I set down my pen carefully, trying to keep my hands steady even though they want to shake. "Mr. Chen, that's our entire spring line. Forty thousand yards of custom silk. We have a contract."
"I know. I know, and I will pay the cancellation fee, of course. But I cannot produce the fabric. I am so very sorry, Miss Sinclair. Please understand, this is not—" He stops abruptly. "I cannot explain. I am sorry."
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, disbelief turning slowly to cold fury and rising panic. This makes no sense. Chen Textiles has been our primary supplier for three years. They're reliable, professional, and we've never had so much as a delayedshipment. Mr. Chen himself told me last month how excited he was about this collection.
And now, six weeks before fashion week, he's cancelling our largest order?
My vision blurs. I press my palm against my desk, trying to ground myself. Breathe, Eve. Just breathe.
But I can't breathe. Because this is everything. My entire spring line. Months of work. My reputation is already hanging by a thread after Dubois's article, and now this?
"Lucy!" I call out, my voice sharper than intended, cracking slightly.
She appears in the doorway of my office, tablet in hand, and her face immediately shifts to concern. "What's wrong? You look—"
"Chen just cancelled our silk order. All of it."
Her face goes pale. She actually sways on her feet. "He can't. We're in production. The samples are already—Eve, we don't have time to find another supplier."
"I know." I stand, needing to move, needing to do something before I fall apart completely. I pace to the window, my heart racing, my hands trembling. Below, the city goes about its business, oblivious to the fact that my empire is crumbling. First the vicious review, now this. "Get everyone in the conference room. Now."
My voice sounds stronger than I feel. That's something, at least.
Ten minutes later, my core team is assembled—Lucy, our production manager, Fred, our lead seamstress Yuki. They all look worried, and I don't blame them. Their jobs depend on this.Their families depend on this. And I'm the one who's supposed to protect them.
But I won't let them see me panic. I won't let them see how terrified I am.
"We have a problem," I say, standing at the head of the table, channeling every ounce of strength I have left. "But we also have solutions. Fred, I need a list of every textile supplier on the East Coast who can produce custom silk at this volume. Yuki, pull the designs and see what we can modify to use alternative fabrics without compromising the vision. Lucy, contact our PR team and make sure this doesn't leak before we have a plan."
Lucy's hands are shaking as she takes notes, and seeing her fear makes mine worse. "Eve, what if we can't find a replacement in time?"
"We will." My voice is steel, even though inside I'm screaming. "We didn't build this company by accepting defeat. Start making calls. I want options by the end of the day."
They scatter, energized by purpose even in crisis. When the room clears, I allow myself one moment of weakness—pressing my palms against the cool glass of the window, closing my eyes, breathing through the panic attack that's threatening to consume me.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. You've survived worse. You can survive this.
This isn't a coincidence. The timing is too perfect. First, Bryce's threat, then Dubois's hit piece, now Chen's inexplicable cancellation.
Someone is orchestrating this. Someone wants to destroy me. Someone is systematically dismantling everything I've built.
And I don't know how to stop them.
The thought makes me want to curl up on the floor and cry. But I don't. I can't. Too many people are counting on me.
So I straighten my spine, smooth my skirt, and get back to work.
***
That evening, I force myself to attend the VIP opening at the new Rothko exhibition. It's important to be seen, to project confidence even when everything is falling apart. Even when I feel like I'm drowning.
I choose a black dress that hugs my curves and spend extra time on my makeup, hiding the dark circles under my eyes, the evidence of the tears I finally let fall in the shower.
I arrive fashionably late, paste on a smile that feels like it might crack my face in half.
The gallery is transformed, all soft lighting and champagne and people who collect art the way others collect shoes. I smile, I network, I pretend everything is perfect.
