Chapter 1
Zoey
Five years old
The house smells like vanilla and sunshine.
That’s how every morning feels here — warm, bright, and soft, like the world decided to be kind to us. The light slips through the white curtains and lands on my coloring book, making my crayons shine like tiny treasures. I sit on the rug with my doll beside me, her dress already messy from yesterday’s tea party.
Daddy’s sitting on the floor next to me, his sleeves rolled up and his tie hanging loose around his neck. He’s supposed to be getting ready for work, but he’s helping me color instead.
“Is that me?” he asks, pointing at the stick man with the big smile and funny brown hair.
I nod seriously. “Yes. That’s you. And that’s Mommy.” I point to the one in a long dress. “And that’s me.”
He laughs — that deep, happy laugh that fills the whole room. “Well, you’ve got my smile right. It’s big because I’ve got the two prettiest girls in the world.”
Mom’s standing in the doorway with her mug of coffee. Her robe is pink, and she smells like flowers. She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Richard, you’re going to be late again.”
Daddy waves his hand like it doesn’t matter. “A few more minutes won’t hurt. I’m creating art with my daughter.”
I giggle. “We’re artists, Daddy!”
He taps my nose with the crayon. “The best kind.”
After breakfast, he brings out a little box wrapped in old newspaper. He always brings something home for us. Sometimes it’s a hair ribbon, sometimes a sweet, sometimes a flower he picks on his way back.
“Close your eyes,” he says, grinning.
I squeeze my eyes shut tight and hold out my hands.
“Okay… open!”
Inside the box is a sparkly pink hair clip shaped like a heart. I gasp. “It’s so pretty!”
Mom laughs softly. “You’re going to spoil her, Richard.”
“That’s my goal,” he says, kissing her cheek. “My girls deserve the world.”
They’re always like this — smiling, teasing, loving. Even when they think I’m not looking, I see the way he touches her hand or the way she laughs into his shoulder. It makes me feel warm inside, like everything good in the world lives in this house.
Later, Daddy helps me get ready for school.
He’s terrible at doing hair. One ponytail is always higher than the other, and he keeps making silly faces in the mirror while he tries to fix it. I laugh so hard my tummy hurts.
“There,” he says proudly, handing me my little pink backpack. “Perfect.”
Mom just shakes her head. “That’s definitely one way to do it.”
“Fashion-forward,” Daddy insists, winking at me.
I climb into his arms, and he carries me out to the car, still humming one of his old songs. He sings off-key, but I sing along anyway, loud and happy.
The sun is bright. The world smells like pancakes and promise.
And I don’t know it yet — but these are the days I’ll remember forever.
The days when love filled every corner of our home.
The days when my daddy was my hero, my world, my everything.
Daddy drives me to school like he always does. The car smells like his cologne and the mint gum he never stops chewing. He keeps the window halfway down so the morning breeze can sneak in and play with my hair.
“Ready for school, Zoey-bear?” he asks, glancing at me in the mirror.
I nod and swing my legs happily. “Yes! Today we’re painting!”
“Oh no,” he says in mock horror. “Should I warn your teacher about the masterpiece that’s coming?”
I giggle. “Daddy, you don’t warn people about art. You surprise them!”
He laughs again — the sound I love the most in the whole world — and taps my nose with one finger before turning back to the road.
When we get to my school, he doesn’t just drop me off. He walks me to my class, holding my tiny hand in his big one. The other kids’ dads never do that, but I like that mine does. He kneels to fix the collar of my uniform and whispers, “Be kind, be brave, and make someone smile today.”
“I will, Daddy.”
He kisses my forehead. “That’s my girl.”
I wave until he disappears through the gate. Then I go to class feeling like I can do anything.
When the school bell rings at the end of the day, he’s already waiting outside the gate — leaning against the car, tie gone, shirt sleeves rolled up. He waves the moment he sees me, his face lighting up like the sun itself.
“How was my little artist’s day?”
“I painted a rainbow!” I say proudly, showing him the messy paper in my hand.
“Wow,” he says, pretending to study it seriously. “That’s not just a rainbow. That’s a masterpiece.”
I laugh. “You always say that!”
“Because it’s always true,” he says, opening the door for me.
When we get home, Mom’s cooking dinner. The smell of fried rice fills the house, and music plays softly from the small speaker on the counter. She turns when we walk in, smiling at us both.
“Guess who painted another rainbow?” Daddy says, holding up my artwork like it belongs in a museum.
Mom claps her hands. “Oh my, we’re going to run out of wall space at this rate.”
I grin. “You’ll have to buy a new wall!”
They both laugh, and that sound — the two of them together — makes me so happy I almost cry without knowing why.
After dinner, Daddy insists we play our favorite game: “Super Zoey and the Daring Dad.” He puts a blanket around my shoulders like a cape, and we run around the living room pretending to save the world. Mom pretends to be the villain but keeps laughing too much to be scary.
When my eyelids start to feel heavy, Daddy carries me upstairs. He tucks me into bed, brushing my hair away from my face. The room smells faintly of lavender from Mom’s perfume, and the soft hum of the night fills the silence.
“Daddy?” I whisper.
“Yes, Zoey-bear?”
“Will we always be this happy?”
He looks at me for a long time — a look I don’t understand yet — and then smiles softly. “Always, sweetheart. Always.”
He kisses my forehead, turns off the lamp, and the darkness feels safe, not scary. I fall asleep listening to the sound of my parents’ laughter downstairs, believing him completely.
Because in my little world, love is forever, and nothing ever changes.
Present Day
“Jane, no. That neckline is too safe,” I say, squinting at my laptop screen. “She said she wanted something bold — and that sketch screams church wedding, not charity gala.”
Jane groans through the video call, her messy bun slightly lopsided. “Zoey, we’ve already redrawn this design three times. If we go any deeper with that neckline, the poor woman might as well wear a necklace and call it a day.”
I laugh, leaning back in my chair. “It’s a statement piece, not a crime.”
Our designs hang neatly on the mood board behind me, color swatches clipped beside them. The morning light filters through my curtains, catching on the golden edges of my sketchbooks. Coffee sits beside my laptop — untouched, already cold. Typical.
Jane adjusts her glasses and tilts her head. “Alright, Miss Perfectionist. I’ll trust your vision. But if the client faints when she sees how much skin she’s showing—”
“She won’t. She’ll love it,” I interrupt confidently. “She’s just coming in to confirm the final design, remember? You worry too much.”
Before Jane can reply, there’s a soft knock on my door.
“Zoey?”
I turn and smile as my mom, Emma Brooks, steps in. Her presence always fills the room with calm — still beautiful and elegant, even in her robe. “Good morning, sweetheart. Come downstairs for breakfast before it gets cold.”
“Morning, Mom,” I say, standing up and walking over to her. I kiss her on the cheek, catching a faint hint of her jasmine perfume. “I’ll be right down. Just finishing up with Jane.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Brooks!” Jane waves from the laptop screen, cheerful as always.
Mom smiles warmly. “Good morning, Jane. It’s lovely to see you, even if it’s through a screen.”
Jane grins. “It’s been forever! You should let Zoey bring me home after work. I miss your cooking.”
Mom chuckles softly. “Then it’s settled. You’re both coming home after you’re done at the office. No excuses.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jane replies, mock saluting.
Mom gives me that familiar don’t-forget-to-eat look before heading for the door. “Don’t stay upstairs too long, Zoey.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
When she leaves, Jane wiggles her brows. “See? Even your mom can’t say no to me.”
I laugh and start gathering my sketches. “You’ve had her wrapped around your finger since we were twelve.”
“Maybe,” she says proudly. “Anyway, we’ll finalize the fabric options at the office. Let’s just talk there — I need real coffee and your energy is stressing me through the screen.”
I smile. “Fine. See you soon.”
We end the call, and I grab my bag, my laptop, and my phone before heading downstairs.
The smell of breakfast — warm bread, eggs, and something sweet — hits me as soon as I reach the kitchen. Florence, our cook, spots me instantly.
“There’s my girl!” she says, opening her arms.
I hug her, laughing softly. “Morning, Florence.”
“Sit, sit,” she says, already fussing with the plates. “You work too much. Eat something before you run off again.”
I drop into my seat as Mom looks up from her coffee at the table.
“Big day?” she asks, smiling over the rim of her mug.
“Kind of,” I say between quick bites of toast. “Our client’s coming in to confirm her dress for the gala. Jane and I finalized the sketches last night.”
“She’ll love whatever you made,” Mom says confidently. “You and Jane have the magic touch.”
I smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
She glances at her watch. “I should get going too — board meeting at nine.”
“Good luck,” I say, already standing. “And don’t wait for me for lunch, I might be late.”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “You always are.”
I flash her a guilty grin, grab my keys, and sling my bag over my shoulder. “I’ll make it up to you with dinner.”
“You better,” she says, smiling.
I wave, blow her a quick kiss, and rush out the door.
The city air greets me — cool, alive, full of noise and motion. My driver’s already waiting. I slide into the backseat, heart buzzing with that familiar mix of nerves and excitement.
New day. New design. New client.
The city hums around me — fast, alive, unstoppable.
From the backseat of the car, I watch skyscrapers blur past, glass and steel gleaming in the morning sun. It’s the kind of morning that makes everything feel possible.
Then I see it — our billboard.
It takes up half the side of a building, right in the heart of downtown. My heart does a little skip. There it is: Élan.
The photo shows Jane and me side by side — she’s in a power suit, I’m in an off-shoulder gown from our latest line. Bold letters curve beneath us: ÉLAN COSMETICS & COUTURE — Confidence, Redefined.
A smile tugs at my lips. Five years ago, this was just a dream we whispered about over takeout boxes and late-night sketches. Now it’s our reality — a beauty and fashion empire that actually means something.
“Stop at the front, please,” I tell my driver.
When the car pulls up to our glass building, the silver letters ÉLAN shimmer across the entrance. I step out, heels clicking against the marble as the morning rush buzzes around me.
“Good morning, Ms. Brooks,” the doorman greets warmly, opening the door.
“Morning, David,” I reply with a smile. “How’s your wife?”
“Doing well, thank you,” he says, beaming as I walk through.
Inside, the lobby smells faintly of peonies and expensive coffee. The floors gleam, and our brand posters line the walls — models wearing our dresses, the latest lipstick campaign shining in soft gold tones.
“Good morning, Ms. Brooks,” Scarlet says the moment I step into the executive floor. She’s efficient, stylish, and always two steps ahead. “You’re early.”
“Trying to make a good impression for our client,” I tease lightly.
She smiles. “Mission accomplished.”
I push open the door to my office — wide glass windows, a white marble desk, and racks of gowns along one wall. My chair still smells faintly of perfume from yesterday. I’m scrolling through emails when Jane bursts in, as usual, without knocking.
“Look at you,” she says dramatically, closing the door behind her. “Miss Élan herself, glowing like she just stepped off her own runway.”
I laugh, standing to give her a quick hug. “And look at you , fellow Miss Elan.that suit is everything.”
She twirls once. “Custom-made, thank you very much. Designed by none other than my insanely talented best friend.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I tease, sitting back down.
She drops onto the couch in my office. “I swear, sometimes I still can’t believe this is our life. Remember when we used to panic over sketches.
I chuckle. “Now we spill lattes on contracts instead. Growth.”
Jane laughs loudly, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “The kind of growth that includes high heels and private fittings. I love it here.”
We fall into easy chatter — about a new makeup line launch, Scarlet’s obsession with color-coded sticky notes, and the chaos of last week’s campaign shoot. No talk about men. Just two women running their empire and enjoying every second of it.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
“Come in,” I say.
Scarlet peeks in, tablet in hand. “Good morning, ladies. Just a reminder that your client’s appointment is at eleven.”
“Thanks, Scarlet,” Jane says.
“Would you like me to bring coffee?” she adds.
“Yes, please,” I reply gratefully. “Something strong. It’s one of those mornings.”
Scarlet nods and disappears.
Jane stretches lazily on the couch. “We should design a scent next. Something that smells like power and good decisions.”
“Or like sleep and caffeine,” I joke.
She laughs. “That too.”
Scarlet returns a few minutes later with two cups of coffee balanced on a tray. “Here you go, ladies.”
“Thanks, Scarlet,” we say in unison.
“Anytime,” she says with a small smile before heading back to her desk.
Jane takes a sip, sighs dramatically, and stands. “Alright, boss lady, I’ll go do some paperwork before our client gets here. Don’t get too comfy without me.”
I smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She leaves, and the office grows quiet again. I look around — at the sketches pinned to my wall, the city glittering beyond the glass, the Élan logo embossed on the folders on my desk.
For a moment, I just sit there, letting it all sink in.
This — the company, the success, the life we built — is everything I dreamed of.
And still, somewhere deep down, I wonder if there’s something more waiting just beyond this perfect view.
At exactly eleven, Scarlet’s voice comes through the intercom.
“Ms. Brooks, Ms. Wells has arrived.”
I glance at the time on my watch and smile. “Right on schedule. Please show her in.”
A moment later, Scarlet opens the door, her posture perfectly professional. Behind her walks Mary Wells — one of Hollywood’s golden actresses. She’s even more stunning in person, her confidence radiating with every step.
“Good morning, Ms. Wells,” I say, standing to greet her. “It’s an honor to have you here.”
“Please, call me Mary,” she says warmly, shaking my hand. “And the honor’s mine. You and Jane have built quite the name for yourselves.”
Jane appears from her office just in time, greeting her with her signature bright smile. “We’re so glad you came in. We’ve been obsessed with this design for days.”
Mary laughs softly. “Then I can’t wait to see it.”
We lead her into our meeting room — sleek, spacious, with a long white table and walls covered in sketches and fabric samples. Scarlet is already inside, setting down three cups of coffee on gold-trimmed saucers.
“Thank you, Scarlet,” Jane says.
Mary smiles kindly at her. “You’re an angel.”
Scarlet blushes a little, murmurs a polite “Thank you, ma’am,” and slips out quietly.
Jane and I share a look — that familiar mix of excitement and pride — before I place our final sketch in front of Mary.
“This,” I begin, “is what we envisioned for your gala look.”
Mary leans forward, her eyes scanning every detail — the silhouette, the shimmer of the fabric swatches, the bold neckline, and the delicate beadwork at the waist. Her lips curve into a slow, approving smile.
“Wow,” she breathes. “This is… perfection. Elegant, bold, but not overdone. You’ve captured exactly what I wanted.”
Relief and pride bloom in my chest. “I’m so glad you love it.”
“I more than love it,” she says, meeting my eyes. “I trust you both completely. Whatever decisions you make — design, fabric, everything — I’m leaving it all in your hands.”
Jane grins. “We won’t let you down.”
Mary stands, smoothing her dress. “I know you won’t. Thank you both — truly. I can’t wait to see the final piece.”
We walk her to the door, exchange a few warm goodbyes, and then she’s gone — just like that, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and satisfaction behind her.
As soon as the door closes, Jane spins toward me, eyes sparkling. “Did you see her face when she saw that sketch?”
I laugh, still feeling that rush of pride. “I saw it. That’s the look we work for.”
“She practically gave us creative freedom on a red-carpet gown,” Jane says, throwing her hands up. “Do you realize what that means for Élan?”
“It means,” I say, straightening the scattered papers on the table, “we’d better get started right away.”
Jane grins. “Now you’re talking.”
We gather our sketches and swatches, already brainstorming details — the exact shade of silver that’ll catch the light just right, the subtle texture of the fabric, the custom jewelry we’ll pair it with.
The energy between us hums with excitement, creativity, and drive.
This is our world.
Our passion.
Our empire.
And for now, that’s all I need
