Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 61248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“Does she think Moore’s is the right move for you?”
“Why?” I ask, and not because I’m avoiding the topic of my mother, though on some level I am. Her death cuts deeply. I’m not sure if it’s smart for this man to know that part of me. “Is there something wrong with Moore’s?” I ask.
“It depends on what you want. Store brands are not Prada. Which do you want to become?”
“Prada, of course.”
“Then you don’t want this offer.”
“What if I don’t get another offer?”
“You won’t if you take this one. But do the work, get them to offer, and then that becomes part of your résumé. They offered. You walked away.”
I blink back to the present and sigh, my gaze landing hard on the floral print of the bedspread without really seeing it. I don’t want to walk away from this opportunity, nor do I have to walk away. Thanks to him pushing me to reach for my dreams, I dared to do just that by presenting the Zoey line to Moore’s. Guilt over walking out on him without saying as much stabs at me, and I reach for my phone. I pull up his number and start to type a message but stop. There are so many ways he might interpret a “thank you” or “I’m sorry” from me when I’m here and not there with him. I don’t have a clue what to say to him. And as if he has connected to me across the miles, a message appears on my phone from him:
Sofia, I don’t know what happened, and I told myself to give you space, but I need to say this to you. First, I’m sorry about my father. That was not a reflection on us or me. Nor is he involved with Moore’s or Zoey. Or us. Whatever happened, the future is about you. And no one gets to take your dream away, most especially me. Come to Paris. Make this happen. But also, and it’s a big also, emotions have no place in business, and if you turn this down, neither do you. And yes, I’m brutally honest. That will never change, but I really do hope that honesty leads you to Paris.
—Ethan
For a moment that turns into far longer, I just stare at the screen. He didn’t call. He seems to have only sent me this message to protect his reputation. He did, after all, push for the Zoey brand. There’s a twist in my belly that is pure emotional pain. I toss the phone across the bed, pull my knees to my chest, and bury my fingers in the light blonde of my hair so like my mother’s. I miss her always, but in some moments, this moment, more than ever. She’d talk this out with me. She’d help me unravel the knots in my belly. Instead, I’m not only alone, but Ethan has just knifed me all over again.
He didn’t say, “Come back.” He didn’t say, “Stay with me there.” He didn’t ask why I left. He focused on the business side of things. He told me to go to Paris. I drop my hands and press them to the mattress and face reality. I’m not personal to him. I try to tell myself that’s actually a compliment. No matter what happened between us, he sees my work as good for Moore’s, where he’s invested his money.
And yet, even so, I find myself itching to type, Fuck you, Ethan, in reply.
Instead, I type nothing at all.
Chapter Four
Sofia
Iwalk into my Cherry Creek home, a duplex that no one knows is a duplex, my pride and joy, that’s always felt like a dream come true. I bought it. I own it. Now, I have the chance to turn my design dream into an even bigger dream, a Cinderella story, of sorts, and for just a little while I thought Ethan was my Prince Charming. But I don’t need Prince Charming. I have come a long way all by my lonesome. I set my bag inside the door, lock up, and flip on the light, silence greeting me.
So. Much. Silence.
Too much silence.
You’d think after twelve hours of travel delays, I’d welcome peace and quiet, but somehow it feels off. It feels lonely. “Damn you, Ethan,” I whisper, and grab my bag again, to stomp into the bedroom. One look at the bed, and I head to the kitchen, open a bottle of wine, fill a glass, and then grab a bag of Cheetos. Dinner is served. And it’s the best. No, I think, tossing the bag on the counter. It sucks. I’m ordering ten egg rolls, two pizzas, and a few tacos.
I finally settle on a pint of brownie ice cream which I set on the nightstand to get mushy, just the way I like it, and then hit the shower. Of course, I take my phone. What if the asshole calls? He won’t, but what if? And why do I care? I step in the shower and attempt to melt my skin off with a ridiculously hot spray of water. When I’m bright red, and my body is as scorched as my heart, I pull on baggy pajamas and plod my slippered feet to the bed where I climb under the sheets, ignore my wine, and proceed to eat the entire pint. I hate him, I think, as I fall asleep, only to fade into a dream in which I’m naked and he’s between my legs, licking me with the precision of an asshole using me for sex.