Complete, notorious failure. She’d finally done it. Her reputation, her integrity as a designer, all gone. It was over. She knew she should be fanning that little spark of panic, she should be losing her shit, planning and scheming how to fix it. She should be listening to her mother. But she wasn’t. She was . . . relieved. That’s what this was, this big, open space in her chest. Astrid Parker had fucked up her professional life good and proper, and she was goddamn thrilled. She was happy.
