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“But—”

I shake my head. “We have zero responsibility for coming up with our own lines, our own production, or our own products. We get to skim the profits off of others, and in the future, we can certainly roll out our products, one line at a time should we choose to incorporate them.”

“The upside seems good,” Mr. Jimenez says. “If you think you can convince the other designers to partner with us.”

“I know people who run almost every team, and one thing they’ve all been saying is that competition has been fierce lately. I think they’ll fall all over themselves to be chosen.” I lift my eyebrows. “Why?”

“It’s also external validation that they’re special,” Mr. Dressel says.

I nod slowly. “Now you’re getting it.”

It’s interesting that Bea gave me the idea for our new women’s fashion revenue stream, which will hopefully allow us to leverage our good name for men’s clothing, jewelry, and accessories, to make a profit from women as well. She may think she’s invisible, but she’s the opposite.

She shines.

I intend to show her just how stunning she really is.

Sometimes the only thing standing between invisible and show-stopping is the spotlight.

10

BEA

I’m closer to thirty than I am to twenty, and I’ve never been drunk. . .until last night. I’ve really only ever had a sip of alcohol here or there by accident before now. After my own experience with inebriation, I find that I havenoidea why my mom drank so much. I don’t even remember feeling good, and the day after is justhorrible.

My head’s pounding when I wake up and shower, and it doesn’t improve, even when I drink what feels like a gallon of water. The Tylenol and Ibuprofen are just barely starting to kick in when I drag myself into my room to get ready for work. Maybe because my head hurts, or maybe because I’m tired, or maybe because I’m depressed about last night’s epic failure, but I finish getting dressed faster than ever before. I could leave. . .but I’d be almost half an hour early.

I decide to check my email on my laptop before I go. If I make the font larger, that might help my head. Only, when I get my email up on the screen and sort through all the spam, there’s one bolded subject line that mocks me.

Here’s a good one

It’s not really a great subject line, not compared to the million marketing emails that are always clamoring for my attention. They’re usually offering me free things, discounts that will save me oodles of money, or something that’s verylimited time!Act now!

But this one is from a name I now know.

Octavia Rothschild—the woman who crushed my hopes and dreams last night. Now she’s dropping into my email like we’re old friends? A good one of what? What on earth would she have sent me?

My little cursor arrow hovers over the subject line for a second, then one more. But finally, I click. Because unlike all the free deals and limited time sales I casually delete, I care what this woman thinks.

Dear Beatrice,

You might still be angry with me, and that’s okay. The things we most need to hear usually make us the most mad. But I wanted to at least reach out and offer my aid. You may not want anything to do with me, but I’m actually pretty good at figuring out which lyrics work, and I’m good at tightening sloppy lines. I’d be happy to grab lunch—I’ll pay—and go over any song ideas you may have.

Even if you don’t want my help on any of that, which I would understand, I think you should consider entering a contest like this one (link below). Best of luck releasing what I know is already waiting inside of you.

Best,

Octavia

Best?

Is she kidding? She tells me I should have won, tells me she intentionally caused me to lose, and then she tells me she’d be happy tohelp? If I could hate someone who sings like she does, I’d hate her twice.

Since I can’t quite bring myself to hate anyone with that kind of unparalleled musical talent, I sit, fuming, until I realize that I’ll be late for work. Now I have a real reason to curse her out as I head in for work. I’m on my way out when Jake’s door swings open. “You’re leaving?”

“I do that every day,” I say, “almost. More’s the pity.”

“Well.” He looks me over head to toe. “You look alright.” He nods. “No worse for wear, at least.”

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