Prologue
WREN
“Did you come?”Rob’s voice is low as he pulls off the condom and ties it off. His shirt is already half on again, sleeves rolled, and his hair is still mussed.
I nod, smiling as if it was good for me, too. He grins and tosses the wrapper into the waste bin under the sink.
He’s already reaching for his phone when I sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. I smooth my dress down, fix the straps, and glance at the mirror over the dresser.
I look like I’ve been lightly wrecked. I dab under my eyes with my thumbs. There’s a smudge of mascara near my temple.
Rob tugs me back for a kiss. It’s slow, open-mouthed, lazy. He tastes like coffee and cinnamon gum. My boyfriend is better at kissing than anything else.
He’s got the whole soft lips, easy confidence, morning-after stubble vibe down to a science. It’s familiar. Predictable. Safe.
“I’ve gotta run,” I say against his mouth. “Meeting in twenty minutes.”
“Kill it,” he says. His hand slides up my thigh. “Come back after. I’ll order from that Thai place you like.”
The clock on the nightstand behind him catches my eye.
Shit.
“I really have to go.”
He lets me go with a quick pat on the ass and a wink. “Good luck, designer girl.”
I grab my tote, with my portfolio already tucked inside, and slip on my flats. Pancake, my Maine coon cat, yawns from the couch and blinks at me like I’ve just interrupted his meditation.
We got him on impulse three months ago. Shelter cat. Big paws and a bigger attitude.
As I pass the hallway wall, I glance at the framed photo from last month. We’d gone hiking in Indiana, the only place within two hours of Chicago that had anything close to a real trail. Rob hated the bugs. I didn’t.
I grew up surrounded by trees, mud, and creeks around every corner. Fox Hollow is carved deep into my bones, no matter how hard I try to forget it.
But I push that thought down—hard—and focus.
Today matters.
Today, I pitch to Everhart Resorts, the new boutique hotel chain backed by an Alpha tech billionaire with a house in Aspen and a wife who posts curated morning-routine reels. The man himself will be at the meeting.
If I land this, I’ll finally stop being the girl who takes the leftovers from design leads. I’ll get my own clients. My own nameplate. My own assistant, who will bring me overpriced coffee with oat milk and a lemon twist.
I step into the hallway, press the elevator button, and open the portfolio to review the layout one last time.
Color palette: clean neutrals with a warm, light tone.
Textures: natural linens, modern cedar paneling.
Mood boards: hand-drawn by me.
My phone buzzes once.
Rob:You got this, babe.
I don’t respond. Not because I’m mad, but because I know exactly how this will go.
I’ll crush the pitch.
