Page 3 of How to Play the Player
Quinn
The email from my now ex-business partner glows on my computer screen with all the warmth of a corporate termination notice:
Assets and client lists have been divided per our agreement. You’re welcome.
I stare at Bethany’s two-sentence farewell to our three-year partnership, her pristine punctuation somehow more cutting than any angry outburst. Always precise, always controlled—right up until she isn’t.
Real estate values in the Design District aren’t getting any lower,my realtor had warned when I signed the lease on my new office space last week. But after spending the past month extricating myself from Bethany’s chokehold on our shared business, I’d have paid double just to get as far away from her toxic personality as possible.
As a twenty-seven-year-old, starting over has been a scary rollercoaster ride. In my early twenties, it was never supposed tobe part of my five-year plan. The industrial space I’d saved up for and bought may have drained my savings, but it’s mine. No more walking on eggshells, no more forced smiles, and especially no more watching Bethany systematically dismantle everything we built together.
My personal laptop screen flickers, then dims—again. “Not now,” I mutter, jiggling the power cord. The battery icon flashes red despite being plugged in all night. I’ve been through three “fixes” with tech support, but like my former partnership, this machine seems determined to die a slow, painful death.
A new laptop will have to wait. Between the down payment and basic furnishings, my startup capital is stretched thin enough. My mother’s voice echoes in my head:Always keep six months of runway. Business is business, but bills don’t wait for clients.
In the early days, Bethany and I had seemed like the perfect match. But the cracks started showing not long after Nathan left my life last year. As though the professional disappointment made her true colors emerge. She began micromanaging everything, a suggestion here, a revision there, questioning my judgment after the NorthStar merger with Knight Industries became public. The real tension started brewing four months ago, but the official split was finalized just a month back, leaving me scrambling to establish my own client base. Then came the client poaching. Suddenly, accounts I’d cultivated were “better suited” to her direct management. The final straw was her new approach to crisis management: treating clients like marks to be exploited rather than partnerships to nurture—exactly the opposite of how I’d always operated during my three years of building our reputation for integrity.
“These people need us more than we need them,” she’d argued. “They’ll pay whatever we ask. Why leave money on the table?”
“Because reputation matters more than quick profits,” I’d argued. “Because trust, once broken, is almost impossible to rebuild.” I’d learned that lesson the hard way, professionally and personally.
I close my laptop with more force than necessary. Though the interior of her office was lit, Bethany’s door was closed the day I left our office building for good. Her “goodbye” was exactly how she likes it: present but inaccessible. A perfect metaphor for our entire partnership and friendship.
The windy weather hits like a wall as I step outside. Texas weather can be so unpredictable this time of year. My phone buzzes just as I reach my car. My best friend’s name, Lyla Clark, lights up the screen. I swear, every now and then the universe has perfect timing.
“Hey, girly,” I answer, already feeling lighter.
“Is it official? Are you finally free of the toxic bitch?” Lyla’s voice carries its usual mix of humor and concern.
“Damn right.” I manage a small laugh. “And I feel like celebrating.”
“Yay!” she cheers. “I know just the thing. You and me, Gloria’s Mexican Grill, lunch on me. What do you say, in fifteen minutes?
Trust Lyla to know exactly what I need. As one of Dallas’s most sought-after wedding planners, she’s my personal Wikipedia of industry gossip. Her stories range from runaway brides to mother-in-law showdowns that would put reality TV to shame. Each tale more dramatic than the last.
“You’ve got tea to spill?” I pull onto the highway, already anticipating the distraction.
“I’ll do you one better. I’ve got an opportunity for your first-ever gig as a solo PR consultant.” There’s a smile in her voice. “But getting the details will cost you a couple of margaritas.”
I laugh. “Done.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re settled into Gloria’s sleek interior. The restaurant’s signature margaritas prove once again why they’ve won “Best Mexican Grill in Dallas” three years in a row. And just the first sip alone reminds me why I love their bartender, a generous pourer who values the tequila more than the mix.
Lyla’s petite frame sits across from me in a booth, pastel lavender waves bouncing slightly past her shoulders as she talks. Those hazel eyes, always quick to catch the slightest detail, sparkle with excitement.
“And go!” I demand, reaching for a tortilla chip and dipping it in salsa. “What’s this mysterious opportunity?”
“First things first.” Lyla leans forward as her expression turns serious. “How are you really?”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Good. Not great but decent enough. The new office is…sparse. But at least I can say it’s mine.”
“And the witch?”
“Exactly as you’d expect. Cold, precise, and no doubt cursing my name to whoever will listen as we speak.” I try for humor but can’t quite hide the bitterness. “Did you know she’s already rebranded the firm? ‘Elite Crisis Management.’ As if the original name wasn’t pretentious enough.”
“Don’t worry; her decisions will catch up to her in the end.” Lyla’s tone carries absolute conviction. “You were always the better strategist anyway. Remember the Thompson wedding?”
I wince at the memory. A groomsman’s ill-timed Instagram post had nearly revealed the location of a million-dollar celebrity wedding Bethany and I’d spent months keeping under wraps. While Bethany had pushed for aggressive legal action, my softer approach—bringing the groomsman into the security strategy—had preserved both the privacy and the relationships.
