She *had* been at that café with a man, but he was her first real interior design client. It was a business meeting to discuss blueprints and budgets. There was no romance, just coffee and contracts. She had never said she was marrying for money. Yes, stability mattered, but she left because of the betrayal and the public “test,” not the lack of a limo.
A dark depression swallowed her whole. She spent days staring at the wall, refusing to eat or talk. Defending herself seemed pointless; the town was small, and the rumors had already spread. Her friends, initially curious, stopped calling when she became too depressing to be around.
Her father took the scandal the hardest. The public humiliation hit him deeply, and the stress took a toll on his health. One afternoon, he collapsed. The ambulance rushed him to the hospital with a severe stroke. He survived, but his recovery was slow, and he required expensive therapy.
The family’s savings were drained by medical bills. The business was struggling, and her mother was exhausted trying to manage the shop and the hospital visits. Megan, wallowing in her own misery, hadn’t lifted a finger to help. Until one night, her mother, usually soft-spoken, snapped.
“Megan, it’s time to wake up,” she said, her voice shaking with fatigue. “I am drowning here. I’m trying to save your father and the business, and you’re sitting here feeling sorry for yourself. I need you to step up.”
It was a harsh wake-up call, but Megan knew she was right. She had been acting like a spoiled child. For the first time in her life, she walked into her parents’ store not to shop, but to work. It was humbling.
Sales initially felt beneath her. She was a designer, not a clerk! But the medical bills were piling up. It was sink or swim. Slowly, however, she realized that styling customers wasn’t so different from design. It was about composition, color, and making people feel confident.
Thanks to Debbie’s enthusiasm, Megan started to actually enjoy the work. The shop was a community hub, and the regular customers were supportive. Then, one Tuesday, a new face appeared. An elegant, older woman with perfect posture walked in.
Debbie immediately engaged her. It turned out the woman needed an outfit for her grandson’s wedding. Megan felt a pang of sadness. The woman continued, “David is my only grandson. I have to look my best, especially since my daughter-in-law, Eleanor, will be judging everything I wear.”
David… Eleanor… It was a common enough combination of names, but Megan’s heart skipped a beat. The tone the woman used when saying “Eleanor” was all too familiar.
“Excuse me,” Megan said, her voice tight. “You wouldn’t happen to be talking about the Miller family, would you?”
The woman turned, looking Megan over with sharp, intelligent eyes. “I am. David and Eleanor Miller. Do you know them?”
Megan felt the room spin. She dropped the blouse she was holding and bolted out the front door, gasping for air on the sidewalk.
A moment later, the woman followed her out. She didn’t look angry, just curious.
“Young lady, stop. I can see there’s a story here. We seem to have a connection, so why don’t you tell me what happened?”
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