Chapter 1
Business Account (WYST) BALANCE: £13,366.57
Personal Account BALANCE: -£1,957.73
January 6, 2026
Dear Miss Cole,
Thank you for your application to Pioneer Lending’s business grant scheme. While your proposal is impressive, investing in the FemTech space can be unpredictable compared to other ventures. Consequently, we have decided not to move forward with your application.
We wish you all the best in your future endeavors.
Pioneer Lending Ltd.
Iblink rapidly at my phone screen. This is fine. Everything will be absolutely fine. The pit in my stomach screams otherwise, but I roll my shoulders and let the bitterly cold London air bring me back to the task at hand: meeting a potential new investor for my fledgling company, Wyst. At first, this processwas a fun adventure, figuring out what kind of investment firms, angel investors, and venture capitalists could be interested in FemTech or a women-led business. Then one of life’s greatest pleasures: adding all their minute details to a comprehensive spreadsheet to research who would be a good fit. Little did I know it would become the spreadsheet of desperation and doom. Finally, individually tailoring my introductory letters to each recipient. Adding personalized touches and flairs to my pitch deck. How investing in my company would expand their portfolios or grow their already vast investment streak even further, stroking their egos by promising to help make them a trailblazer of the FemTech industry. A hero to women everywhere for the low, low price of a few quarterly cash injections. So far, the process has been hit-and-miss. The intrusive thoughts tell me it’s because they recognize me, my name a cautionary tale echoing down the halls of every investment company in London.
As I approach the Withering Vine, a wine bar chain the investor recommended for our meeting, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
“Hey, I’m about to go in. What’s up?” I say to Cecily, Wyst’s PR and marketing manager and my general partner in crime.
“Yeah, sorry, you just got another call from Greg Holmes? He asked if you are free this afternoon to go to the bank to...” She begins to read in a monotone voice, “Discuss the necessary steps to rectify your recent overdraft debt.”
My cheeks blaze red-hot against the icy wind.
“Jess?” Cecily says. “Are you still there?”
After a pause, I clear my throat. “Yeah, it’s fine. Just a mix-up. I’ll call him when I get back to the office.” I have zero intention of actually doing that, but I’m hoping my most recent excuse of having a very sick imaginary dog will hold for at least a few more weeks. Why is he chasing me this early in the year anyway? Surely there is a legal emotional buffer of at least a month after Christmas to start collecting on debts owed.
“Exactly, maybe this guy today will be a good lead,” Cecily chirps, and I imagine her nonchalantly tossing her glossy black hair over her shoulder.
“He was enthusiastic to connect, so fingers crossed!” I say, swallowing the tiny tingle of doubt back down.
“Good luck! I just know you’re going to smash it!”
Cecily has the instinctual ability to see the best in everyone and everything. Her sunshine attitude has been the definitive thing that has kept me going in between the emotional turmoil of rejections. She’s my best friend, but sometimes, when the pessimism creeps in, I wonder how she would react to the truth. If I showed her under the hood and revealed that this business is a ticking time bomb. While, in a way, it would be nice to have someone wade through the mud with me, this is a mess I’ve made and need to deal with myself.
I step through the door, the frigid January air melting away under the heat of thirty bodies packed into a tiny wine bar.
Spotting a man matching the headshot, I hold out my hand, preparing for a firm handshake. “Hi, Will? I’m Jess, lovely to meet you.”
He looks up from his phone with a blank stare.
“Jess Cole, from Wyst?” My megawatt smile starts to fizzle out, making room for the rising panic.
He blinks. “Right, hello,” he says, finally putting me out of my social anxiety and taking my hand in his. The shake isn’thard, barely a squeeze as he stands up and kisses me on the cheek. Electricity singes my skin like a tiny Taser.
“What are you drinking?” he asks as I slide off my coat and sit in the uncomfortable wooden chair opposite him. The tables are so tightly packed my legs instantly press against his. I fold my body uncomfortably, contorting myself like a depressed accordion.
We’re in a wine bar, but maybe this is a test. “Oh, well. It’s lunchtime so—”
“We’ll take a bottle of the Château Batailley 2005,” Will says to the waitress before glancing at me. “That good with you?”
“Sure.” I smile, smoothing down my one “fancy meeting” outfit, a black dress with room for a shirt and tights underneath and a blazer on top. It makes me feel like I’m playing dress-up.
Will leisurely scans the edges of my face before leaning back in his chair, the loud creak like a crack of lightning. “You look a lot older than your profile picture.”
I should be shocked by the comment, but after business school and working at a finance company, I’ve had much, much worse said to me. The photo was taken last year, which feels like it’s within the boundaries of acceptable LinkedIn photography. I’ve been in meetings with men who still use their university graduation photos, fresh-faced and taut jawed, when in reality, they arrive balding, bearded, and beer-bellied.
