Love By Design

Chapter 1

Amara

             Strutting down Peachtree Street, I feel invincible. My Mama always said, “If you give a woman a new pair of shoes, she can conquer the world.”

My new getup, a vibrant ensemble from the latest line by an up-and-coming designer, clings to me like a second skin. The heels, sleek and sky-high, click against the pavement with every confident step. My reflection in the store windows screams "boss lady," and I can’t help but smile.

The coffee cup in my hand is warm against my palm, its rich aroma blending with the city's morning hustle. My boutique, "Mari's," waits for me just a few blocks away. The nickname takes me back to childhood summers in Atlanta, playing dress-up with my sister. Now, I'm dressing real women for real life.

Dodging a couple of tourists gawking at their maps, I keep my pace brisk. "Excuse me," I mutter, not breaking stride. Today’s too important for delays.

As I near the shop, my phone buzzes in my bag. I juggle the coffee and reach for it, nearly losing balance on these damn fabulous heels. It's a message from my mother: "Good luck today, sweetie! Proud of you."

I shoot back a quick thank you and shove the phone away. Can't afford distractions this morning. I've got clients to impress and outfits to sell.

The familiar sight of Mari's comes into view. The sleek glass windows showcase mannequins draped in chic attire—each piece a testament to my vision and hard work. I can't help but pause for a moment to admire it.

"Hey! You're early!" It’s Lauren, my assistant, , her voice ringing out as she hurries over with keys jingling in her hand.

"Yeah, well," I reply with a grin, "couldn't let you have all the fun."

She unlocks the door, and we step inside together. The smell of fresh fabric and the sight of neatly arranged clothes make my heart swell with pride.

"You look amazing in that outfit," Lauren says, eyes wide with admiration.

"Thanks! It’s from the new line we got in yesterday." I do a quick twirl for effect. "Feels like it was made just for me."

She laughs as she heads toward the register. "Well, if anyone can pull it off, it's you."

I place my coffee on the counter and begin organizing some displays. Customers will be arriving soon, eager to see what's new. Today feels different—a buzz of excitement fills the air.

With everything in place and Lauren handling early prep tasks like a pro, I take one last look around Mari's before opening time. This is where dreams come true—both mine and those of every woman who walks through these doors.

The clock hits nine. Showtime.

* * *

        The door chimes as the first few customers trickle in, and I'm all smiles, welcoming them with my usual charm. But as I step outside to adjust the sidewalk display, something catches my eye. A white envelope, bold red letters glaring back at me, is taped to the glass door.

Foreclosure Notice.

My heart stops. The coffee in my stomach churns uncomfortably. I yank the envelope off and tear it open, scanning the contents with a mix of disbelief and mounting panic. Unpaid debts. Missed deadlines. Impending foreclosure. What the hell is this?

I glance back at Lauren through the glass, her cheerful demeanor a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside me. She’s helping a customer, completely unaware of the bombshell I’m holding.

"Everything okay?" a voice asks from behind me.

I turn to see Mrs. Bennett, one of my regulars. She's clutching a handful of shopping bags and sporting a kind smile that almost undoes me right there on the sidewalk.

"Uh, yeah," I stammer, quickly shoving the notice into my bag. "Just some... business stuff."

She nods sympathetically. "Well, I hope it's nothing too serious. Your boutique is such a treasure."

"Thanks," I manage to say, though it feels like my throat is closing up. "Come on in, we've got some great new pieces."

Mrs. Bennett bustles inside, leaving me alone with my thoughts for a brief moment. I need a plan. Fast.

Stepping back into the shop, I force a smile and try to push down the rising panic. The vibrant colors and chic designs seem to mock me now—symbols of everything I've built and might lose.

Lauren notices something's off immediately. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Just... dealing with some unexpected paperwork," I reply as casually as I can manage.

Her eyes narrow slightly, but she doesn’t press further. Instead, she hands me a stack of invoices that need sorting.

As I dive into work, trying to keep my hands steady and my mind focused, every customer interaction feels like an exercise in maintaining composure. Inside, I'm spiraling, but on the outside? On the outside, I'm still Amara Ellis—fashion designer extraordinaire with everything under control.

But this notice... It's a ticking time bomb. And somehow, someway, I've got to defuse it before it blows up everything I've worked so hard for.

My fingers tremble as I fumble with my phone. I find my financial advisor's number and press call, my breath hitching with each ring.

"Hello, this is Cheryl," her voice comes through, steady and professional.

"Cheryl, it's Amara. I need to see you. Like now," I blurt out, unable to hide the urgency in my voice.

"Oh honey, of course. Come on in. I'll clear my schedule."

"Thank you," I manage before hanging up. The shop feels like it's closing in on me. I need to get out of here.

"Lauren," I call, forcing a semblance of calm into my voice as I walk back inside. "I need you to hold down the fort for a bit."

Her eyes widen slightly. "Everything okay?"

"Yep. I'll be back as soon as I can." I grab my purse and head for the door, not waiting for her response.

The drive to Cheryl's office is a blur. My mind races with worst-case scenarios, each more catastrophic than the last. When I finally pull into the parking lot, I barely remember how I got there.

Cheryl meets me at the door, her face a mask of concern. "Amara, come in."

I follow her into her office, my heart pounding in my chest. The familiar surroundings do little to calm me—the polished wooden desk, the framed degrees on the wall—they're all just background noise now.

"What's going on?" she asks as we sit down.

I hand her the foreclosure notice, unable to speak for a moment as she reads it. Her eyes widen, and she looks up at me with a mixture of shock and pity.

"Amara, this is serious."

"I know," I whisper. "How did this happen?"

Cheryl takes a deep breath and begins typing furiously on her computer. The minutes stretch painfully as she examines my accounts, her brow furrowing deeper with each passing second.

Finally, she looks up, her expression grave. "Honey, it looks like an online hacker got into your accounts. They’ve all but wiped you out."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. "What? How?"

"There's been unauthorized activity—large sums transferred out over the past few weeks," she explains, turning the monitor towards me to show the damning evidence.

My head spins as I try to process what she's saying. "But... how did we miss this?"

Cheryl shakes her head. "They were clever—small transactions at first, escalating gradually. It was designed to fly under the radar."

I slump back in my chair, feeling utterly defeated. "What do we do now?"

"We need to report this immediately and start damage control," Cheryl says firmly, already dialing a number on her phone.

As she speaks with someone from the bank's fraud department, all I can think about is Mari's—the boutique that represents everything I've worked for—and how close I am to losing it all.

Tears blur my vision, and I try to blink them away, but they keep coming. My shoulders start to shake as the weight of everything crashes down on me. I can't keep it in anymore. I feel utterly powerless, and the dam finally breaks.

Cheryl glances up from her call, eyes widening as she sees me falling apart. She hurriedly ends the call, muttering a quick, "I'll get back to you."

She crosses the room swiftly and pulls a chair next to mine, placing a comforting hand on my arm. "Amara, honey, it's going to be okay," she says softly.

I shake my head, unable to find words. The idea of losing Mari's is like losing a part of myself. My dream slipping through my fingers.

"Look at me," Cheryl urges gently, tilting her head to catch my gaze. Her eyes are filled with warmth and concern—eyes that have known me since I was a little girl running around my Mama's garden.

"I'm so sorry," I manage to choke out between sobs. "I don't know what to do."

Cheryl pulls me into a hug, and I cling to her like she's a lifeline. Her embrace is firm and steady, like an anchor in the storm.

"You'll figure this out Amara," she murmurs against my hair. "There's big brains behind all that beauty," she says with a smile.

Her words are a balm to my raw emotions, and gradually, my sobs begin to subside. I take deep breaths, trying to steady myself.

Leaving Cheryl's office feels like stepping out of a bad dream, only the nightmare is far from over. We’ve done all we can do at the time, now it’s ultimately in the bank's hands from here. 

I’m in no shape to go back to work and exude joy and confidence to my customers, when all I want to do is go home, get in a fetal position, and cry. I take a deep breath and pull out my phone, dialing Lauren's number.

"Hey, boss," she answers cheerfully. The background noise of the boutique filters through, a stark contrast to my inner turmoil.

"Lauren, I need you to close up shop early today," I say, my voice barely holding steady. "Something came up."

"Close early? But we’ve got—"

"Please, just do it," I cut in, fighting the emotion rearing its ugly head again. I hear the concern in her pause.

"Okay, Mar, I got it. I'll handle it."

"Thanks." I hang up before she can ask any more questions. The weight of the situation presses down on me as I head home.

When I step into the apartment, it's quiet. The smell of fresh coffee wafts from the kitchen, and there’s Sophie, my best friend and roommate, sitting at the dining table with her laptop.

"Hey, you're home early," she says, looking up with a warm smile that fades as soon as she sees my face. "What happened?"

I drop my bag on the floor, grab a mug and pour myself some coffee, and slump into a chair opposite her. "I might lose Mari's."

Her eyes widen. "What? How?"

I explain everything—Cheryl’s discovery of the unauthorized transactions, the foreclosure notice—each word feeling like a brick being added to an already unbearable load.

Sophie closes her laptop and leans forward, concern etched across her features. "Okay, let's think this through. What can we do to fix this?"

"We need money," I say flatly. "A lot of it. Fast."

She taps her fingers on the table, lost in thought. "What about a loan?"

"Cheryl’s working on it, but it's not guaranteed we'll get it in time."

Sophie sighs and rubs her temples. "Crowdfunding? Social media campaign?"

"It’s possible," I admit, though my voice lacks conviction. "But will it be enough? And can we raise it quickly?"

“Mmmm, good point,” she bites her lip, clearly frustrated by our lack of options. “Ooh, bank robbery? Or have you ever considered donating an ovary?” I ball up a napkin and throw it at her across the table.

“You’re an idiot,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Hey, I look good in black, and it’s stealthy… but come to think about it, orange isn’t really my color.”

The laugh that comes out of me startles myself, let alone Sophie. Prime example of why she is my best friend. She always seems to take some of the edge off when I’m spiraling.

The laughter subsides, and the emotional toll hits me all at once. My vision blurs as tears threaten to spill over. The boutique is my dream—losing it feels like losing a part of myself.

She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand gently. "We’ll figure something out," she says softly.

I shake my head, feeling hopeless for the first time in years.

"Hey," Sophie says suddenly, trying to brighten the mood. "Don’t forget about the charity gala coming up next week."

I look at her blankly.

"The one we go to every year?" she prompts with a smile. "It might be just what you need—a break from all this stress and maybe even some networking opportunities."

“Networking opportunities for a boutique that’s nearing foreclosure?” I say with an odd look.

“Well, consider it networking for your vagina then,” Sophie says, and I nearly spit out my coffee.

“Come on Amara, it’s been far too long since someone has tailored your…”

“Shut up Sophie!” I say with a grin as I get up from the table.

A small part of me wants to argue that there's no time for galas or breaks right now, but another part knows she's right. Maybe stepping away for a night could help clear my mind.

I lean back against the refrigerator door, locking eyes with my roommate. "Okay," I concede finally. "I’ll go to the gala."