A pause—then a woman’s voice, low and polished. “Hello. May I speak with Lauren Barrett?”
Lauren blinked. “That’s me,” she said, half-expecting the caller to ask about a subscription or advertising rates.
“Wonderful. My name is Evelyn Kent. The Stockist passed on your details to me. I saw your work in the January feature—the wreaths, the tree topper, the stocking. They’re… extraordinary.”
Lauren’s brain stalled.
Extraordinary?
“Oh—thank you,” she managed. Her fingers tightened around the phone cord.
“I’d like to buy one of the pieces.”
Lauren froze. “Buy… one?”
“Yes. The wreath.” Evelyn’s tone was warm but authoritative. “It’s perfect.”
Lauren’s heart lurched.
That wreath had been made in anger, in humiliation, in absolute refusal to stay small. The idea of selling it felt… wrong. Like giving away a piece of herself.
“I really appreciate that,” she said, “but those pieces weren’t made to sell. They’re… personal.”
“Then I’d like to commission something,” Evelyn replied smoothly, undeterred.
Lauren blinked again. “I don’t… I mean, I’ve never sold anything before.”
“Everyone sells a first,” Evelyn said. “What’s your rate?”
“My rate?” Lauren repeated, heat creeping up her neck.
“For a custom piece. A Valentine’s Day piece. How much would you charge?”
Lauren glanced helplessly around her. “I don’t really have one,” she admitted. She tried to mentally calculate what the materials would cost. Thirty dollars, twenty maybe if she got them on sale.
“Five hundred,” Evelyn offered.
Lauren’s stomach dropped. “Five—fivehundreddollars?” she repeated, horrified.
Evelyn was already laughing softly. “All right, then. A thousand.”
Lauren’s brain stopped. “What?”
“One thousand,” Evelyn said, brisk and kind. “I’ll pay half upfront as a deposit.”
Lauren scrambled for a pen as Evelyn rattled off her email and phone number—professional, efficient, like this was all perfectly ordinary.
Then the line clicked off.
Lauren sat frozen, phone still pressed to her ear. Around her, the office noise carried on—typing, printers, the faint hum of conversation. It all felt strangely far away.
She slowly set the phone back in its cradle.
She glanced down at her hands—the same hands that had glued that angry, defiant message onto a wreath of plastic foliage and spray-painted pinecones. Hands that had created something someone wanted.
Someone valued her work.
Valued it at one thousand dollars.
