Lexi Thompson held her phone between shoulder and ear, one hand steering the wheel, the other scribbling notes with a chewed-up pen.
"Yes, Mrs. Duvall, I understand—but peonies are out of season, and flying them in from the Netherlands will cost—"
The client interrupted with a high-pitched scoff. "I didn't ask for a weather report, Alexandra. I asked for peonies. White. Full bloom. Like hope."
Lexi mouthed a silent scream, her eyes flicking to the red light ahead. She could already feel her last ounce of patience fraying like cheap ribbon.
"I'll make it happen," she said sweetly, though her bank account screamed in protest. "I'll send updated costs tonight."
She hung up and slumped in her seat, tapping the steering wheel to a beat only she could hear. She was running on caffeine, dry shampoo, and the stubborn belief that this was all leading somewhere. Somewhere big. Somewhere not here.
Her phone buzzed again. A calendar alert lit up:
Rent due — 3 days. Balance: $74.29
"Perfect," she muttered, pulling into the tiny lot beside the bakery that doubled as her office neighbor—and enemy. The place always smelled like betrayal and croissants.
The office wasn't much—just exposed brick, a desk with a wobbly leg, and a vision board that hadn't seen a fresh update in months. Still, it was hers. Her messy little kingdom of dreams and deadlines. The walls were covered in color-coded sticky notes and glossy magazine cutouts, each one a piece of who she wanted to become. In the center, written in faded marker on a neon pink square, it read:
"One day you'll throw a party the world talks about."
She stared at it for a second, that little note burning into her brain like a dare. Then she sighed and flopped into her chair, opening her laptop with a thud and a creak.
Her inbox was a battlefield. Unpaid invoices. Late-night vendor replies. Brides panicking over linen shades and balloon arches. Lexi scrolled mindlessly, ready to dig into the chaos—until her gaze caught one line that didn't fit.
Subject: Invitation to Submit – Blackwood Foundation Gala Pitch
Lexi blinked. Then blinked again.
The Blackwood Gala.
It wasn't just an event—it was the event. Lavish, star-studded, televised, and talked about for months afterward. Every five years, the Blackwood Foundation hosted a fundraiser so elite, so extravagant, that just being in the room was a status symbol. It was where wealth met influence, and where one perfect night could launch a career—or ruin it.
She clicked the email with trembling fingers.
We are inviting select independent planners to submit a concept for this year's Blackwood Foundation Gala.
Finalists will present to the board next week.
The selected pitch will oversee full execution, reporting directly to CEO Ethan Blackwood.
Lexi sat back slowly, the words sinking in like warm honey and electric panic.
Ethan Blackwood.
The name fizzed in her brain like champagne bubbles with a cyanide kick.
He wasn't just the CEO of the Blackwood empire. He was a business legend, the youngest Blackwood to take the reins and turn a luxury empire into something even more intimidating. Rich. Powerful. Private. Impossible to read. And now… he was going to be reviewing her work?
Her first instinct: There's no way.
She was barely staying afloat. Her client roster was full of chaotic brides and budget-slashing corporate reps. She had no team, no assistant, and a rental office that echoed when she coughed. This opportunity wasn't for people like her. It was for the planners with PR firms and private stylists. The ones who didn't have to personally deliver flower arrangements because their intern flaked.
But then her eyes drifted back to the vision board.
To that sticky note.
To the five-year-old magazine clipping of the last Blackwood Gala she had printed out, circled in red pen, and taped to her fridge before it became too worn to hold onto.
She stood abruptly, her pulse thudding in her throat like a drum.
Maybe she wasn't supposed to be here.
Maybe she was underqualified, underfunded, and one bad gig away from giving up entirely.
But damn it, she had ideas. She had hunger. And she'd worked too hard for too long to let fear win now.
Lexi ran a hand through her messy bun, cracked her knuckles, and opened a blank document.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, heart racing. The silence of the office stretched around her, heavy with possibility.
Then she began typing.
Theme ideas. Visuals. Mood boards. Not just pretty decor, but a concept with meaning—heart. If the Blackwoods wanted luxury with a conscience, then she'd give them something unforgettable. A night that spoke to power, but also to hope. Maybe even healing.
Somewhere between dream and desperation, the pitch started taking shape. It wasn't perfect, but it was hers. Bold. Unapologetic.
Her phone buzzed again.
Call from: Mom
She stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered, then pulled away.
She loved her mom—dearly. But right now, she didn't have the energy to explain the weight on her shoulders. That chasing your dreams often felt like running in quicksand while smiling for the camera.
Later. She'd call her later.
For now, she whispered to herself, voice low and shaky:
"Come on, Lex. Let's make them see you."
Because this wasn't just a pitch.
It was a chance. A turning point. Maybe even the beginning of everything she'd been fighting for.
And she didn't come this far to back down now.