Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
But then I see something else in my reflection. A spark of determination in my eyes. I straighten my shoulders, lifting my chin. Yes, this is what I want. More than anything.
Chapter Three Sloane
The morning after my drink with Chloe, I wake to find my reindeer sweater draped over my desk chair, still faintly smelling of expensive scotch. The events of last night flood back. The handsome stranger, the ruined suit, the way his eyes seemed to see right through me. I push the thoughts away. I have more important things to focus on today.
Like quitting my job.
My resignation email sits open on my laptop screen, cursor blinking accusingly at the end of a sentence I’ve rewritten twelve times. How do you politely tell your boss that their creative vision is suffocating yours?
My phone buzzes with a text from Chloe: Still going through with Operation Freedom? Need moral support?
I smile, typing back: No turning back now. Letter’s almost done.
Almost being a relative term. I’ve been staring at this same paragraph for an hour, trying to find the right words. Professional but firm. Grateful but determined. The kind of letter that won’t burn bridges but also won’t leave any doubt about why I’m leaving.
My tiny studio apartment feels even smaller this morning, cramped with the weight of this decision. Sketches and material samples cover every surface, the physical manifestation of dreams that have outgrown this space. A half-finished piece sits on my workbench—another design that pushes the boundaries of what Moth to the Flame considers “marketable.”
The sun streaming through my window catches on a crystal I use to study light refraction, sending rainbow patterns dancing across my walls. It reminds me of that moment in Tonic, when Cole’s scotch caught the light just before disaster struck. I wonder what he—
No. Focus, Sloane.
I turn back to the resignation letter, forcing myself to finish it before I lose my nerve. The final version is diplomatic but clear:
Dear Jasmine,
I am writing to formally tender my resignation from my position as Senior Designer at Moth to the Flame, effective January 15th. While I deeply appreciate the opportunities for growth and development that Moth to the Flame has provided over the past three years, I believe it is time for me to pursue my own creative vision.
I will ensure all current projects are properly transitioned and documented before my departure. Please let me know how I can best assist in making this transition as smooth as possible.
Thank you for your mentorship and guidance.
Best regards,
Sloane Whitmore
Before I can second-guess myself, I hit Send. The letter feels both too formal and not formal enough, but it will have to do.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s my mother.
“Sloane, honey,” she says when I answer, her voice carrying that particular tone that always makes me feel like I’m sixteen again. “I got your message. Are you sure you can’t make it to Christmas? Your father’s already planning his traditional oyster roast, and your brother’s flying in from Seattle.”
I close my eyes, guilt gnawing at my stomach. “I’m sorry, Mom. I just . . . I can’t this year. I’m making some big changes with work, and I need to focus on getting everything set up.”
“Changes?” Her voice sharpens with interest. “What kind of changes? Did you finally get that promotion?”
“Not exactly.” I bite my lip, debating how much to tell her. “I’m actually leaving Moth to the Flame. I’m going to start my own line.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“Your own line,” she repeats slowly. “Sloane, honey, is that wise? In this economy? What about your health insurance?”
Classic Mom, going straight for the practical concerns. “I’ve thought it through,” I say, trying to keep the defensive edge out of my voice. “I’ve been saving, and I have some potential investors interested.” A slight stretch of the truth, but better than telling her about all the rejection letters.
“But you have such a good position now,” she persists. “Stable income, benefits, a clear career path. Why risk all that?”
I stand up, pacing the small confines of my apartment. Through my window, I can see the Manhattan skyline, a reminder of why I came here in the first place. To create something bold and daring. “Because I have to, Mom. Because if I don’t try now, I never will.”
She sighs, and I can picture her expression. The same look she wore when I announced I was going to Parsons instead of following Dad into medicine or her into law. “I just worry about you, sweetheart. New York is so expensive, and the jewelry business is so competitive . . . As it is, you’re in an industry that’s so volatile.”
“I know,” I say softly. “But I have to try. This is my dream.”
“Dreams don’t pay the rent,” she reminds me gently. “Just . . . promise me you’ll be careful? And that you’ll reconsider coming home for Christmas? You shouldn’t be alone during the holidays, especially with all this change happening.”