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)
The words hit me like a physical blow. “Immediately? But my projects—”
“Maya can take over the spring collection.” She cuts me off smoothly. “HR will process your final paycheck, including any unused vacation days.” She stands, signaling that the conversation is over. “I wish you luck, Sloane. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I rise on unsteady legs, feeling like I’ve just been hit by a bus. This isn’t how I expected this to go. “Thank you for the opportunity,” I manage to say, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.
The walk back to my desk feels as if I’m walking underwater and there is a slight ringing in my ear. Maya takes one look at my face and knows. “That bad?”
“She’s making it effective immediately,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The reality of what just happened is starting to sink in. “I’m supposed to clean out my desk and go.”
Maya says something . . . I think. Others come into my office to say goodbye and wish me well . . . I think. I sit, I stand, I pack. I’m not really sure if I know what is mine and what belongs to the company. Everything is a blur.
An hour later, I’m back in my tiny apartment, surrounded by the box of belongings from my desk and a stack of bank rejection letters I’ve been collecting over the past few months. Even a cup of peppermint tea can’t shake the surreal feeling that my life has completely imploded in the span of a morning.
The rejection letters mock me from their pile on my coffee table. Chase’s latest “regret to inform you” is still crisp, the corporate letterhead seeming to glare under my apartment’s harsh lighting. Five different banks, five variations of “your lack of collateral and untested market make you too high a risk.”
I pull out my sketchbook, needing to lose myself in design work. The foggy brain from the chaos of quitting my job and then essentially being fired lingers just enough to fuel my creativity. Either that or lose my mind. My fingers move across the paper almost of their own accord, sketching elements of my Midnight Frost collection—pieces that are too dark, too impossible for Moth to the Flame’s uptight sensibilities.
The laptop sitting next to me pings with a new email. Probably another rejection, or maybe Jasmine with some passive-aggressive feedback about project handover. But the subject line makes me pause:
Your Vision for Midnight Frost—Investment Opportunity
I open it, curiosity overriding my usual skepticism about unsolicited business emails.
Dear Ms. Whitmore,
Our firm specializes in identifying and nurturing unique talent in the luxury goods sector. Your vision for the Midnight Frost collection, particularly the translucent collar piece with its innovative use of negative space and asymmetric gemstone placement, has captured our attention.
I go still. The collar piece. I’ve never shown that design to anyone except Chloe. It’s not even on my private Instagram. How could they possibly know about it?
We believe your interpretation of beauty’s duality—the interplay of submission and dominance, frost and fire—deserves proper backing. We would like to invite you to present your ideas for your line to our CEO in Gstaad, Switzerland.
Plane tickets and accommodation arrangements are attached. The meeting is scheduled for tomorrow night at the Alpina Gstaad.
We look forward to discussing how we can help bring your vision to life.
Regards,
Lawrence Blakely,
Senior Investment Manager, Asher Industries
My hands shake as I open the attachments. Sure enough, there’s a ticket to Switzerland, hotel reservations at what looks like an absurdly luxurious resort, and a detailed itinerary.
“This has to be spam,” I mutter, but something makes me hesitate before deleting it. The language is too specific, the details about my work too accurate.
I spend the next hour verifying everything I can. The email domain checks out. It’s definitely from Asher Industries. The flight and hotel reservations are real.
My fingers hover over my phone. I need a reality check.
“I think I’m being courted by a potential serial killer,” I say when Chloe answers.
“Ooh, fun! Wait, what?”
I explain about my final day at my job, the email, the tickets, and the mysteriously detailed knowledge of my designs. “It’s too perfect,” I finish. “And too creepy. How do they know about designs I’ve never shown anyone?”
“Maybe they have really good research teams?” Chloe suggests. “Look, what’s the worst that could happen?”
“Um, murder? Organ trafficking? Ending up in some billionaire’s underground dungeon?”
“Okay, yes, but also—what if it’s legitimate? This could be your chance, Sloane. The universe literally just dropped a ticket to Switzerland in your lap right when you need it most.”
I glance at my portfolio, then at my sad box of office supplies. “It does seem like extremely convenient timing.”
“So go! What do you have to lose?” There’s a pause. “Oh yeah . . . potential body parts.”