My Fake Death Was The Punchline To His Cruel Joke Chapter 09
Eighteen months later, I opened a small design studio in Denver under the name Elena Ortiz.
At first, it was just me and two part-time designers.
There were no Shaw family connections, no Newport Yacht Club contracts, no one giving me a second glance because I was “Bennett’s ex.”
I pitched clients one by one. I revised plans, draft after painstaking draft. I chased down every invoice.
The first year, we survived on small projects: a neighborhood café renovation, the interior of an independent bookstore, a remodel for a local nonprofit.
Then, a charity organization hired me to design a temporary women’s shelter.
The design had no flashy elements. But it had doors that locked from the inside, discreet emergency call buttons by the beds, and glow-in-the-dark exit routes that were visible even in a power outage.
I submitted the project for a state design award, never expecting to win. But I did.
The day the winners were announced, our inbox was flooded with interview requests and collaboration offers. Clients who had been on the fence for months called to sign contracts. Our schedule was booked solid through the following spring.
That night, I took the whole team out for steaks to celebrate.
When I got back to my apartment, Leo was waiting for me with a bottle of champagne.
He handed me his phone.