Page 62 of Second Quarter Comeback
Camille:Good luck with the game, Kill.
Killion:Thank you. I hope you are open to talk once I’m back.
Camille:I hope so too.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Camille
When the Game Shifts
It’s been that kind of week—the kind where Monday feels like it was three years ago, and I’m half-convinced I’ve aged a decade. The door creaks open, and for a moment, I think I’ve hallucinated a supermodel. She’s tall, with dark, sleek hair that lookslike it came straight out of a shampoo commercial. Her gray eyes flicker over me like she’s assessing my life choices. Her tailored blazer over a silk blouse, radiate that intimidating mix of elegance and efficiency.
“Camille Ashby?” she asks, her voice smooth, professional, but with just enough warmth to make her seem human.
“That’s me,” I manage to say, confused by who this woman is.
“I’m Ella Crawford, it’s nice to meet you,” she says, extending her hand. “Most people know me as Scottie. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
I shake her hand while my brain is trying to figure this out. Scottie? Instead of asking what she’s doing here, I step aside. “Sure, come on in. It’s nice to meet you.”
Her heels click softly on the hardwood as she glides into the living room, the kind of confident walk that makes you stand a little straighter just by proximity. Ben, my perpetually unimpressed cat, barely glances up from his spot on the couch. He flicks his tail once, clearly deciding she’s not worth his energy, and goes back to doing nothing.
“Your cat’s a tough critic,” Scottie observes, her lips quirking into a small, knowing smile. “I like him.”
“He judges everyone equally,” I reply, gesturing to the seating area. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?”
“Water’s fine,” she says, setting her sleek leatherbag on the armchair like it belongs there before sitting gracefully on the couch.
I disappear into the kitchen and return with a bottle of water, catching a glimpse of her flipping through a pristine leather folder. Papers—probably alphabetized and laminated because of course they are—peek out as she scans them like she already knows how this conversation is going to end.
“Thanks,” she says, taking the bottle with a polite smile. “I appreciate you making time for me. I’ve looked into your company, and I have to say, I’m impressed. The Happy HooHa Coach is growing. You know your demographic, and you know what they need.”
I sit across from her, crossing one leg over the other, trying to appear composed when inside I’m silently cheering. Go me. “Thank you. It started as a way to fill a healthcare gap, but it’s grown into something I’m really proud of.”
Scottie nods, her expression thoughtful. “It’s clear you’re passionate about this, and that’s why I’m here. I think we have a real opportunity to collaborate. Women’s health is underserved, and products created by women, for women? That’s powerful.”
Her words are good—almost too good. I study her, trying to gauge whether she’s for real or just another suit in heels looking to make money. “And what does collaboration look like to you?”
She leans forward, resting her elbows on her kneeslike we’re co-conspirators. “A partnership. You’ve built a strong foundation, and your brand has a loyal following. Your products are innovative. I’d like to help you expand—distribution, marketing, scaling production. But more than that, I want to ensure women have access to something they can trust. I understand you already have an investor, but I’m here to offer more than money.”
Her words hit me like a lightning bolt. For months, I’ve been stuck in a hamster wheel of pitches, nodding along as investors pretend to care about the importance of vaginal health while visibly squirming in their seats. My current investor only agreed because his wife thought it was a cute idea, but now she wants to play CEO. She wants control. She wants her face on the brand.
But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to grow a vision, not hand it over to someone else’s vanity project. And yet, they’re holding all the cards. No signature, no funding—and maybe no hospital, either, considering the strings they’re threatening to pull to have me pushed out.
If I can get to the director first, I might have a shot at staying. But timing is everything. Go too soon, and I risk overplaying my hand. Wait too long, and I’ll be out of options entirely.
It’s a tightrope walk, and honestly? It fucking sucks.
“I like the idea,” I say carefully. “But I’m not just interested in expanding what we already have. I want todo more—supplements, probiotics, holistic health products. There’s so much untapped potential. If I bring on an investor, I need to know they’re here to build, not take over.”
Scottie leans back, studying me with a confidence I both respect and envy. “You’re the brand. Why would anyone want to change that?” she says, her tone almost incredulous. “And I like what you’re planning. Women’s health isn’t one-size-fits-all. Tailored solutions, prevention, wellness—it’s all overdue.”
The excitement builds in my chest, a feeling I haven’t had in weeks. “It’s not just about products, either. It’s about education. Teaching women about their bodies, giving them the tools to advocate for themselves. It’s bigger than just business.”
Her lips curve into a smile, genuine and warm. “Exactly. Honest, effective products. No gimmicks, no pandering. Just something real.”
I take a breath, the kind that feels like it’s pulling in fresh air after being stuck in a stuffy room for hours. “I’m not going to lie, Scottie. I’ve been drowning in investor meetings lately, and most of them only see dollar signs. They don’t care about the people we’re trying to help. It’s exhausting.”
