Cedar’s POV

[Don’t mess this up. This partnership is vital for the company.]

My adoptive father Jonathan Wright’s text glared at me from the screen as I smoothed down my gray pantsuit in the mirrored elevator of the hotel. The message wasn’t surprising—Jonathan had never been one for encouragement.

I watched the floors tick upward, each number bringing me closer to a meeting that could either elevate Wright Creatives or confirm what Jonathan had always implied: that I would never be good enough. The weight of being the Wright family’s adopted daughter pressed down on my shoulders, heavier than the portfolio case in my hand.

Brad Wilson, General Manager of Wilson Group’s investment division, greeted me with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The meeting started professionally enough—I presented our design concepts, he asked questions about market potential. But as the hour progressed, the atmosphere shifted.

“Your work is impressive,” Wilson said, moving closer as I gathered my materials. “But I need more… personal assurance before committing our funds.”

His hand brushed my arm deliberately. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion over dinner tonight. Somewhere private.”

The implication was unmistakable. I stepped back, maintaining eye contact.

“Mr. Wilson, our proposal stands on its business merits alone. I’d be happy to address any professional concerns, but my personal time isn’t part of this negotiation.”

His expression hardened. “You’re naive about how business works at this level, Ms. Wright.”

“If that’s your condition for partnership, then I believe our meeting is over,” I replied, closing my portfolio with steady hands despite my racing heart.

“You’ll regret this decision,” Wilson said coldly. “Your little family company needs this more than we do.”

I left with my dignity intact but my career prospects in jeopardy.

Rain had begun to fall by the time I exited the hotel, the awning offering momentary shelter before I stepped onto the slick sidewalk.

My phone vibrated: three missed calls from Jonathan. I silenced it and tucked it into my pocket. That conversation could wait until I figured out how to explain that I’d just declined the partnership he’d been pursuing for months.

Standing under the meager shelter of a store awning, I opened the Uber app and requested a ride back to my apartment in Wicker Park. The distance between the Gold Coast and my neighborhood felt symbolic of the gap between the Wright family’s aspirations and my own reality.

In the back seat of the Uber, watching raindrops race down the window, I replayed the past few months at Wright Creatives. The sustainable materials sourcing I’d secured that cut costs by fifteen percent. The Architectural Digest feature that had prominently mentioned my work—which Jonathan had quickly attributed to “the Wright family design legacy.”

“You should be grateful we took you in.”

The words of my adoptive mother, Elara, echoed from a recent meeting, when her real daughter Selena had presented my bathroom fixture designs as her own. When I’d objected, Elara had given me a cold stare across the conference table. “Family supports family, Cedar. Don’t be difficult.”

Family. The word had always felt conditional in the Wright household—a status I had to continuously earn through achievement and compliance. At twenty-six, I was still trying to prove my worth to people who had decided my value the moment they’d signed the adoption papers.

The car pulled up to my building, a walk-up in Wicker Park with creaky wooden stairs and tall windows that let in plenty of light, even if the insulation left something to be desired. The rain had intensified, drumming against the sidewalk as I paid the driver and stepped out, shielding my head with my bag as I hurried toward the entrance.

His words made my heart twist. I couldn’t bear to let him down, not when he looked at me like that.

I forced a gentle smile. “What’s your name?” I asked softly.

“O-Oliver.” He sneezed again, barely catching himself.

“Oh, dear. Oliver, let’s get you warm and dry first, all right?”

He hesitated, then looked up at me, hope flickering in his fever-bright eyes. “Can I stay… with you?”

His small hand reached for mine, fingers curling around my thumb. “Please don-don’t send me away,” he pleaded, his voice soft and broken, punctuated by another sneeze.

I saw his body sway, legs giving out beneath him. I caught him just in time as he collapsed, his small frame burning with fever against my arms. Without thinking, I scooped him up and hurried inside, my mind spinning. Who would kick a child this young out? How had he found his way to my doorstep?

Inside my apartment, I laid him gently on the sofa and rushed to get towels, blankets, and my thermometer. When I returned, his eyes were half-open, following my movements.

“Mommy,” he murmured as I wrapped him in a blanket, his small hand reaching out to grasp the edge of my jacket. “Please don’t go away again. Promise?”