At a lavish dinner in Paris, my husband’s father—the millionaire—mocked my small startup.
“Can’t even afford a proper office. She’s my biggest mistake.”
I froze mid-sip, my champagne glass hovering near my lips, as Dominic Reynolds’s booming voice silenced every conversation at our table. The lavish Parisian restaurant suddenly felt suffocating, the air too warm, the lights too bright. Business partners, industry executives, and my husband, Austin, all turned to stare at me—some with pity, others with poorly concealed amusement.
Dominic, my father-in-law and the CEO of the Reynolds Footwear Empire, didn’t even look at me as he continued performing for his guests.
“My son could’ve married anyone,” he announced. “Instead, he chose someone who thinks selling homemade dresses online is a business.”
My knuckles turned white around the stem of my glass. Three years of his constant criticism had prepared me for this moment, but public humiliation still stung like a slap. Austin shifted beside me, uncomfortable, but he stayed silent. His defense of me had disappeared months ago, as if it had been slowly drained out of him.
But what Dominic didn’t know—what none of them knew—was that this dinner would change everything.
Six months earlier, I’d been sitting on the floor of my small work area, a converted storage room in our apartment that served as Lucid Designs headquarters. Fabric samples surrounded me while my laptop displayed disappointing sales figures. A clothing line I’d poured my heart into wasn’t connecting with customers, and our savings were dwindling fast.
The door opened, and Austin walked in, loosening his tie. “Hey. Dad called. Dinner at his place tonight at seven.”
I didn’t look up. “I need to finish inventory and update the website. Tell him I can’t make it.”
“Lucy, please.” Austin’s voice carried that familiar tension. “He just secured the Miller contract. It’s a big night for the company.”
“It’s always a big night for the company,” I muttered, scrolling through numbers that refused to improve. But I recognized the expression on Austin’s face—tight jaw, careful eyes. He wouldn’t stand up to his father. Not tonight or any night.
“Fine,” I said, forcing the word out. “I’ll be ready by six-thirty.”
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