Page 42 of Executive Decision

I fought tears. I stood, wanting to run. Dahlia stopped me, wrapping her arms around me for comfort. I sobbed into her shoulder, unable to hide my shame and hurt. Davey’s words wounded me in a way I never saw coming.

“Daphne, stop blubbering and sit down,” Mum sighed, annoyed.

“Maybe don’t, Mum?” Lanie said curtly.

“Well, if she wants to be treated like a child?—”

“I’m not a fucking child!” I growled, tone sharp enough to cut glass. “I amnota fucking child!”

“Davey’s unfortunate remarks?—”

“Mirror yours, I suspect,” I sobbed. “And they are cruel. What more could I do? What more could I say? I married a man you never let me run from. I did exactly what I was supposed to do—I was a child prodigy! I put myself together well, I married a man destined for greatness, and I trieddesperatelyto make a life with him until he fucked someone else. Was I supposed to wait around praying someday I’d get my own happy ending, or… what? Continue to be the focus of all of your abuse?”

No one responded. Davey looked down, realizing that his outburst was wrong.

“Are we done here? Do I have to sign something?” I demanded.

Patrick blinked several times before nodding and pushed a piece of paper towards me.

I found my name and signed—my signature with my maiden name—then grabbed my handbag and disappeared through the back staircase. I wound down several floors before descending into the concierge third-floor crowd. Here, personal shoppers assisted Chicago’s wealthiest patrons. I bobbed and wove through droves of people in a cramped, long outgrown area since we began this service twenty years ago. Seas parted. I was one of the Chosen Few. Everyone knew to spot a Delphine. And given that I now owned about a quarter of the company alone, they should fear me more.

Passing through well-heeled groups of young women, I approached a staircase that would deposit me into where I longed to be. Heels clanging on metal stairs, I descended five more flights into what became the concourse below. I popped out a door next to a ticket machine in the station below, took a left, and ended up on Michigan Avenue in an unremarkable stretch of the block. To my right, a drugstore sold tourist merch. I walked past it, looking at a view of the Delphine storefront’s clocktower—complete with the dolphin motif that could be found everywhere in the shop.

I looked at the postcards in the drugstore window. One read, “Greetings from Chi-town!” Though the greeting was cringe—no one calls it that—it made me oddly nostalgic for the “old” version of the city where I’d grown up. Everything had changed. I walked in the spring air, breathing in the ease of the place. The Mag Mile was still quiet at this late afternoon hour. There was nothing all that remarkable about the crowd. I remained anonymous—just a woman in what should be the prime of her life wearing a Chanel suit. I blended right in with the women leaving Bergman-Meyer, our biggest competitor.

I ducked inside with an idea. I browsed racks on the second floor for a moment. Thinking through what they did well versus what we did poorly, I realized the store was bustling in the retail areas, but the clothing options were sparse. I watched a girl looking at cocktail dresses. She grimaced

“Are there any size twelves in the black?” She asked.

I looked through the rack before me. “Nope. A size ten and an eight.”

“Of course,” she said. “I think it’s a conspiracy. They claim to carry up to a fourteen here but only ever have a size ten and below. They don’t want people like us here.”

I looked her up and down. She was fabulous—tall, statuesque, curvy. Her face was perfectly contoured, and her choice of shoes was amazing. I knew she was right, though. Finding clothes over a size six was a dicey affair for a woman who wanted to look chic. This was ironic, given that the average woman was well over a size six.

“Are there any stores that do carry those sizes faithfully?” I asked.

She thought a moment. “Delphine’s does.”

“Oh,” I tried not to act surprised.

“Yeah. But I never go in there. I probably should. But it’s like a maze, you know? I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“They offer personal shoppers,” I said. “I’ve used the service before.”

“Good luck getting a friggin’ appointment,” she snickered. “Look, they have a better selection—they even have a plus-sized section! However, it’s a labyrinthine task.”

So, the shopping experience sucked?

“I just feel it’s a bit old,” the girl shrugged. “Well, screw it. I’ll order it on Net-a-Porter.”

She turned and left, but the wheels turned in my brain with this use case. She’d just showed me what the market lacked. And in doing so, presented a clear case if this was our target shopper. The issue was convincing Davey that our target demographicwasthis shopper. I knew more than anyone. I was a woman. However, he denied we wanted to align ourselves with “trendy” young women.

16THE GALA

Cal

“I do notlike that blue on you,” Mom grimaced.

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