Playing with Surrender (Players Club Sinners #3)

Chapter 1

Stella

I should have known better.

The argument itself wasn’t the worst part. Not even the inevitable disappointment. It was the fact that I’d actually believed this time might be different. That maybe, just maybe, my parents would finally see me, hear me, and believe in me and what I was trying to build as a career.

But of course they didn’t. Instead, I was met with the same condescension. The same dismissive smiles. The same passive-aggressive reminder of my place in the Hayward family and what was expected of me as their daughter.

“They still see me as a fourteen-year-old who isn’t capable of making adult decisions,” I told my friend Melissa over the phone, and exhaled a frustrated sigh.

I was sprawled across my bed in my apartment, though calling it “mine” felt generous when my parents still paid the lease. The plum-colored Boll and Branch stitched comforter I’d splurged on for aesthetic reasons felt like a token luxury in a life I didn’t entirely own.

From where I lay, I could see the corner of my workroom through the open door and one of my dress forms draped with a midnight blue cocktail piece cut in silk charmeuse, that had been commissioned by a regular client.

Sleek and seductive by design, it was meant to skim the body with understated sensuality, while a flirty, asymmetrical ruffle at the hem offered a playful contrast to the otherwise minimalist design.

It was the type of dress that effortlessly transitioned from art gallery openings to after-dark indulgence.

My gaze continued on to the premium fabric swatches pinned to my inspiration board—cool grays, deep greens, and tailored neutrals meant for the menswear I wanted to launch in the next six months to compliment the dresses and gowns I designed.

My industrial sewing machine sat in its usual place beneath the window, the one I’d saved for and bought right out of college.

I’d built my business with a vision. With grit and determination and the desire to create something that was mine, and mine alone. But right now, all of my hard work felt like a very expensive and elaborate joke.

“What happened this time?” Melissa asked, her voice carrying that droll tone she reserved for my parent drama. Equal parts sympathy and barely restrained annoyance on my behalf.

I took a deep breath, trying to organize the evening’s argument into something coherent.

“I showed them my business plan. The one I’ve been working on for the past six months.

The projected costs for leasing retail space, the profit margins from my online sales, all of it.

” I could hear the bitterness creeping into my voice as I clutched the phone to my ear and stared up at the ceiling.

“I even showed them the demographics. How many of my followers and online buyers are local and how many have asked about trying things on in person before buying something, to justify a walk-in store. I have all the data, Mel, and it supports that opening a boutique isn’t some whim.

It’s a smart business move in order for me to grow. ”

“And what did they say?”

“My father asked me if I’d considered what would happen when this phase ended,” I said, mimicking his measured courtroom tone, the one he used when he was cross-examining a witness he thought was wasting his time.

“‘Stella, we’ve indulged this hobby long enough. But a brick-and-mortar storefront? That’s a serious financial commitment.

What happens when you get tired of playing dress-up? ’”

I heard Melissa suck in a breath. “He did not say ‘playing dress-up’.”

I laughed humorlessly. “He absolutely did, and my mother suggested, again, that if I really wanted to ‘do something with fashion’, I could head the charity gala’s wardrobe committee. Help the other wives pick out their dresses for events like a stylist.”

“Jesus.” I could practically see Melissa’s eye roll through the phone.

“Never mind that I graduated from one of the top fashion schools in the country and built my fashion following from scratch, or that I run my online store solo and reinvest every dollar into production and sourcing and marketing,” I went on.

“I have influencers who love my work and are interested in custom orders. I’ve built something real that has the potential to grow into a thriving brand with its own storefront and loyal clientele, but all they care about is whether I’m going to marry a high-powered lawyer or some young politician so I can be a good wife and pop out heirs to the Hayward legacy. ”

“They’re the worst,” Melissa said in a flat tone. “You’re doing everything right and they just keep acting like your success doesn’t count unless it comes with an influential husband.”

“Exactly,” I huffed. “My mother keeps setting me up with these painfully boring junior associates at my father’s firm. She honestly believes if I marry someone from the “right” family, I’ll come to my senses and trade fashion design for charity galas and fundraiser brunches.”

“That’s so fucking antiquated,” Melissa said. “Didn’t you tell her you were dating Oliver? I thought he was supposed to be a decoy.”

“I did, and he is,” I said, grinning faintly. “Best decision ever. My mother is absolutely smitten with him.”

Melissa laughed. “The gay-fake-boyfriend trick is a classic. I love it.”

Oliver was an up-and-coming lawyer and came from a good family.

The perfect smokescreen, considering he needed a “beard” for his secret relationship with a politician.

“He’s at least keeping my mother off my back about potential dates for the time being,” I said with a smile.

“And I’m compensating him with a few tailored suits from my upcoming menswear line, and skincare recommendations, so it’s mutually beneficial. ”

My smile faded when I thought about my situation further. “I’m well into my twenties and I hate that I have to depend on the monthly allowance I get from my trust fund.”

Both my mother and father came from generational wealth, and while my brother received an advance to his trust fund with no strings attached, I continued to receive the same amount I’d been given since I was eighteen.

My parents’ message was clear. This money was for living expenses while I figured out what I really wanted to do with my life.

It wasn’t an investment in my future. It was a holding pattern until I came to my senses and did what they wanted and envisioned for me.

“There has to be some way to assert your independence,” Melissa replied.

“I’m trying, but unless I can get the capital to open a boutique, it’s not going to happen.”

And that was my issue, finding a way to bridge the gap between where I was in my career and where I wanted to be.

I made money from my online sales and custom orders.

Good money, actually. My formalwear line had developed a genuine following—elegant, timeless pieces with a modern edge, like silk gowns with asymmetrical hems or fitted bodices that caught the light just right and embodied understated luxury.

The “Stella Original” gowns I designed and sewed myself had been featured in three regional fashion blogs and had been worn to two minor celebrity award shows.

I was focused on launching my first menswear collection—slim-cut suits and statement dress shirts and blazers that blended classic Vegas glamour with streetwear vibes.

I was genuinely proud of what I was creating, and the interest had exceeded my wildest expectations.

But every dollar I made went right back into the business for more luxurious textiles, additional inventory, better photography equipment and targeted marketing boosts.

Every penny had a purpose, and every purchase was made with one goal in mind.

To build a brand that looked as polished and professional as the legacy designers my mother worshipped, only mine wouldn’t come with her approval.

My label would be mine, authentic and unique to me and my vision.

The frustrating part was, my parents came from old money and could easily write a check tomorrow that would make my dreams happen.

I had a strong business plan and they would make a solid return on their investment if they would just take a leap of faith in my future.

They’d spent more than that on my mother’s last kitchen renovation and my father had bought my brother an Audi R8 as a bonus when Charlie had been promoted to a junior associate in my father’s law firm.

But they wouldn’t write that check for me because that would mean admitting that my “hobby” was something worth investing in.

“Every time I try to branch out, my mother finds a way to interfere,” I went on. “That boutique space I toured last month? She had the real estate agent pull the offer and told him that I wasn’t ready to run a business.”

“What the…that’s sabotage!” Melissa said furiously.

I sighed wearily. “I know.”

The worst part was that they genuinely believed they were protecting me from myself, from wasting my potential on something as frivolous as making clothes.

They’d paid for Parsons because I’d begged and because it was prestigious enough to be acceptable, but they’d always assumed I’d eventually grow out of my little fashion phase and settle into the life they’d planned for me.

The life my mother lived. Charity boards and country club memberships and being Mrs. Charles Hayward, wife of one of Las Vegas’s most prominent defense attorneys.

It wasn’t a bad life. My mother seemed content enough, but the thought of living her version of happiness made me feel like I was slowly suffocating.

“My mother insists she’s protecting me from failure,” I said, and swallowed around that painful lump in my throat.

“But all she’s doing is telling me that I’m not good enough.

That I’ll never be anything more than their pretty, polite daughter who dresses well and knows how to host a tasteful dinner party. ”