Chapter 18 #2
“I guess there’s this one paralegal who works directly for Dad,” I continued, keeping my voice low.
“Bridget. I’ve seen her a few times. I thought it was just Charlie being Charlie at the gala, flirting the way he always does, but apparently Mom’s worried.
She thinks he actually wants to seriously date her. ” My tone was wry.
“And from what I heard, I’m guessing she’s not happy about it.” Tate leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “I’d be more concerned about the relationship going badly and ending up an HR nightmare. Though I suppose I can’t really judge, given…”
He trailed off, one corner of his mouth curving upward in that smirk that did arousing things to my pulse. I kicked him lightly in the shin beneath the desk. “Very funny.”
That amused look faded into something more serious, his eyes softening as they held mine. “I heard you defending me. Thank you.”
The sincerity in his voice made my throat tighten, as if he wasn’t used to clients standing up for him.
“Of course I did. If Ford were really here, Mom would find something about him to criticize too. It’s just how she is.
” I paused, choosing my next words carefully in reference to Bridget.
“And she shouldn’t talk poorly about someone just because they don’t come from some rich lawyer family.
It’s... it’s elitist and unfair, and I hate it. ”
Tate was quiet for a moment, studying me with an intensity that made me want to squirm because he was also clearly not from some rich lawyer family. Not that I gave a shit about that, but my mother clearly judged people based on their wealth.
“You’re not like them,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”
I swallowed hard. “I’m trying hard not to be.”
“You’re not,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “You’re nothing like them, Stella.”
The words settled into my chest like a balm, soothing wounds I hadn’t even realized were still raw. I wanted to close the distance between us and let him hold me the way he had last night in his bed. But we were in the security room, and anyone could walk by, and we had to be careful.
So instead, I gave him a private smile meant only for him and gathered my sketchbook to my chest. “I should let you get back to work,” I said softly. “Find this bastard so we can stop hiding.”
Tate’s eyes darkened with something that looked like a promise. “I’m working on it.”
I left him in the study but I carried the warmth of his words with me for the rest of the day. You’re nothing like them. Maybe not, but with Tate in my corner, I was starting to believe I could be exactly who I wanted to be, regardless of what anyone else thought.
That feeling lasted approximately an hour and a half.
I was curled up on the armchair in my workroom, sketchbook open on my lap, when I decided to check my emails.
It had become a habit, a hopeful ritual I performed several times a day, refreshing my inbox with the desperate optimism of someone buying lottery tickets.
Any day now, I’d told myself. Any day, one of those investors I’d queried would respond with good news…
I opened my laptop, my heart pounding in my chest when I saw that two new messages sat in my inbox.
Both from names I recognized immediately—the independent fashion investors I’d painstakingly researched and reached out to.
Hillary Chen of Avant Capital and Robert Egan of Emerging Designers Fund.
I’d crafted personalized query letters for each of them, tailoring my pitch to their specific investment philosophies, attaching my portfolio and the business plan I’d revised what felt like a dozen times.
My heart stuttered as I clicked on the first one.
Dear Ms. Hayward,
Thank you for your interest in Avant Capital and for sharing your portfolio and business plan. After careful consideration, we have decided not to move forward with your proposal at this time. While your designs show promise, we are not currently investing in designers at your stage of development.
We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
Regards,
Hillary Chen
I stared at the screen, the words blurring slightly at the edges. Not currently investing in designers at your stage of development. A polite way of saying I wasn’t established enough. Wasn’t proven enough. Wasn’t enough, period.
My throat tightened and my eyes burned with the rejection and frustration. I hoped and prayed the second email would be different. That maybe Robert Eagan had seen something in my work that Hillary Chen had missed.
I clicked and read the response.
Dear Stella,
I appreciate you reaching out to Emerging Designers Fund with your proposal.
Unfortunately, after reviewing your materials, I don’t believe your brand is the right fit for our current portfolio.
We typically invest in designers who have demonstrated consistent revenue growth over a minimum of two years, and while your social media presence is impressive, it doesn’t yet translate to the kind of financial track record we require.
Best of luck with your future endeavors.
Robert Eagan
I closed my laptop slowly, trying not to cry. Two rejections. Two politely worded no’s that amounted to the same thing: You’re not ready. You’re not good enough. Come back when you’ve proven yourself.
But how was I supposed to prove myself without the capital to actually launch? How was I supposed to demonstrate consistent revenue growth when I couldn’t afford to produce inventory at scale? It was a catch-22, a locked door with the key hidden on the other side.
I set the laptop aside and drew my knees up to my chest, making myself small in the oversized armchair. The workroom suddenly felt too quiet, the half-finished garments on their dress forms staring at me like silent judges.
Eleanor’s gown hung in the corner, nearly complete—a testament to what I could create when given the chance. The beadwork caught the late afternoon light, scattering tiny rainbows across the wall. It was beautiful.
But beautiful wasn’t bankable. Not without a track record. Not without connections. Not without the kind of family support that came with trust funds and investment capital and parents who believed in what you were doing.
I thought about my mother’s words from earlier. Being popular online is not a career.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I’d been deluding myself this whole time, while the real world waited to crush me under its heel.
The thought made me feel physically ill.
I’d been so sure that if I just worked hard enough, believed hard enough, wanted it hard enough, I could make this happen on my own.
I’d been so determined to prove that I didn’t need my parents’ money or their approval or their connections.
But here I was, right back at square one.
No investors. No capital. No clear path forward.
Just a workroom full of beautiful things that might never see the light of day.
I pressed my forehead to my knees and let out a shaky breath. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t. This was a setback, not an ending. There had to be other options, other investors, other ways to make this work.
But right now, in this moment, I couldn’t think of a single one.
The rejection letters had stripped away the fragile optimism I’d been clinging to, leaving behind something raw and uncertain. All the confidence I’d built—from Tate’s words, from Eleanor’s enthusiasm, from the growing engagement on my social media—felt suddenly hollow.
Because confidence didn’t pay for fabric. Belief didn’t fund production runs. And passion, no matter how fierce, couldn’t conjure investors out of thin air for me to open a store front.
I was going to have to find another way.
I just had no idea what that way might be.