I open the email with shaking hands.
Ms. LaRue—
We’ve been following Glamboozled’s work for some time, and we’re impressed by what you’ve built. Your engagement with your community, your commitment to quality, and your distinctive approach to client care align perfectly with our brand values.
We’d like to discuss a potential collaboration: an exclusive partnership that would include product placement, co-branded content opportunities, and a signature look developed specifically around your aesthetic. We’re also interested in hosting our regional launch event at your location this fall.
If you’re interested, we’d love to schedule a call this week.
Jennifer Bates – Director of Promotions – Luxe Beauty
I read it three times to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
Then I read it a fourth time, because this feels too good to be true.
A signature look. Co-branded content. A launch event at my salon.
This is the kind of opportunity I’ve been working toward since I opened these doors five years ago. The kind of thing that could take Glamboozled from successful local business to actual regional presence.
“Carrie.” My voice comes out weird. Too high. “Carrie, come here.”
She appears immediately, probably because I sound like I’m either dying or winning the lottery. I shove my phone at her without explanation.
Her eyes scan the email. Widen. Snap up to meet mine.
“Holy shit.”
“I know.”
“Gisele, this is—”
“I know.”
“You have to say yes.”
“I know.”
We stare at each other for a beat, and then she’s hugging me, and I’m laughing—real laughter, not the performative kind I’ve been producing all morning—and for a moment everything else fades into background noise.
This is real. This is happening. This is something I built. Without him. Without anyone. Just me and my work and my determination to be someone who couldn’t be left.
Look, Dad. I did it anyway.
I call them back within the hour.
The conversation is a blur of logistics and timelines and possibilities that make my head spin. They want to move fast—the launch event is scheduled for three months out, and they’re talking about content shoots starting next week. I’ll need to clear my schedule, coordinate with my staff, probably hire additional help for the event itself.
It’s a lot. It’s overwhelming. It’s exactly what I need.
When I hang up, I immediately start making lists. Tasks to delegate. Supplies to order. Spaces to clear. My brain kicks into high gear, that familiar rush of creation and organization flooding my system.
I’m good at this. I know how to do this. I can manage it. Unlike Bennett. Unlike feelings that won’t fit into neat categories or respond to structure.
Unlike the way my chest cracks open every time I think about him showing up this morning and finding me gone.
My phone buzzes.
Bennett:Missed you this morning.
