Chapter 1

Charlotte

I dash through the corridor, just as my phone buzzes for the seventh time this morning. "Charlotte Robinson speaking," I say, wedging the device between my ear and shoulder while juggling my tablet and a stack of portfolio samples.

"Ms. Robinson, the florist for the Wilson wedding just called. Their peonies shipment is delayed."

I inhale sharply. "Switch to garden roses and ranunculus. Same color palette, equally elegant. And negotiate a fifteen percent discount for the inconvenience."

"On it."

I end the call just as my assistant Mia materializes beside me, matching my stride.

"The Bergman proposal is ready for review, I've confirmed the caterer for Friday's charity gala, and your three o'clock wants to move to four."

"Tell them three-thirty is my final offer." I swipe through emails, deleting the irrelevant ones with practiced efficiency. "And did you—"

"Send the venue dimensions to the lighting team? Already done."

I flash her a grateful smile. "You're getting a raise."

"You said that yesterday."

"And I meant it both times."

We reach the conference room door, and I pause, taking a moment to straighten my blazer and smooth my hair. Through the glass, I can see them waiting – representatives from Pinnacle Industries, one of the largest tech firms on the East Coast. Landing their annual product launch would put Robinson Events firmly on the map of elite planning agencies.

"Their budget is insane," Mia whispers, handing me a fresh coffee. "And word is they've met with Elevation Events already."

My stomach tightens. Elevation is our biggest competitor, run by a man who thinks event planning is just glorified party throwing. I've spent five years building this company from nothing, proving that what we do is art, strategy, and business acumen rolled into one seamless experience.

"They haven't met with us yet," I say, squaring my shoulders.

I push open the door with a confident smile that masks the tornado of anxiety swirling inside me. Three men in expensive suits look up from their phones.

"Gentlemen, I'm Charlotte Robinson. I understand you're looking to make a statement with your next event."

I set my materials down and dive straight in, because in this business, you either captivate in the first five minutes or you lose them forever.

I walk them through my vision for their launch, showcasing holographic displays and an immersive product experience that would make their competitors weep. My voice stays steady even as I notice the tallest executive checking his watch.

"We don't just plan events at Robinson Events," I say, sliding forward my portfolio. "We engineer memories that convert to sales. Your last launch generated twelve million in immediate revenue. With our approach, we're projecting a twenty percent increase."

The numbers catch their attention. I've done my homework.

"Impressive," says the CEO, Marcus Thornton. "But Elevation offered us a celebrity host. Jennifer Lopez, actually."

My stomach drops, but my smile doesn't falter. "Jennifer would certainly draw eyes. But would those eyes be on your product or on her? We're offering something better—authenticity and innovation that puts your technology center stage."

As I continue my pitch, Dad's voice echoes in my head from twenty years ago: "Second place is just the first loser, Charlotte."

I was seven, holding a silver medal from my first piano competition. He'd taken it from my hands, examined it like it was evidence of failure, then handed it back with a tight smile. "Next time, aim higher."

I blink away the memory, refocusing on the conference room.

"We've worked with Elevation before," the CFO mentions, scrolling through my proposal. "They're established."

What he means is: They're safe. We're not.

The familiar knot tightens in my chest—the one that's been there since I left a secure corporate job to start this company. Since Mom asked if I was "just planning parties now" at Thanksgiving dinner. Since Dad's barely concealed disappointment when I didn't follow him into finance.

"Established doesn't mean better," I counter, pulling up before-and-after photos of events we've transformed. "It often means formulaic. When was the last time you attended an event and actually remembered it a week later?"

Their silence tells me I've struck a chord.

"Robinson Events isn't just established. We're evolving. Every client gets a custom approach because cookie-cutter events deliver cookie-cutter results."

"We'll need to discuss internally," Marcus says, closing my portfolio. "Your vision is... unique."

I can't tell if that's good or bad. I've been in this business long enough to know that "we'll think about it" usually means "we're going with someone else."

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Robinson." The CFO extends his hand. "You've given us much to consider."

"I appreciate the opportunity," I say, my professional smile firmly in place as I shake each of their hands. "If you have any questions, I'm available anytime."

They file out, their conversation already shifting to their dinner reservations. The door clicks shut behind them, and the room falls silent except for the hum of the air conditioning.

I slump back into my chair, letting my head fall against the leather. The smile drops from my face like a mask I've been holding up too long.

"Fuck," I whisper to the empty room.

I should have pushed harder on the ROI numbers. Maybe I should have name-dropped some of our higher-profile clients more explicitly. Or perhaps I came on too strong? Too desperate?

My fingers drum against the table as I replay the meeting in my mind. Jennifer Lopez. How the hell am I supposed to compete with that? Robinson Events doesn't have the connections or budget to secure A-list celebrities. We focus on creativity and execution—the things that should matter.

I pull out my phone and check my calendar. Three more pitches this week, two weddings to oversee on the weekend, and a charity gala that's hanging by a thread because the donor is having second thoughts about the theme.

If I lose Pinnacle to Elevation, that's another high-profile client I've missed out on this quarter. Another conversation with my bank about extending my business line of credit. Another family dinner where Dad asks how things are "really going" with that look in his eyes.

I gather my materials slowly, tucking everything back into my portfolio case with meticulous care. Five years of grinding, of sacrificing weekends and relationships, of pouring everything I have into Robinson Events. Sometimes I wonder if I'm just chasing something I'll never catch.

My phone buzzes with a text from Mia: "How'd it go?"

I stare at the screen, unsure how to respond.

Eventually, I take a deep breath and text Mia back: "They'll 'think about it.' Moving on to the Peterson event now."

No use dwelling on what I can't control. That's one of the first rules I made for myself when I started Robinson Events. In this business, something always goes wrong—flowers wilt, speakers cancel, clients change their minds about everything three days before an event. The only way to survive is to keep moving forward.

I gather my things and head back to my office, mentally shifting gears to the upcoming charity gala.

"Charlotte?" Mia appears in my doorway as I settle behind my desk. "The venue for the Miller wedding called. Their renovation is running behind schedule."

"Of course it is," I mutter, pulling up their file on my tablet. "Tell them we need photos of the current state by end of day, and start putting together backup venue options just in case."

As Mia leaves, I lean back in my chair and look around my office. It's not large, but I've made it mine—sleek, functional, with just enough personal touches. The wall of thank-you notes from past clients. The framed photo of my first event—a small corporate retreat that barely broke even but taught me everything about what not to do.

I allow myself a moment to daydream, something I rarely indulge in during work hours. One day, this office will be twice the size. The Robinson Events logo will be recognized across the industry. I'll have a team of twenty instead of five, and we'll be turning away clients rather than chasing them.

One day, I'll land that career-defining contract—the kind that makes industry publications and puts us on every potential client's shortlist. The kind that would make even my father admit this wasn't just a phase.

I picture walking into his country club, where all his finance friends gather. "Did you see Charlotte's work on the Bennett Foundation Gala? Three million raised in one night. Production value like nothing I've ever seen."

And Dad would finally say, "That's my daughter," with genuine pride instead of qualified approval.

The fantasy fades as my phone rings. Back to reality.