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“And we’ve got a court date. Nothing assigned yet—judge pending.”
The Cut of Her Jibhad been a gamble. A flashy, fashion-forward accessory line launched five years ago with designer handbags, minimalist silk scarves, and a fragrance that, for a hot minute, had a profile inVogue. It had buzz. It had elegance. Then the market shifted, influencers stopped promoting silk, and my so-called creative director decided she wanted to be a wellness guru.
Now, we were bleeding capital and quietly sinking, and I was praying the wreckage didn’t surface too soon.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “How long before my name starts circulating?”
“Technically, you’re insulated. But technically, it doesn’t last forever. If the media starts poking around the court docket—or if a creditor starts talking—you’ll be tied to it.”
“How likely?”
A pause.
“You’re too shiny, Damian. That kind of shine draws light. And attention. If this gets linked to you before the Vérité funding solidifies, it’s going to raise questions you don’t want to answer.”
I swore under my breath. “Does Valencia know?”
“Doubt it. But that window is shrinking.”
I didn’t respond right away. I just stared out the wall of windows overlooking the marina. Boats lined the slips, pristine and bright in the midday sun, like little floating illusions of control.
“Tell me the second a judge is assigned,” I said.
“Already flagged it.”
I ended the call and slid the phone onto the table, letting it sit there like it might cool off.
This was what it meant to juggle appearances. Keep one arm in philanthropy while the other shoved a sinking brand off a cliff and prayed no one watched it hit bottom.
I’d built a life where the worst thing that could happen wasn’t failure.
It was beingseenfailing.
And right now, the veneer was thinning faster than I could patch it.
I changed my clothes and laced up my running shoes like I was heading into battle.
A full hour had passed since the call with Morris, but the weight of it hadn’t budged. The numbers, the implications, the slow bleed from something I used to be proud of—it all pressedagainst my chest like wet cement. Too much to say out loud. Too risky to name.
So I ran.
Out the front door of the Vérité office, down toward the quiet stretch of Coconut Grove that snaked along the marina. The sidewalks here were wide, shaded by palms and jacarandas, edged with iron gates guarding homes that screamed old money. I kept my pace hard and fast. Focused.
But my thoughts didn’t fall in line.
The art show was three weeks out, and country club cocktail hours before that. The donor brunch at the Biltmore in a couple of weeks—all of it stacked like a house of cards—gowns, wine lists, auction items—whispering one thing beneath the surface:Is Sinclair slipping?
They wouldn’t ask outright, of course. The Miami elite never said the quiet part out loud. They’d do it in glances. In hesitation. In the fact that my name didn’t appear in the event program’s top tier.
I clenched my jaw and pushed harder, the slap of my sneakers against the pavement like punctuation.
Reputation was everything. Not just the illusion of wealth but the confidence in it. The ease. No one wanted to write checks to someone who looked like they needed saving. They tried to align themselves with people who had already won. Who didn’t sweat. Who always landed on their feet.
Which made this moment, with one foundation barely crawling and another brand in free fall, feel like standing on a trapdoor with my own hand on the lever.
I slowed as I reached the curve near the marina, the kind of view people came to this side of the city to photograph. Bright blue sky, white boats, calm water.
It was quiet here, and for a moment, so was I.