-conscious market loves.
And if Evelyn Thatcher doesn’t bite, I’ll have to start selling chakra scrubs out of the back of my car. Which would be tight out of a Porsche.
It’s quality stuff, and if I can get someone to see that, I’m sure I can turn this around.
I slip out the door, careful not to make too much noise. I'm wearing my Birkenstocks, carrying my heels to put on when I get there.
Thankfully, Parker’s front door remains firmly shut. The last thing I need is for him to pop out this morning all cheer and sex appeal, and ask where I’m going and why I didn’t tell him about this meeting.
I haven’t even told him about the full extent of my struggles with Citrine—not in detail, at least. He thinks this is a quiet period, nothing more.
But I know better. Every day that passes without a solution feels like the walls closing in, and I can’t sit back and hope for Parker’s inheritance to save me. I need action. I need to know I’m doing everything I can to build something sustainable, something that’s all mine.
Once I’m outside, the fresh morning air clears my head a little.
The drive to the mainland stretches out in front of me, long enough to give me time to think but also short enough that I can keep my nerves under control. I’ll have about forty minutes in the car, plenty of time to prepare my pitch one last time.
I settle into the driver’s seat, glancing down at my phone as it lights up with a new message. It’s Parker.
Coffee later? I wonder how convincing we can be at Sip in front of all the regulars. ;-)
My stomach twists. It's cute, and sounds more inviting than what I have to do. But it isn't in the cards today.
The message is simple enough, but I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the screen. This meeting is private, my chance to prove to myself, and to him, if he ever finds out, that I can handle my business without relying on someone else’s windfall.
It’s not that I don’t want him involved. It’s that I need this one thing to be mine. Just mine. No distractions, no safety net.
So, I swipe the notification away, letting it disappear from the screen without a response.
As I turn onto the main road, my thoughts drift to Evelyn Thatcher. I’ve admired her work ever since I researched her, but seeing her face-to-face is going to be a different experience.
Evelyn isn’t known to be the type to tolerate fluff or empty talk, and I know I’ll have to bring everything I’ve got to the table. I imagine her reviewing my products, her sharp eyes assessing every detail, every ingredient.
I pull myself back to focus, reminding myself why I’m doing this.
I’m not some starry-eyed beginner. I built this wellness idea from the ground up.
I took the risk, put in the hours, and made something tangible out of nothing.
I don’t need someone to rescue me—I need a partner, someone who believes in my vision and will give me the capital I need to take this line to the next level.
The miles roll by, as the mixture of nerves and excitement builds in my chest. The meeting place is a small, private office Evelyn keeps outside Boca Raton.
It’s close enough to Palm Beach that she can stay connected to the island’s business community, but far enough removed that she doesn’t have to deal with the day-to-day politics of local life.
It’s the perfect setup for a woman who’s mastered the art of influence without overexposing herself .
As I near the bridge that connects the island to the mainland, my phone vibrates again. It’s another text notification from Parker.
Hey, knocked on your door – no answer. Hope you’re having a great morning. No worries about meeting up if you’re busy. I'm heading into the hospital soon and won't be off until 7.
I bite my lip, surprised by how much that message hits me. It’s thoughtful and kind, the sort of thing a real husband might say. And for a second, it makes me feel seen. Until I pull myself back to reality, a warmth fills me, grateful to have someone who tries so hard.
And then I remember he's a good method actor, and this is all part of the show.
I can’t afford to get caught up in emotions. This isn’t about affection or connection, it’s about turning it up, like he said yesterday. We agreed to play our parts, not fall for them.
This meeting, on the other hand, is about my future. It's my business, my shot at saving Citrine.
So I let the message sit. No reply, nothing. Not until after the meeting. There’ll be time to talk later, once I have something solid to show for my efforts.
The mainland comes into view, and a sense of finality settles over me. I’ve made my choice. Today is about making a stand, proving that I can navigate this world on my terms.
Just as I settle back into my thoughts, my phone buzzes again. Bets’ name flashes across the screen. I flinch, almost answering out of habit—it’s Bets, after all.
But what if she wants to meet up this morning? What would I even say ?
I let it ring out, guilt pricking at me as the call fades. A message follows right after.
I've got some free time today and was wondering if you're free. I need adult time. Lunch today?
I lean back a little, her words hitting harder than they should.
Part of me wants to say yes. To let her in. To pretend everything’s already in motion, like I’ve got the next big thing lined up.
But this moment is too raw, too uncertain. I need to keep it close. Quiet.
So I don’t respond until I gather my thoughts.
Instead, I measure my breath, letting the steady hum of the road settle my nerves. Today isn’t about explaining myself, not to Parker, or to Bets.
It’s about showing up for myself. Proving I can make something real happen without leaning on someone else’s last name or checkbook.
I reach into the passenger seat, where I’ve carefully arranged my samples. The bottles gleam in the morning light, each one a small testament to my work, my vision, my dedication.
I think about the countless hours I spent researching ingredients, testing formulas, and designing packaging that would stand out on any store shelf. I imagine those bottles one day being a household name, part of the self-care routines of people all over.
If Evelyn Thatcher sees what I see, this could be the break I’ve been chasing. If not, then I’ll find another way. I’m a hustler and a solver, I always have been.
As I merge onto the final stretch of highway, I take one last, steadying breath. I can do this. I have to.