Lara
For years, I promised myself I’d start my own business. The plan was solid—until the wedding that wasn’t, undone by Gideon’s silence and a mountain of debt. After that, grief chipped away at my confidence until everything felt like smoke. But now, I’m healing. My brother’s back in my life. The fog is lifting.
I meant it when I said I want to help women, teach them to budget, to save, to face life’s curveballs without drowning. So here I am.
The kitchen table is buried in papers. My laptop casts a glow across my face, exaggerating the shadows under my eyes. I know this because I keep catching my reflection in the microwave’s surface. I hover over the keyboard. Pause. This moment carries weight. I’m not just thinking about doing it anymore.
I’m doing it.
A breath catches. My hand drifts to my temple, chasing Gideon’s memory, the altar, the unanswered calls, the hotel room echoing with nothing but shame. Delilah’s phantom smile flashes behind my eyes. Her betrayal wasn’t reckless; it was calculated. Strategic. And somehow, I’ve been the one bleeding.
But not today.
The business plan lies before me: affordable, accessible financial consulting for women. There’s no time for ghosts.
I dial one of the advisors I flagged last night.
“Hello?” Professional. Clear.
“Hi, this is Lara Edwards. I’m launching a service for women, low-cost financial education. I’d love to learn how your firm supports new entrepreneurs.”
“We’d be happy to help, Ms. Edwards. Let’s get you scheduled.”
I hang up and sit taller. The plan is modest: a co-op office with a shared lounge. Nothing flashy, but purposeful. I’d rather pour every cent into impact than ego. Debt shouldn’t be the price of financial literacy.
Briefly, I think of Gideon. Years of shared ambition. Dreams, sketches, promises. Now rubble. The man I loved became collateral damage in someone else’s obsession.
I push the thought aside. Grant deadlines loom. I type with purpose. No woman should have to choose between groceries and security. I remember that ache. That’s why I’m here.
Delilah slips into my mind again. She wanted Gideon and burned everything to get him. Manipulated him. Dismantled his relationship with the one person who would’ve stood beside him. Her desperation masqueraded as devotion, but it was poison. Slow. Deliberate.
I pity her. Just a little. How hollow do you have to feel to destroy others in the name of love?
But Gideon let her.
“No more,” I mutter, shaking the thought off like dust.
The apartment feels different, quiet in a way that used to sting. Now it hums with purpose. It’s mine.
I scroll through office listings. This isn’t just a job. It’s a mission.
An hour later, momentum carries me into a co-op downtown.
The scent of coffee hits first. Warm, rich, and tucked into the musk of old carpet and lemon polish. Light streams through a rain-streaked window, carving soft slats across gray floors and taupe walls. Everything feels gently worn. Honest.
A woman at the front desk greets me with a smile and guides me through the building. The space isn’t large, but it’s enough. The lounge pulls me in: a faded navy rug, two mismatched armchairs (one cobalt, one slate) framing a cracked leather couch that looks broken in, not broken down. A faux fireplace flickers low in the far corner beside an orange loveseat, cheerful in its own way. The coffee table holds thrifted mugs, a stack of dog-eared magazines, and the kind of quiet history most places forget.
I take mental notes, soft tones, layered textures, blue scattered everywhere. The kind that steadies your breath and quiets the mind. My favorite kind.
I picture my own additions: thrifted artwork, a secondhand lamp with brushed brass trim, a DIY wall hanging that doubles as a budget-friendly tutorial. Not just decoration, but proof that less can be enough. Comfort doesn’t need a price tag. Impact doesn’t come from flash.
I imagine workshops blooming here. Women leaning forward, absorbing possibility. Conversations that shift lives.
I skim the contract for the rental price. The monthly rate for the co-op is lower than expected. Surprisingly doable.
It matters. I’ve already decided on my pricing model. Clients will pay just $10 an hour, nothing more. Enough to keep the lights on, barely. The rest will come from grants, fundraisers, and community sponsors. A patchwork approach, but intentional. Cost should be the last thing standing between a woman and her financial stability.
I sign without hesitation.
