“I did.” I set my phone down. “He is EchoHive’s top performer, brings in about thirty percent of their revenue. Makes good money but spends more. His divorce settlement, it cleaned him out last year. He has been chasing bigger contracts to rebuild. Lost two major pitches last quarter.” I glanced at her. “He needs this win. Badly.”
“I need it too,” she said quietly. “I’ve been building the agency one client at a time, cold-calling companies, chasing smaller contracts. Black Ember is the difference between having to hustle constantly for the next deal and having the foundation to build something bigger.” She pressed her hands against her belly. “What if I blow this and I’m back to making endless cold calls while dealing with sleepless nights and postpartum recovery? What if I can’t provide for these babies the way I want to?”
“You will not blow this,” I assured her. “And even if something went wrong, you will survive if you do not get Black Ember. Your agency, it is profitable, and you have steady clients.” I gave her a pointed look. “Plus, you are marrying into considerable wealth whether you like it or not, and I have strong opinions about who should provide financially for my children. Bronson, he isscrambling to prove he is still EchoHive’s golden boy. This is why he went after you at breakfast.”
She absorbed that, then turned her tablet toward me. “What do you think?”
I moved to stand behind her chair, looking at her presentation. She’d organized it around three core pillars, each woven through with specific stories about the Embers family. Photos she’d sourced. Historical details. Personal touches that showed she’d done actual research.
“This is strong work,” I said. “EchoHive has corporate muscle, but Douglas does not need that. If he had, he would have gone with major agency years ago. He needs someone who understands what he is protecting.”
“Your confidence is either going to be proven right,” she said slowly, “or spectacularly embarrassing.”
“I am never embarrassed.” I checked my watch. “Twenty minutes. You should review your opening one more time, yes.”
Dede was quiet for a long moment, staring at her presentation. “You’re right. I need to stop second-guessing myself.”
“There is my arravoniastikós. I knew she was in there somewhere, hiding behind unnecessary doubt.”
She shot me a look. “I’m not your fiancée!”
“It is only matter of time, agápi mou.”
She rolled her eyes, but I caught her smile as she turned back to her laptop.
Progress.
19
Iadjusted my blazer for the third time, smoothing the navy fabric over my belly. I was past the point where loose clothing could hide anything, but this outfit struck the right balance between professional and accommodating. The babies had been restless all morning, as if they could sense my nerves.
Deep breath. You got this.
The presentation room was set up with a projector, a screen, and chairs arranged in a semicircle. Douglas sat front and center, flanked by Mariela and Sarah. Maxwell had positioned himself to the left, notepad in hand.
Vienna sat in the back, looking supportive, which was kind of her considering I was about to go head-to-head with her husband. Bronson was scribbling notes, probably cataloging every weakness he planned to exploit.
Aris stood against the far wall with his arms crossed and his face giving nothing away except his eyes. Right now they were saying: You’ve got this.
I needed to believe him.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Douglas said.
My hand trembled as I reached for the remote. What if Bronson was right? What if I’m not ready for something this big?
I clicked to my first slide—not a logo or company name, but a photograph I’d found in the Kentucky Historical Society archives. A weathered black-and-white image of a man standing in front of a small wooden building, tools in his hands, pride written across his face.
“This is Leroy Embers,” I began. “Your great-great-grandfather. He built the first Embers still with his own hands in 1887, not because he had investors or market research telling him there was an opportunity in bourbon, but because he understood something fundamental about legacy.”
I clicked to the next slide—a split screen showing that same building then and the current Black Ember distillery now.
“He understood that the best things—the things that last, the things that matter—they’re not built fast. They’re built right and with intention to honor what came before while creating something worthy of what comes next.”
Douglas rolled forward, while Mariela’s expression had softened at her husband’s ancestor’s image.
I explained how heritage brands demanded a different approach than chasing viral moments. Their story wasn’t just marketing copy. It was what separated them from every corporate distillery faking authenticity.
“My agency understands heritage brands because we are one. We’re not the biggest or the flashiest, but we’re built on the same principles that built Black Ember. We do the work. We honor the stories. And we never, ever compromise on quality for the sake of speed.”
