“I realize she needs time under your tutelage, but do you think Hailey has what it takes to be a creative director one day?”
We stare at each other across my desk. Patrice watches from her corner, silently rooting for me to go feral.
“A creative director of what in particular?”
“I don’t know. I’m just thinking out loud about the future. Celeste, you can’t do it all by yourself. I know you’re protective over your brand, but it’s time for us to branch out. Home goods, fragrances, footwear, bags. You need a team?—”
“I have a team,” I insist.
“That you never use. Outside of your once-monthly luncheons, do you even communicate with your otherdesigners? They are all sitting around, taking paychecks for work you won’t let them do. Our company could be valued in the billions, but you won’t let us scale because you refuse to take on investors and go public. The business makes a lot, but it spends a lot too. We’re not going to sustain the way we’re running.”
“Your eyes are too big for your stomach. Isn’t that how the saying goes? You’re getting greedy. We should be grateful for what we’ve already built.”
Greg’s shoulders drop slightly—not surrender, just a tactical retreat. “All I’m asking is that you give the new designers a real chance. We need fresh perspectives if we’re going to stay competitive.”
I fold my hands together and place them in my lap. “Okay, I’ll play ball. You want me to relinquish a little control? Fine. But I’ll choose the designers working under me. Not you. Stop promising these coeds fresh out of college that they will inherit my business by crawling up under you. My design team will be built full of talent with experience, discipline, and culture.”
“Hailey fits that. Start with her.”
“Draping Barbie dolls with tissue paper and paperclips is not considered experience. And I want all my designersover thirty, at least. That way I know they are safe from your advances.”
“Cheap shot.”
“For a cheap man.”
Greg’s mouth thins. “You know, this would all be easier if you’d just accept reality.”
“What reality is that?”
“That maybe…” He pauses, choosing his words like he’s selecting a weapon. “Maybe it’s time to let the next generation take the lead. You’ve had an incredible run, Celeste. Twenty years. That’s more than most people get. But you’re coming up on forty?—”
“I’m thirty-eight.”
“—and the industry is changing. Getting younger. Faster. More digital.” He spreads his hands, a gesture of false reasonableness. “There’s no shame in stepping back. Taking an advisory role. Letting fresh talent carry the brand forward while you enjoy the fruits of our labor.”
The fruits ofmylabor. The labor he invested in with favorable terms that gave him controlling interest. The labor that made him rich enough to leave me for a succession of women young enough to be my interns.
“Women don’t just die at forty,” I say quietly.
“I didn’t say?—”
“We don’t expire. We don’t lose our value because some arbitrary number ticks over on a calendar.” I meet his eyes, and I hope he sees the steel there. The years of swallowed pride and bitten tongues and tolerating hisbullshitbecause I loved him once, because I believed in what we built together. “My biggest launches are ahead of me, not behind me. And if you can’t see that, it says more about your vision than mine.”
Greg opens his mouth to respond, but we’re interrupted by a soft knock at the glass door.
A young woman peers in—blonde, wide-eyed in that way people are when they’re new and still believe in things. She’s wearing a messenger bag across her chest and holding a clipboard like a shield.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she says, glancing between us like she can feel the tension but can’t identify it. “But I have a certified delivery for Celeste Prescott.”
“Brinley. Celeste Brinley now,” I correct, which earns me my third eyeroll from Greg. He’s going to need Motrin from the sheer ache of overworking his eyeballs.
“I’m from Valcott and Finch. The front office sent me up. They said they messaged you. This legal document requires a signature.”
I peer out of my office to see Margot has still not returned from her coffee run. Her desk—and by proxy, my office—remains unguarded.
“Come in.” I wave her in, noticing Greg’s gaze slide over her. Slowly. Appreciatively. Taking inventory of her youth, her freshness, her lack of wrinkles and cynicism. I want to throw Patrice at his head.
“Hello,” he says and is met with a curt, dismissive nod that makes me want to buy her a coffeeandscone. The girl approaches my desk, holding out the clipboard.
