“So, in other words,” Daphne Richards, La Boutique’s Brand Content Manager, begins as she taps the tip of her ink pen on the surface of a file folder on her desk, “you ultimately plan to revolutionize the way high-fashion clothing brands expand their reach.”

I blink a few times, trying to analyze the meaning of her raised brows. We’ve been on this Skype call for the last twenty minutes.

I’m a mess inside.

Is she impressed? Appalled? Intrigued? She’d be really good at a game of poker, I bet. I’ve always wanted to master a look that shields what I’m thinking, but when I’m uninterested, annoyed, excited, people say the look in my eyes gives it away.

“Absolutely,” I respond, heart nearly beating out of my chest, “as long as I can count on La Boutique’s expertise to launch Haute Couture Magazine into the publication galaxy.

An overextended pause I despise so much radiates from the computer screen and floats into the atmosphere like toxic gas.

I honestly thought my idea was brilliant.

Brainy. Golden. A six-carat diamond in the rough.

“So, allow me to summarize your plan, just to be sure I’m clear on its overall execution,” she says, her British-accented words spilling out of her mouth with elegant force.

“Okay,” I mutter, feeling more nervous than I was when I first approached Walmart about my brand over ten years ago. At that time, my plan was to call my line of clothing Hot Mess Couture.

Yeah, I know. That wasn’t my best idea. However, I still took time to get that name trademarked…just in case I find a home for it someday. Walmart turned me down, by the way.

Their loss. Obviously.

“You wish to launch a free online magazine, named after your designer clothing line, in which readers flip through glossy pages of gorgeous men and women, outfitted in only Haute Couture threads.” She pauses as she shifts in her seat, sitting much taller now and clears her throat before going on. “Then, should a reader fall in love with a particular outfit, all they need to do is click or tap the screen and, voilà, they are instantly taken to the Haute Couture online store where they can purchase the clothing and ship to their home?”

My head bobs up and down. “Yes.” I fiddle with my hands underneath my desk. I just pray she doesn’t notice the beads of sweat I feel forming on my forehead. “And a special print edition will be circulated, at a price point of $6.99, three times a year. January. June. September, ” I add.

Daphne’s lips form a lopsided smile as she bites the tip of her pen. “And besides Haute Couture, who are your paid advertisers?”

This question was bound to pop up eventually. Without paid advertisers, how can La Boutique expect to make any profit off a free publication?

After taking a deep breath I explain, “Well, I was thinking it may be cool to have one guest designer each month take over a few pages of the magazine. They’ll need to have an exclusive photo shoot, of course, and some retailer to link the featured outfit or outfits to, thereby making La Boutique an affiliate. And since the guest designers will need to purchase their feature months in advance, there will be a constant stream of revenue.”

The palms of my hands dampen and my mouth goes slightly dry. Daphne’s wondering, crinkled eyes and pursed lips intimidate me.

What is she thinking?

Crap. Just stick with designing clothes, Lauren. Don’t bother with any of the out-of-the-box—

“Who do you have lined up as your first guest designer? Your first paid advertiser?” she asks, her voice kicking my impending panic attack to the curb.

But as soon as my brain absorbs the question, panic resurfaces, clawing at my throat.

I don’t have a designer lined up. But I can’t tell her that. Can I?

Think, Lauren. Think.

“Truthfully”—I tuck my hair behind my ears—“I haven’t got one confirmed; yet I know as soon as designers get word of this magazine, they’ll line up, competing to get their spot. “Especially”—I lift my index finger—“since the first issue will be centered around my annual Haute Couture fashion show.”

Daphne’s eyes brighten, clearly displaying an interest. No more poker face. “You mean the show you put on each year in front of the Eiffel Tower?”

“Yes. You’ve heard of it?” My heart smiles. Blood, sweat, and tears go into my annual fashion show event. Okay, not real blood. Sweat and tears? Damn real.

“Indeed, I have. I was lucky enough to attend your first one three years ago.” She smiles. “Look, Lauren, I love this idea. Really I do. And I’m prepared to draw up a contract”—she gives me another dose of those risen poker face eyebrows—“however, I’ll require the name of your first advertiser before we can move forward. It will give us an idea of what kind of revenue we can expect from your magazine.”

A curt nod escapes me while my heart plunges into my gut. An almost yes. Not at all what I was hoping for.

“Okay, Daphne, can you tell me how long I have before this interim offer goes away?”

My insides twist into Girl Scout knots and I’m pretty sure I might need to barf.

“Two weeks. Then I’m afraid our interest will ultimately disappear.”