Chapter 19
Tate
With Celeste in the house, I maintained my distance from Stella for the rest of the day.
It was the smart thing to do. The professional thing.
Every time I passed her in the hallway or caught a glimpse of her through a doorway, I kept my expression neutral, my body language appropriate.
Just a bodyguard doing his job. Nothing more.
But God, it was harder than it should have been.
I kept thinking about the night of the gala, when she’d come to my room, so bold and certain.
The way she’d taken control, demanded what she wanted, and watched me with those eyes that saw straight through every wall I’d ever built.
And how she’d fallen asleep in my arms afterward, so trusting and content.
I wanted that again. Wanted her again. And the wanting was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
At dinnertime, I’d retreated to the study with a plate from the kitchen, my usual routine when Celeste was around. Better to stay out of sight and let the family have their meal in peace without the hired help hovering.
But as I ate, something nagged at me. Stella hadn’t come down for dinner.
I’d been monitoring the security feeds on and off throughout the evening, and I hadn’t seen her pass through the main living areas in hours.
It wasn’t unusual for her to get lost in her work.
I’d watched her spend entire afternoons in her workroom, so absorbed in some design that she forgot the rest of the world existed.
But skipping dinner entirely? That wasn’t like Stella. I finished my meal and went looking for her.
Her workroom was empty, the sewing machine silent, half-finished garments hanging motionless on their dress forms. Her bedroom was empty too, the door slightly ajar, the room beyond dark and still.
A flicker of unease moved through me. Where the hell was she?
I checked the security feeds again, scrolling back through the past few hours. There—around seven o’clock, she’d slipped out the back door and headed toward the pool area. She hadn’t come back inside.
That’s where I found her, sitting at the edge of the pool, her feet dangling in the water, her shoulders hunched forward in a way that made my chest tighten. The underwater lights cast rippling blue shadows across her face, but even in the darkness, I could see that something was wrong.
Concern immediately shifted through me. “Stella?”
She didn’t startle at my approach, just turned her head slightly to acknowledge my presence. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her expression defeated in a way I’d never seen before.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “Sorry. I should have told you I was coming out here.”
I dragged a chair closer to her beside the pool’s edge and sat down, close enough to touch but still maintaining a respectable distance. “What’s going on?”
She was quiet for a long moment, staring at the water. “I got rejected,” she finally said. “Both of them. The investors I’d queried and have been waiting to hear back from.”
My stomach dropped. “Shit. Stella, I’m sorry.”
“Hillary Chen said I’m not established enough.
Robert Eagan said I don’t have enough of a financial track record.
” She laughed, but there was no humor in the sound.
“Which is ironic, because I can’t build a track record without capital.
It’s like they want me to prove I can swim before they’ll let me near the water. ”
I didn’t say anything, just let her talk. Sometimes that was what people needed most—someone to listen without trying to fix things.
“I’ve been working toward this for years,” she continued, her voice cracking slightly.
“Every design, every client, every hour I’ve spent building my social media presence, it was all supposed to lead somewhere.
And now...” She shook her head. “I don’t know what to do.
I’m right back where I started, with nothing to show for any of it. ”
“That’s not true.”
She looked at me, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “Isn’t it?”
“You have a client list. A reputation. Designs that people are willing to pay real money for.” I held her gaze, willing her to hear me. “You have talent, Stella. Real, undeniable talent. Those investors are idiots if they can’t see it.”
“Talent doesn’t pay for fabric,” she said bitterly. “Or rent on a storefront. Or any of the dozens of other things I’d need to actually launch.”
She was right, of course. Talent without capital was just potential—beautiful, heartbreaking potential that might never be realized.
And suddenly, I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
I’d been putting money away since my first deployment.
Living lean, investing smart, letting compound interest do its work while I focused on the job.
I wasn’t wealthy—not by the Hayward family’s standards—but I had a couple hundred thousand sitting in accounts and portfolios, doing nothing but growing.
What was the point of having money if I didn’t use it? What better cause could there be than helping someone have the freedom and opportunity she deserved?
“I have some money put away,” I said slowly, holding her gaze. “I’ve been looking for a solid investment. Something I believe in. I’d like to invest in you. Give you the capital you need to start your business.”
Her mouth dropped open. I’d never seen her look so shocked. Her eyes went wide, her whole body frozen in disbelief.
“You can’t be serious,” she blurted out, her voice faint.
I smiled. “I can be, and I am.”
She shook her head rapidly, water droplets scattering from her feet as she pulled them from the pool and stood up beside me. “You can’t do that, Tate. That’s—no. Absolutely not.”
“Why not? You don’t think it’s a good investment?” I challenged her.
“It’s one thing if I let down some investors I don’t care about beyond business.
” Her voice was urgent now, almost panicked.
“But I care about you. I’d hate it if you invested your money on me and it turned out to be a mistake.
You earned that money. You’ve clearly kept it safe all this time. I can’t just—”
“And I want to invest it in you,” I said firmly, standing up, too. “Give you the startup capital you need.”
I’d seen Stella at work. I knew the hours she put in, the dedication, the sheer force of will that drove her forward even without the support of everyone around her.
I knew she could do this. And once she did—once she had something that was truly, undeniably hers—she’d be free.
Free of her parents’ expectations. Free to make her own choices.
Free to discover who she really was, away from their shadow.
That was worth more than any return on investment.
“I can’t accept this,” Stella said, her voice thick. “I just can’t. It’s far too much to ask of someone.”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering.” I caught her hand, threading my fingers through hers, even at the risk of her mother glancing out and seeing me touching Stella. “Show me your business plan. The full breakdown, everything you’d need to make this work. Let me see what I’d be investing in.”
She hesitated, searching my face for something—doubt, maybe, or hesitation. Whatever she was looking for, I knew it wasn’t there for her to find. I was serious about this, and her.
“I could recite it from memory at this point,” she admitted. “But let me get my laptop.”
The fact that she had it memorized was adorable and showed just how much she wanted this. How long she’d been dreaming of it, planning for it, waiting for someone to give her a chance.
I followed her up to her workroom, where she pulled out her laptop and opened a detailed spreadsheet. The glow of the screen illuminated her face as she walked me through every line item, every projection, every carefully considered detail.
“So the storefront would be the cornerstone,” she explained, her voice growing more animated as she talked. “I’ve already identified three potential locations, all in areas with high foot traffic and strong demographics for luxury fashion. The rent is steep, but the visibility would be worth it.”
She pulled up another document—mockups of the store design, elegant and modern, with her aesthetic evident in every detail.
“I’d start with a curated Stella Original collection.
Twenty to thirty pieces, all original designs, with the option for custom orders.
That’s where the real money is—the custom work.
I already have a waitlist of clients who want bespoke pieces, but I can’t take them on because I don’t have the space or the resources to produce at that scale. ”
“How long is the waitlist?” I asked.
“Thirty-six people as of last week.” She smiled slightly. “And that’s just from word of mouth and my social media. If I had a physical location, somewhere people could actually come and see the work in person...”
She trailed off, her eyes going distant with possibility.
“The social media engagement has been incredible, especially since posting pictures of you in the menswear and making the lookbook live,” she continued, clicking to another tab.
“I have over a hundred thousand followers across platforms, with a thirty percent engagement rate. That’s almost unheard of in the fashion space.
People want this. They’ve been asking for a storefront, a place where they can shop in person, touch the fabrics, see the craftsmanship up close. ”
She showed me everything. Her business plan was compelling and persuasive. It was proof of concept, a built-in customer base just waiting for a chance to support her.
“I’ve done the math on inventory costs, staffing, marketing, everything.
” She pulled up a comprehensive budget breakdown.
“First year would be tight, but I’m projecting profitability by month eighteen if things go according to plan.
And even if they don’t, even if it takes longer, the foundation would be solid. Sustainable.”
I studied the numbers carefully. They were good. Better than good, actually. The spreadsheet was the work of someone who understood business, who’d thought through every contingency, who wasn’t just dreaming but planning.
“That’s impressive,” I said honestly.
“You think so?” She bit her lip, vulnerability creeping back into her expression. “I’ve never shown this to anyone outside of the investors. I wasn’t sure if it was... if it made sense.”
I looked at her financials again, running the numbers in my head. The projections were conservative, which was smart. The profit margins were reasonable. And with her existing client base and social media presence, she wasn’t starting from zero—she was starting from a position of strength.
“Have you taken this to a financial advisor?” I asked, glancing at her.
“No, I did it all myself. I took some business courses online, read everything I could find about retail startups, talked to other designers who’d done it successfully.” She shrugged. “I wanted to make sure I understood every piece of what my business would entail.”
Of course she had. That was so perfectly Stella—determined to prove she could do it herself, even when asking for help might have been easier.
“Would it be all right if I have someone else look at it?” I asked. “I want to make sure you’re set up for success.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You should be thinking more about whether it’ll set you up for a return on investment.”
“I don’t care about the return.” The words came out before I could stop them, raw and honest. “I care that you’ll have what you need to get your business started.
I care that you’ll be able to live your life on your own terms, and give this a real shot.
You’ll finally be able to know for sure if you’ve got what it takes.
You can prove yourself to yourself—like I did when I enlisted in the Marines. ”
Stella smiled, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “Are you really comparing starting a fashion business to being in the military?”
“Hey, we’ve all got our battles,” I teased.
She laughed, and the light-hearted sound did something to my chest, made it expand and ache in equal measure.
“I want you to talk to whoever you trust financially,” she said, growing serious again. “I want you to be absolutely sure about this.”
“I am sure.”
“Tate.” Her soft blue eyes bore into mine. “I’m not going to let you throw money at me if a financial advisor thinks this is too much of a risk. I don’t want to let you down.”
“You won’t.” I said it with absolute certainty, because I believed it. I believed in her. “I’ll take this to some people I trust, let them review everything. But I already know that it’s a solid investment for me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.” I reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. “That’s enough for me.”
“Thank you.” She swallowed hard, her eyes bright. “Thank you for being willing to take it seriously. For believing in me when I’m having trouble believing in myself.”
“Always,” I said quietly.
We stood there for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling around us. Something had shifted—not just between us, but in her. I could see it in the way she held herself, the spark returning to her eyes.
“In the meantime,” I said wryly, “you have that double date with Charlie to focus on. Your mother’s reconnaissance mission.”
Stella groaned, but she was smiling. “God, I almost forgot about that. Charlie and his paralegal.”
“Could be interesting,” I teased.
She nodded slowly. “I want to give Bridget a fair chance. Everyone deserves that. Even if my mother is sending me on this mission for all the wrong reasons. Will you be there? At the restaurant, I mean. Lurking in the shadows like the overprotective bodyguard you are?” She grinned.
“Of course I’ll be there.” I smiled back. “Someone has to make sure you behave.”
“You say that like you don’t enjoy the challenge,” she said in a flirty tone.
“You know I already do,” I replied huskily.
She laughed, and for a moment, all the earlier uncertainties faded away and it was just the two of us, in her workroom, imagining a future where everything worked out exactly the way it was supposed to.
And I was going to do everything in my power to see that it did.