Page 25 of Sunny Side Up

ten

When Avery and I walked into Fieldstone Capital that Monday morning, I almost turned right around.

It was giving me flashbacks to my entry-level days, but somehow worse.

Nothing makes me feel less creative and more claustrophobic than corporate-gray conference rooms. When I first started working in fashion, I’d hated the clinical spaces, the “don’t you dare leave a coffee ring” tables and the “don’t you dare make a peep” row of assistants in the back of the room.

So when it came time to design a meeting space of my own, I took those years of meetings as a manual of what not to do, creating a space as inviting as it was impeccably furnished.

It’s possible I overcorrected when designing Le Ballon Rouge’s board rooms, but I stood by my design choices.

Every square inch of wall was covered in a bright, eye-catching print.

Our main conference room was wrapped in giant red poppy flowers on an Yves Klein blue background.

A large marble round table sat in the middle of the room.

Black mesh rolling chairs that looked ergonomic, but gave you the worst backache of your life?

Pass. We had upholstered chairs in pink linen with large white stripes down the middle.

Unfortunately, our pitch to Ted Manns was on his turf. I thought some of the bigger media org conference rooms had it bad.

Wait until you enter the world of finance.

I’m talking suits. I’m talking shoes that somehow glide but also click-clack down the halls to the tune of the theme from Jaws .

I’m talking water bottles with ugly logos and bank names on their labels.

In short, it was one of those stereotypical business rooms filled with matching chairs and squeaky-clean windows but no tangible soul.

I was grateful I’d chosen an outfit that reminded me I deserved to be there, that I was already a successful business owner.

I wore pieces that made me feel like my most powerful self: my favorite black Veronica Beard blazer styled with sleeves scrunched above the elbows, center button clasped; a crisp white mandarin-collared button-down underneath, exposing my signature layered mess of gold chains, poppyseed-sized beads, and tiny charms; French cuffs worn open, starched within an inch of their lives and pulled out below the blazer sleeves; the bottom of the shirt worn open and slightly skirted over a pair of dark floral wide-leg Dries Van Noten pants I’d found in the men’s section at the boutique last year in Paris.

On my feet: chunky black Gucci loafers. Easy.

I needed to feel confident because I was nervous as hell—more nervous than I’d been in months.

This was high stakes, a passion building from a different part of my heart.

I’d gotten comfortable at Le Ballon Rouge.

I could solve my clients’ crises in my sleep.

But this was something new entirely. I wanted this more than anything I’d wanted before.

I fell into PR when what I thought was my dream career didn’t pan out.

When I realized that I actually loved it, I ran with it.

And I was so proud of what I’d built. But SONNY felt even more personal .

Like I was doing this for a younger me, the one who’d grown up feeling like everything was wrong with her, only to become an adult in the city that was supposed to rectify that but had instead confirmed it: “Yup, you are way too big . Must be at least this small to ride.” I was doing this for every woman who’d ever felt inferior in that same way.

We’d spent the entire taxi ride to Midtown prepping.

Avery quizzed me on potential roadblocks as I walked through our pitch as if I were a Shark Tank hopeful, rehearsing sentences in my mind.

Hi, Sharks. My name is Sunny, and we are looking for someone to give us buckets of cash so we can make women feel more beautiful.

The potential was right there , but we needed real and proper capital before we could take any actual next steps.

Without an investment, SONNY would be nothing more than a pipe dream.

And I desperately wanted it to become a reality. I needed this win.

As the taxi slowed to a stop, we gathered our bags and our pitch decks and stepped onto the curb, the February air cold against our cheeks.

Looking up at the towering building, I tried to keep my heartbeat even, my breaths cycling at their normal speed.

My pre-meeting jitters were kicking in, something I hadn’t felt in at least five years, since back when I was starting Le Ballon Rouge.

The tower looked like it could touch the sky, and it all made me feel especially small in comparison.

Brushing aside that thought, I stepped into the massive revolving door and felt my phone vibrate.

Could Ted be canceling at the last minute?

I glanced at my screen and saw Brooke’s name instead.

Our First Wives group chat had been buzzing all weekend about Brooke’s med student paramour, Luis, whom she was planning to see again tonight.

I hadn’t wanted to detract from Brooke’s moment to bring up my Ted meeting, but it turned out she didn’t need any reminders. My phone read,

Brooke: Good luck today, Sun, but I know you won’t need it. This is what you’re made for. “Make ’em an offer they can’t refuse,” and all that jazz. Ted will love you, trust me. Can’t wait to hear how it goes.

She quickly followed it up with the Godfather GIF of Marlon Brando saying Vito Corleone’s iconic line.

Then Noor chimed in, too.

Noor: GO SUNNY GO. YOU’VE GOT THIS. GOGO AND I ARE CHEERING FOR YOU!

Noor included a selfie with the dog she’d recently adopted, Gogo. Two bright, goofy smiles, plus Marlon Brando’s Godfather jaw. All the good luck charms I needed.

Grinning like an idiot, I felt my confidence grow. My friends were right. I could do this.

I strutted through the lobby like it was a fashion show, turning the stuffy hallway into a runway as we were led by a fleece vest–clad assistant to the meeting space.

Sure, I was still a little sweaty, and my heart was racing.

But I was prepared. As we rounded the corner, Avery gave me a quick smile, wordlessly transmitting a shared pep talk for us both. I winked back, grateful.

The heavy conference door swung open, and we were met by Ted.

“Sunny!” Ted said, his voice smooth and confident, all charm. “Welcome to Fieldstone Capital. We’re so glad you’re here.”

“Thank you for having us,” I said, extending a firm handshake.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Avery said. We were both cosplaying grown-up professionals. Ted sat down at the head of the dark oak table, and we joined catty-corner, around an overflowing silver platter of pastries and coffees for the taking.

“Please, help yourself,” he said, gesturing with an open palm toward the display. I caught a quick flash of a handsome watch. He looked like a Patek Philippe guy to me.

Avery and I were both too nervous to touch any of the generous spread.

“Brooke has the most wonderful things to say about you, Sunny,” Ted said.

“And about the vision for your company. As you know, we’re eager to invest in female-founded companies.

From what I’ve heard so far, SONNY isn’t just about swimwear; its mission is to empower women.

That’s just the kind of thing we’re looking for. ”

Ted flashed a smile when he finished speaking, his perfect white teeth contrasting with the thick wave of salt-and-pepper hair that flowed up and away from his face, as though a stylist at David Mallett had raked it back for him and then put a spell on it to stay.

The shorter hair on either side of his temples was appreciably grayer.

His defined jaw was clean-shaven, not a single nick in sight.

I bet he used one of those old-school whisk brushes that distributed thick shaving cream across his face and neck.

I bet he had a fancy barber do it for him once a week while he took calls on speakerphone.

Ted sat with a self-assured, relaxed posture.

He was impeccably dressed in a dark-gray suit that looked custom-tailored to his broad, confident shoulders.

I assumed Brooke had helped him with this suit, which meant it had to be cashmere Brunello Cucinelli.

It was subtle, barely there—but when he’d shaken my hand earlier, I’d caught the faintest hint of Oud Wood by Tom Ford, a cologne I first learned about as a fashion-closet intern, when a famous actor had required that anything he tried on for his photo shoot fitting be sprayed twice with Tom Ford’s Oud Wood before he would consider wearing it.

The dregs were left behind in the fashion closet; I could recognize the scent anywhere.

I wanted to shove my face into his neck like a yellow Labrador.

I wondered how old he was. Mid-fifties at least. Undeniably handsome.

My mind wandered to the deck of the yacht he must have access to, but I pulled myself quickly back into the room.

Get it together, you psychopath! What happened to putting that horny shit on hold to channel all your energy into work?

! This is a make-or-break business opportunity. Focus .

My mouth went dry just when I realized he was waiting for me to speak.

“All set,” Avery said quietly to me. She’d been setting up the presentation while I blacked out and nodded. But when I saw the official, elegant SONNY logo appear on the enormous monitor, my brain switched into another gear. We both knew this was our moment.