Page 33 of Rescuing Aria
“That’s quite a jump from where we are now.” I keep my voice carefully measured.
“Growth requires investment.” Miranda’s response conveys a matter-of-fact tone, as if stating a universal truth. “But the potential returns… If you capture even a small percentage of the luxury candle market, you’re looking at eight-figure annual revenue within three years.”
Eight figures. The number should generate excitement—proof that what we’ve built has real value, real potential. Instead, it feels overwhelming, like we’re being asked to trade something precious for something profitable.
“I’d need to run some detailed projections…” Miranda continues, her enthusiasm building as she speaks. “But based on what I’ve seen today, this has all the elements of a scalable luxury brand. The question is whether you’re ready to take that step.”
After she leaves—with promises to send detailed proposals and projections—the shop feels unnaturally quiet. Ember disappears into the workshop while I help Ryn close out the register, both of us processing what just happened in the weighted silence.
“She seemed nice.” Ryn offers the diplomatic assessment while counting bills.
“She did.” I count the day’s receipts automatically, my mind elsewhere. “Very professional.”
“The kind of professional that turns handmade into mass-produced?”
I glance up, surprised by the insight in Ryn’s question. She has become more perceptive as she’s grown more confident, picking up on undercurrents that would have escaped her six months ago.
“Maybe.” The admission tastes bitter. “I’m not sure.”
“Ember looked like she wanted to throw something.”
That assessment strikes me as probably accurate. By the time we finish closing, Ember still hasn’t emerged from the workshop. I find her hunched over a half-completed kintsugi piece, her movements more aggressive than usual as she applies gold leaf to a hairline crack.
“Want to talk about it?” I settle into the chair across from her workbench, watching her hands work with familiar precision.
“Not particularly.” She doesn’t look up from her work, her focus intense and deliberately narrow. “But I suppose we have to.”
“We don’t have to do anything. It was just a consultation.”
“Was it?” Now she does look up, her eyes sharp with frustration. “Because it felt like a sales pitch. Like she had already decided what we should become and was explaining the process.”
I can’t argue with that assessment. Miranda’s enthusiasm felt predetermined, as if she’d seen dozens of small businesses like ours and knew exactly how to transform them into something bigger and more profitable.
“The numbers were impressive.” The words feel weak even as I speak them.
“Were they? Two million dollars to turn our shop into a factory. Eight-figure revenue from selling mass-produced versions of something that matters because it’s personal.” Ember sets down her brush with more force than necessary, the small sound echoing in the quiet workshop. “At what point does success become failure in disguise?”
It’s a good question, one for which I don’t have a ready answer. In Dad’s world, bigger is always better, growth is always positive, and maximum profit represents the ultimate goal. But sitting in this space we’ve created together, surrounded by the careful work of our hands and the evidence of our shared vision, those assumptions feel less certain.
“What if we’re thinking about this wrong?” I lean forward in my chair. “What if it’s not about choosing between small and personal versus big and profitable? What if there’s a middle ground?”
“Such as?”
“Selective growth. Maintaining control over the quality and process while expanding carefully. Maybe wholesale to a few high-end boutiques instead of national retail chains. Maybe developing new product lines instead of simplifying existing ones.”
Ember considers this, her expression softening slightly as she sets down her tools.
“Like Ryn’s crystal work. That’s become its own thing without compromising what we originally built.”
“Exactly. Growth that feels like evolution instead of transformation.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes, the tension beginning to ease like steam escaping from a pressure valve. Through the workshop window, the main shop basks in late afternoon light, empty now but holding the memory of the day’s customers and conversations.
“There’s something else.” I lean back in my chair, knowing I need to address the elephant that’s been lurking in our discussions. “Dad’s involvement. How do you feel about him—taking point on this?”
Ember’s laughter carries no humor. It’s short and sharp in the quiet space.
“You mean how do I feel about him treating me like the talented employee while you’re the real business owner?”
