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)
“I promise I’ll be careful,” I say, dodging the Christmas question. “I have to go. I need to get to work.”
After hanging up, I stare out the window—dazed. Am I determined, maybe, or just desperate? Lost? Confused? Have I lost my freaking mind? The conversation with my mother has left me feeling . . . feeling . . . hell if I know.
I look at my phone as if Jasmine will have already responded, then tuck it and my portfolio into my bag. The weight of the unanswered email feels like a bomb waiting to go off.
The subway ride to work is a blur of nervous energy. I clutch my portfolio closer, drawing comfort from the familiar leather texture. Inside are the sketches for Midnight Frost. My vision, my future. I flip it open, studying the designs I know by heart. Each piece tells a story of transformation, of beauty found in darkness.
Moth to the Flame’s offices are located in the heart of Manhattan. The brick walls and exposed pipes on the inside usually feel inspiring, but today they feel oppressive. I make my way to my desk, noting how Jasmine’s office door is already closed—a sign she’s in one of her “creative visualization” sessions.
“You look like you’re either about to throw up or take over the world,” Maya, my assistant, observes as I sit down. “Possibly both.”
I manage a weak smile. “Let’s go with option two.”
She leans in, lowering her voice. “Seriously, are you okay? You’ve got that look you get before a big presentation.”
I glance around to make sure no one’s within earshot. “I’m giving notice today.”
Maya’s eyes widen. “Holy shit. You’re actually doing it? The independent line thing?”
I nod, pulling out the envelope. “As soon as Jasmine finishes her morning meditation.”
“About time,” Maya says, grinning. “This place has been holding you back. Your stuff is way too edgy for their ‘delicate feminine aesthetic.’” She makes air quotes around the phrase we’ve both heard in countless meetings.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I say, trying to ignore the flutter of panic in my stomach. “But maybe hold off on celebrating until after I survive this conversation.”
“You’ve got this,” Maya assures me. “And hey, when you’re a famous designer, remember who supported you before it was cool.”
I laugh, some of my tension easing. “You’ll get an employee discount for life.”
The morning crawls by in a haze of anxiety. I try to focus on my current projects—a spring collection that’s all soft pastels and butterfly motifs—but my mind keeps drifting to the envelope in my drawer. To Cole’s intense gaze when I told him about my designs. To my mother’s worried voice.
Finally, around eleven, Jasmine’s door opens. She emerges in a cloud of essential oils, her silk caftan floating behind her as she moves through the office. I wait until she’s settled at her desk before gathering my courage.
“Jasmine?” I knock lightly on her open door. “Do you have a moment?”
She looks up, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Sloane, yes, come in. I was actually hoping to discuss the spring collection with you. I’m not feeling enough lightness in the butterfly wings. They need to almost float off the metal, you know?”
She clearly hasn’t seen my email yet. She’s been in her “creative visualization” session all morning. I step inside, closing the door behind me. My heart is pounding so hard I wonder if she can hear it. “Actually, I needed to discuss something else with you.”
She gestures to the chair across from her desk, and I sit, staring at the desk between as if it’s a bridge I’m about to burn.
“I’ve given this a lot of thought,” I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. “And while I’m incredibly grateful for everything I’ve learned here, I believe it’s time for me to move on.” I take a deep breath and add, “I emailed you my letter of resignation.”
Jasmine’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rise. She hits a few keys on her keyboard, my assumption that she’s unlocking her screen. “Move on? To where?”
“I’m starting my own line,” I say, lifting my chin slightly. “I have a vision for pieces that are different from what we do here. More experimental, more . . .”
“Edgy?” she supplies, a hint of disapproval in her tone. “Yes, I’ve seen your personal work. Very . . . interesting. But surely you understand that’s not what the market wants? Women come to us for beauty, for delicacy.”
“With all due respect,” I say, gripping the arms of my chair to keep my hands from shaking, “I think there’s room in the market for different interpretations of beauty. My designs speak to women who want something sharper, something that reflects the duality of their own nature.”
Jasmine sighs, finally pulling up my email. She scans the letter quickly, her expression unreadable. “I see you’re giving me plenty of notice,” she says finally. “But given the sensitive nature of our designs, I think it’s best if we make this effective immediately.”