I sank deeper into the plush armchair in Hellen's grand living room, the soft fabric cradling me like an old friend as the fireplace popped and hissed, sending flickers of orange light dancing across the honey-oak floors.
Late afternoon sun slanted through the tall bay windows, painting warm stripes over the room—thick rugs, bookshelves stuffed with leather-bound volumes, and a massive stone mantel lined with family photos faded at the edges.
A week had flown by since my pitch in her office, and the announcement for Helly Paws had hit the internet like a spark in dry grass, just as I'd figured it would.
Pet influencers were losing their minds in the best way, stitching mock-ups of kitty hoodies and puppy raincoats into their reels—I personally designed them. Analysts gave neutral nods, calling it a clever grab at the booming pet fashion world.
Honestly, pet fashion world has a lot of opportunities to work on. Overall, I might fail... or achieve success—but I will try.
And yeah, the haters piled on thick, mostly Lily's die-hard fans spewing poison in the comments. Hellen hadn't batted an eye—full support, no hesitation, her factories already shifting gears under my roadmap.
"I did what you asked," Hellen said, wandering in from the kitchen with two mugs steaming gentle, chamomile's sweet herbal scent cutting through the piney air from the oaks outside.
She wore a soft gray sweater clinging just right to her frame, black leggings hugging her long legs smooth, blonde hair loose in waves that softened her sharp features, framing those ice-blue eyes that twinkled as she handed me a mug and flopped onto the sofa across from me, legs curling under her casual.
"You change your hairstyle every day. Is it because of me?" I smiled.
Hellen coughed awkwardly before looking away. Her face was a bit red. "You told me that I looked boring."
"I didn't!"
"Yes, you did. But forget it—as I said before, I have done what you asked me to do."
"You did?" I perked up, setting my phone aside—scrolls of reactions still glowing on the screen—and leaned forward, heart picking up a beat. It was Hellen's plan to renovate the machines in the two main factories for pet-line speed—quicker looms for tiny batches, smart cutters for odd sizes.
My plan was to deal with the other three. Hang onto two for backup, sell one fast to flood us with cash.
She nodded easy, blowing steam off her tea before sipping. "Sold that third factory yesterday. Perfect spot by the ports—Korean buyers jumped on it like hounds on meat. Haggling got us eight figures clean. Funds hit the account this morning."
A grin split my face wide, emerald eyes probably sparkling as I thumped my mug down on the side table. "Nice one. We're sitting on real money now—prototypes, hires, ad pushes, all without bankers breathing down our necks." The whole place felt alive—an old whiteboard leaned in the corner, covered in my frantic sketches of dog bandanas, hoodies, shirts, and cat collars.
Hellen sighed, "Let's see how we will do."
The coffee table overflowed with fabric swatches in every colour, sales forecasts scribbled on napkins, the air thick with woodsmoke, citrus from her skin, and the faint yeasty whiff of pastries we'd picked at earlier.
"We've hired a bunch already too," she went on, fishing her tablet from the cushions and swiping open a list, scrolling with one thumb.
"Yes, we have. Civil engineers to shore up the factory floors, mechanical whizzes for the machine guts, textile pros for eco-threads that won't pill, veterinary doctors, even snagged a couple fashion designers from smaller labels."
"Good solid folks. But... the randoms? Baristas, vet techs, freelance doodlers—no fancy resumes."
I let out a light laugh, propping my elbows on my knees, raven hair tumbling loose from my ponytail as I shook my head.
"That's the point, Hellen. Random folks burn just as bright—maybe brighter. The elite chase what's hot; these people live the grit. Baristas know coffee spills and rush stains. Groomers get how fur moves. Street artists sling prints that go viral overnight. Safe bets play it safe; wild cards hit genius. Give the mix a shot."
She cocked her head, tablet dipping as a half-smile tugged her lips—sceptical, but warming. "Guess time will tell if genius cashes checks."
I arched a brow, teasing challenge in my voice. "What, no trust in my decision, partner?"
Her eyes went soft really quick, mug nestling warm in her hands. "I trust you, Emily. I trust you completely."
Warmth bloomed in my chest, grin turning soft and true. "Cool. So next up—tweak schedules? Chase suppliers?"
Hellen set her mug down firm and stood in one smooth motion, that quiet alpha confidence flowing as she stuck out her hand. "Nah. You're here to unwind, right? No battle plans tonight."
"Yeah," I said, slipping my hand into hers—strong and warm, pulling me up easy, her sweater grazing my arm in that accidental-close way that sent a tiny spark up my spine. What was that? "You hyped the games. Arcade basement? Pool table? That VR rig you bragged about?"
Her laugh rolled low and rich through the living room, wrapping the air in warmth as she took my hand and pulled me toward the wide oak staircase that curved elegantly from the hall.
The polished banister caught the chandelier's glow, smooth under my palm as we climbed. "Why not dive right in?" she said over her shoulder. "Loser cooks dinner. Noodles if you lose bad."
"Game on!" I called back, my grin sharp and ready, ponytail swinging as we took the steps two at a time, the thrill of play chasing away weeks of factory stress. Her manor has a game room hid at the top floor, revealed by a bookshelf panel that swung open at a hidden latch with a satisfying click. Inside, neon arcade cabinets buzzed alive, a huge green‑felt billiards table waited under hanging lights, VR headsets dangled from racks like trophies, and a vintage pinball machine stood in the corner, bells ready to ring.
Popcorn popped fresh from a machine, buttery scent thick in the air, controllers worn smooth from use, old racing posters curling at the edges on wood‑panelled walls.
We jumped straight in. Street Fighter first—me as Chun‑Li, landing wild kicks that missed half the time against her hulking Zangief grabs. Then VR flight sims, me twisting nauseous through dogfights while she piled up kills with steady aim.
Billiards last, my shots banking wrong every round, scratching the cue ball like a curse. I lost it all, clean and total—no fancy AI to blame here. The world had its tech, sure, but it stayed in the background, no bots rigging arcade cabinets. Just us, sticks, screens, and sweat.
Now we sprawled downstairs again on the leather sectional, game adrenaline fading into the fireplace's steady crackle.
I pouted over a mug of black coffee she'd brewed as consolation, legs tucked under me in soft leggings and an oversized sweater, raven hair fallen completely from its tie into a messy halo.
"It's not fair," I complained, mostly for show, sipping the bitter heat as my emerald eyes shot playful glares across at her. She lounged easy, gray sweater rumpled from wins, blonde waves more tousled than neat.
"You lost everything, Emily," she said, teasing light in her eyes as she cradled her own mug, leaning back smug. "Coffee's your break. After that, kitchen duty—full meal, no half measures."
"I hate you," I muttered, ducking my grin behind the steam, chest light with how simple this felt.
Her smirk grew wicked slow. "Hate me harder when I say ten dishes minimum."
"You wouldn't dare!" I yelped, coffee sloshing near the rim in mock horror, laughter bubbling out. "Three tops, you bully. Final offer?"
"Maybe," she drew out the word, eyes sparkling challenge.
I paused then, mug dipping as idle curiosity post-game loosened my tongue. "Hey, Hellen... what kind of omega catches your eye? Be real." Everyone has a type, right? Hellen must have one too.
She froze mid‑sip, mug hovering, blink sharp. "What?"
Shrugging one shoulder casual, I leaned closer over the coffee table, spinning a daydream easy. "Me? Dreaming male omega. Warm hazel eyes that crinkle when he laughs all shy, lithe build with muscle under sun‑warmed skin, scent fresh rain and honey—pulls you in, begs for a proper claim, fits perfect in a nest."
Quiet dragged a heartbeat long. Hellen said nothing, head bowing slight, blonde strands veiling her face, shoulders going tight just a touch.
Was she turned on? Or, maybe she was flustered? Something alpha flickered under skin?
I nudged softer, grin teasing. "I mean it—want one bad. Picture it—lazy mornings tangled, his purr rumbling chest‑deep—"
Crack. Porcelain exploded sharp, yanking my stare. Her mug lay wrecked on the table, shards driven deep into her palm, blood beading red trails down callused fingers, soaking slow into gray wool. Her eyes went wide with shock, breath catching ragged.
"Hellen!" I vaulted forward, coffee abandoned, snatching her wrist tender but sure—her pulse thrummed wild under my thumb, glass teeth wicked-glinting. "Hold on—don't move!" Napkins yanked from the side table, I pressed them firm to the cuts, stemming the flow as best I could, my own heart hammering.
What was that?