Chapter 11 Abbie
ABBIE
The separation agreement is six pages long. I sign it after my lawyer walks me through every paragraph. I keep seeing him in that lobby, shirt untucked, voice cracking, saying okay to everything. I press harder with the pen.
"You're sure?" My lawyer slides the papers across the table in his Westwood office. "These terms are more generous than I expected. He's not contesting anything."
"I'm sure."
"The financial provisions alone—"
"Daniel." I look up at him. "I don't want his money. I never wanted his money. I just want this to be done."
He nods, caps his pen, and says he'll file by end of business today. I walk out of his office at 2:47 p.m. and drive straight to the VTG tower.
* * *
"Abbie." The office coordinator's face crumples when she sees me walk through the creative department doors. "I didn't know you were coming in."
"Neither did I." I grab a box from the supply closet and start clearing my desk.
Photo of me and Wren at last year's holiday party.
The vintage perfume bottle I bought at a flea market in Paris.
A stress ball shaped like a brain. "I resigned in an email twenty minutes ago. Just cleaning out my stuff."
"You resigned?" The coordinator sits down hard in her chair. "Abbie, you don't have to... I mean, he's barely been in the building. You wouldn't even see him."
"It's not about seeing him." It's about everything else. The whispers that stop when I walk past. The news alerts about Valentine Baby Scandal. "I can't build things here anymore. Not when everyone's watching me for the wrong reasons."
Wren appears in my doorway. She takes one look at the box in my hands and says, "Where are we going?"
"We?"
"You're leaving. I'm coming with you." She crosses her arms. Her jaw is set in that stubborn line I've learned means arguing is pointless. "Don't even try to talk me out of it."
"Wren, this is insane. You have a career here. Benefits. A 401k. You can't just—"
"I can do whatever I want. It's my life." She pulls out her phone. "I'm sending my resignation."
A knock on the door frame makes us both turn. Carmen from digital strategy stands there, badge in hand, looking nervous and determined in equal measure.
"Got a minute?"
"Carmen—"
"I'm resigning." She walks in and sets her badge on my desk with a decisive click. "Effective immediately."
I stare at the badge. Then at her. "Carmen. No."
"Yes."
"I can't promise you anything," I say, because I have to say it. "I don't have a plan. I don't have funding. I don't even have an LLC yet."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because you're the first person here who ever looked at my work and actually saw it." Carmen's voice wavers slightly, then steadies. "You saw the strategy. That matters."
She's gone before I can respond. Wren whistles low.
"That's one."
"That's insanity is what it is."
But before I can spiral further, Drew appears in the doorway. From the video team.
"Heard Carmen's out." He pulls his badge from his lanyard. "Where do I put this?"
He sets his badge next to Carmen's, nods once, and walks out. Mika and Jordan arrive together. The copywriters I mentored when they were fresh out of college are holding their badges.
"Before you say anything," Jordan starts, "we know the risks."
"Do you? Because—"
"No financial safety net," Mika interrupts. "No job promise. No guarantee you're building anything at all. We know."
"Then why are you doing this?"
They exchange a look.
"Because you taught us that good work matters," Jordan says. "That the how matters as much as the what."
"And then you showed us." Mika sets her badge on the growing pile. "You didn't just talk about integrity. You walked out when they tried to take it from you."
"That's not... I didn't have a choice."
"Everyone has a choice." Jordan adds his badge to the pile. "You made yours. Now we're making ours."
The office goes quiet after they leave.
Wren looks at the pile of badges on my desk. "So. That happened."
"I need a minute."
"Take five. You've earned it."
I make it to the stairwell before the tears come. The heavy fire door slams behind me and I slide down the concrete wall and sob. I don't even know what I'm going to build next. But by the time I walk back into my office, my face washed in the bathroom sink, my mascara reapplied, I have an idea.
* * *
MONTH ONE
Halo Creative is born over a taqueria in Culver City. A folding table, six IKEA chairs, and my trophy on the windowsill. Four hundred square feet that smell like carnitas by eleven every morning.
"This is either brilliant or completely insane," Wren says, unpacking her laptop.
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
"Excellent. We can be both."
I throw a stress ball at her head. She catches it without looking up.
"Okay." Carmen pulls up a whiteboard we bought at Target for $47. "What are we doing here? Like, actually doing?"
"Building the thing that's ours." I stand in front of the group, all five of them, looking at me like I have answers. "A place where the work matters more than the name on the building."
"That's very inspiring," Drew says. "But what does it mean in terms of, like, clients? Revenue? Business model?"
"I'm still working on that."
"Great." He puts his head down on the table. "We're all going to starve."
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and freeze.
Elliot's team: Can we talk?
"Hold on," I say. "I might have something."
* * *
Elliot’s team calls: his agent, publicist and manager.
"The thing is," his manager says, voice crackling slightly through my laptop speakers, "Elliot built something real with your team. That comeback? That was you. He knows it. We all know it."
I'm sitting at my folding table in Culver City, watching Wren pretend not to eavesdrop while she eats carnitas tacos over a paper basket. Mika has her headphones in but hasn't typed anything in four minutes.
"I'm not at VTG anymore," I say, which seems obvious but needs to be stated.
"We know." His agent this time, sharper voice, faster cadence. "That's why we're calling you and not them."
"His contract—"
"Has a transferability clause. If his lead strategist leaves the agency, he can follow." A pause that sounds expensive. "Did you not read the contract you negotiated?"
"All right," I say, "But I want to be clear about what you're walking into. Halo Creative is new. We don't have VTG's resources or their infrastructure or their name recognition."
Wren has fully given up pretending not to listen. She's staring at me with taco grease on her chin and hope in her eyes.
"I appreciate the confidence," I say carefully, "but I need to be honest with you.
My office is a space above a taqueria with exactly one conference room.
My team is five people, and three of them are eating lunch out of paper baskets right now.
We don't have dedicated research analysts or a media buying department or any of the things a seven-figure account typically expects. "
"Abbie." The manager's voice again, patient but pointed. "Do you know what Elliot said when he heard you'd left VTG?"
"I don't."
"He said, 'Finally. Now call her before someone else does.'"
My throat tightens. I stare at the water stain on the ceiling, the one I keep meaning to investigate and keep ignoring.
"He has options," I say. "Better options than a startup agency with folding furniture."
"He has plenty of options. He's choosing this one.
" The agent clears his throat. "Look, we've done our homework.
We know Halo's only been getting started.
We know you're bootstrapping. We know you lost some things in your exit from VTG that would make most people hesitate to take on a client this size. "
"So why aren't you hesitating?"
"Because Elliot isn't hesitating. He knows the difference between someone who can handle his career and someone who's just big enough to bill for it.
" A pause. "You gave him back his confidence last year, Abbie.
You made him believe he still had something to say.
You think he's going to forget that because your chairs are from IKEA? "
Wren is making frantic hand gestures at me now, mouthing what looks like say yes say yes say yes.
"The terms would need to work for both sides," I say slowly.
"I won't overcommit and underdeliver. If we do this, I need your team to understand that my bandwidth is finite and my resources are limited, but what I do have is focus.
Elliot wouldn't be one of a hundred clients fighting for attention. He'd be a priority."
"That's exactly what we want to hear." The manager sounds almost relieved. "We can work out the structure, the fees, all of that. What we need to know today is whether you're interested."
I look at my team around the folding table.
"Absolutely," I say. "When do we start?"
* * *
MONTH THREE
We win the Luminance Beauty account. We’re three months old, and the CMO chose our pitch. The other agency was VTG.
The deck was presented by Theo Marsh.
"I can't believe we actually won," Mika says after the call, still staring at her screen like it might change. "Against Valentine? Against Theo?"
"Believe it." I'm trying very hard not to smile too wide. "We're good at this."
"You're good at this," Carmen corrects. "We're just along for the ride."
I think about correcting her, but I don't. I've been working eighteen-hour days since we started. It turns out, when you stop trying to save your marriage, you have a lot of energy left over.
That night, I post one thing on my personal account:
I'm Abbie Montgomery. I built Halo. That's the whole story.
Then I lock my phone and don't look at it for a week.
* * *
MONTH NINE
Everyone tells me not to go to the rooftop party.
"It's an industry event," Wren says. "VTG people will be there. He might be there."