Page 29 of Knot Your Sunshine
James leans forward as my serving of bacon and pancakes arrives, snagging one of the fluffy rounds from my plate. "Youknow what you should do? Walk in there like you're doing them a favor by showing up. Rich people eat that shit up."
"James," Elena warns.
"What? I'm serious. Confidence is currency with these types." He drowns his stolen pancake in syrup. "Besides, they literally flew you here first class. You have something they want."
Cole sets down his fork after demolishing his third helping of eggs. "Look, I don't know business, but I know pressure. When we're heading into a fire, you can't think about what might go wrong. You focus on your training, trust your preparation, and execute."
"Easier said than done," I mumble through a mouthful of bacon.
"He's right though," Dorian says thoughtfully. "And so is James. Don't go in asking permission to exist in that room. You belong there. The owner invited you."
"But they're probably a billionaire—"
"Who need what you have," Elena interrupts, reaching across to squeeze my sticky fingers. "Whatever that is. Focus on that."
I set down my fork, finally full to bursting. Take one breath. Then another. The knot in my stomach loosens just a fraction.
"You're right," I say finally, sitting up straighter. "All of you. I can… I can do this."
* * *
Back in my suite, my cream blazer and matching pencil skirt hang on my closet. I pull them out carefully, laying them on the bed.
This is it. The outfit that needs to transform me from small-town hairstylist to someone who belongs in that conference room.
I slip the blazer on. The first button fights me, my fingers suddenly clumsy, before finally sliding through. The second goeseasier. The third practically buttons itself. Each one pulls my shoulders back a little more.
I sit at the vanity and face my reflection. Wild curls spring in every direction, still damp from this morning's shower. I pick up a section near my temple and wind it tight around my finger. When I release it, it springs back immediately. I try again, twisting tighter, holding longer. This time it stays for a second before bouncing free.
Deep breath. I divide the section smaller, twist again, and secure it with a bobby pin before it can escape.
Why my ideas matter. Why this isn't just about hair.
Another section. Twist, pull, pin. My fingers find their rhythm.
The vision. The dream. What Grandma built and what I can expand.
Section by section, my hair submits to my will. My left hand gathers while my right hand pins. The stubborn piece at my crown takes three tries, but finally stays put.
Make them see it. Make them believe.
I take the last rebellious curl, wind it tight, and tuck it into the growing structure at my nape. Three more bobby pins create the scaffolding that will hold everything in place. I shake my head gently, nothing moves.
I lean back and inspect my work. My wild curls have transformed into a sleek, low bun that sits perfectly at the nape of my neck, complementing my business outfit perfectly.
Now you look like someone who belongs in a boardroom.
My phone shows 1:13 PM.
I push back from the vanity and pace to the window. "Thank you for this opportunity. Let me tell you why this matters..." The words tumble out too fast, running together.
Stop. Reset.
I walk to the opposite wall and turn. "Thank you for this opportunity." Pause. Count to two. "Let me tell you why this matters."
Better. I continue pacing, finding my rhythm. "My grandmother started with nothing but a chair and a pair of scissors. She built trust, one client at a time."
The words flow smoother with each pass across the room. By 1:45, I'm ready.
