Page 47 of Six Month Wife

“Actually, you do. But I’ll give you time to accept that.”

He walks out without another word.

The door swings shut behind him. I stand there, jaw tight, fists clenched, heart pounding like I lost a fight I didn’t realize I was in until it was already over.

13

Adair

I pullinto the parking lot of Andimo’s Italian Restaurant and cut the engine. I stare at the building like it’s a portal to another world—a very staid, traditional world.

The brick exterior is pristine, with ivy curling up one side like it was placed there by a designer, not by nature. The awning over the entrance is a deep, forest green, embroidered with the restaurant’s name in elegant gold script.

Even the asphalt feels expensive, lined with sleek black sedans and cars I can’t afford to breathe near, let alone own.

I smooth the front of my blazer, trying to fake the confidence of someone whose earrings didn’t come in a bubble mailer.

This place screams “old money,” the kind that’s never checked a bank balance or used a coupon.

Meanwhile, I look like one of those influencers who show you how to fake luxury on a Target budget. Great on camera. Not so convincing in real life.

My heels click against the cement as I make my way tothe entrance. The clickety-clack is too loud in the otherwise uncharacteristically quiet evening. Like my shoes didn’t get the memo that I’m trying to blend in.

Inside, the air is cool and smells like freshly baked bread. The decor is understated but immaculate—dark wood paneling, crisp white tablecloths, and the faintest hint of jazz playing in the background.

The hostess, a woman who looks like she moonlights as a Chanel model, gives me a once-over before plastering on a professional smile. “Ms. Carpenter?”

“That’s me,” I say, standing a little straighter and pretending I'm not the kid who wandered into the grown-ups’ table by mistake.

“This way, please.”

She leads me through the dining room, and I catch snippets of quiet conversations in low, cultured tones. Even the clinking of silverware feels subdued, as though no one here dares to make too much noise.

My mouth is dry, but I swallow hard and remind myself why I’m here. This isn’t a business meeting. It’s a lifeline. If I can convince Evelyn Thatcher to invest in my product line, it could save everything I’ve worked so hard to build.

At a corner table by the window sits Evelyn herself.

She’s wearing a crisp white blouse and a beige cardigan that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Her hair is silver, styled in a chic bob, and her expression is unreadable as she looks up from her phone.

Beside her sits the woman I’ve been in touch with. Laura, her assistant, is prim and quiet. Her hands are folded neatly on the table. Laura looks exactly like someone who would thrive in a place like this—polished, efficient, and utterly unimpressed by anything or anyone.

“Ms. Thatcher,” I say, extending a hand as I approach. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Evelyn stands, offering a firm handshake. “Adair Carpenter. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

I blink, unsure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but before I can respond, she gestures to the chair across from her. “Please, have a seat.”

I sit, setting my leather tote on the floor beside me, and resist the urge to fidget. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

“Of course,” Evelyn says, her tone warm but measured. “I’m always interested in hearing from women with big ideas. Laura here speaks highly of your energy and ambition.”

Laura nods slightly, her gaze sharp and assessing. I offer her a small smile before turning my attention back to Evelyn.

“That means a lot. I’ve worked hard to build my concept and develop a product line that I truly believe in. I think it has the potential to fill a gap in the market. I need more capital to package and market it properly.”

Evelyn leans back in her chair, every inch the businesswoman. “Well, let’s hear it. Tell me about these products of yours.”

This is my moment. I reach into my tote and pull out a sleek, black pouch, unzipping it to reveal the neatly arranged jars and bottles of my product line. As I set them on the table, one by one, I launch into my pitch.