CHAPTER 38 – THE BOUTIQUE OF DREAMS
Rina's
The key turned easily in the lock. I'd done this so many mornings now that it had become muscle memory, but today, as the glass door swung open and I stepped inside, I still felt that rush that quiet, disbelieving pride.
My boutique was warm, serene, and mine.
I took a deep breath, letting the air wrap around me like silk. The scent that filled the space was unmistakable a blend I had made just for this shop, just for me. It smelled of sandalwood, bergamot, and the faintest hint of iris. It smelled like safety.
But as I set my purse down on the counter and glanced around the boutique, a memory tugged at me. A memory of how all this started.
I could still picture that first meeting with the investors.
It had been a while ago, after I had spent months selling my perfume oils in small pop-up stalls and online. I had been terrified palms sweaty, heart racing as I sat across from three sharply dressed strangers who held the power to either change my life or crush me.
I'd brought samples with me four tiny vials of my best work.
"This," I'd said, sliding the first one toward them, "is called Dawn Whisper. It's meant to capture the feeling of standing outside just before sunrise, when the air is still cool, and the world hasn't woken yet."
They'd tested it silently, the room smelling faintly of bergamot and white tea by the time they were done.
When I walked out of that building that day, I had no idea what they would say.
But two weeks later, they called back.
"We believe you have something unique, Ms. Hale," they told me. "We'd like to invest but we want a physical location. Something people can walk into. Something that can build a name for you."
I hadn't even dared to dream that far ahead yet.
Finding the boutique space had been another battle.
I'd toured places that were too small, too dark, too expensive, too tucked away. Arden City was brutal like that it could swallow a dreamer whole if you weren't careful.
And then one rainy afternoon, I'd stepped into this very building for the first time.
It had been empty then just four white walls, dusty windows, and a floor that creaked under my feet.
But I'd stood in the center of the room and closed my eyes, and for a moment, I could already smell what it could become.
"I'll take it," I had whispered to the realtor, before I had even figured out where the money would come from.
The weeks that followed were a blur of chaos.
I'd chosen the soft wooden shelves myself, arguing with the carpenter about their exact shade until it matched the warmth I saw in my head. I'd painted the walls with Liora on a Saturday, both of us laughing when we accidentally left streaks on our hair and clothes.
I'd stayed up late designing the boutique's logo, sketching it over and over until it felt right.
And then came opening day.
I'd been so nervous that morning I could barely eat breakfast. My palms were damp as I unlocked the door and flipped the sign to Open.
The first hour was quiet so quiet I thought maybe no one would come.
And then, slowly, they did.
A young woman with her boyfriend, choosing a scent they could share. A businessman who said he wanted something that "smelled like power." A mother who wanted a candle that reminded her of her childhood home.
By closing time, half the shelves were empty.
I had locked up that night and cried. Not because I was sad, but because I had done it. Because I had survived.
Now, just few months of coming to Arden city, my boutique was thriving.
I moved through the store, turning on lights, checking each display, straightening bottles until they faced forward just so. The morning light spilled through the windows, catching on the amber liquids and making them glow like honey.
The center table held my newest line soft pink candles, pale as rose quartz, that had sold out twice since I launched them last month. Customers said they made their bedrooms smell like love stories.
I smiled to myself, then went into the small workroom at the back. Three beakers sat on the table, each holding a potential variation of my next big fragrance. I picked up a mouillette strip, dipped it into the first beaker, and waved it gently through the air.
The scent was too sharp.
I scribbled a note in my journal and moved on to the second beaker. This one was closer softer, with a whisper of neroli and a warm vanilla base. I smiled faintly. This one might be the winner.
Around midmorning, my phone buzzed.
"Ms. Hale," said the familiar voice of one of the investors. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Not at all," I said, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I labeled a few vials.
"This is just a quick follow-up. The investors are thrilled with your last launch. We'd like to officially move forward with the summer line something that can debut at the Arden City Art Gala."
A thrill shot through me. The Art Gala was one of the city's most prestigious events the kind of thing I'd once only read about.
Not like the one u attended before.
"I'll have samples ready in two weeks," I promised.
"Excellent. And Ms. Hale?" His voice softened. "You're becoming quite the name here. People are starting to take notice."
When the call ended, I set the phone down and just stood there for a moment, smiling like a fool.
The first customers of the day arrived soon after.
"Good morning," I greeted, slipping back into my professional warmth.
A young couple wanted to pick out a scent to mark their anniversary. I guided them through my collections, letting them test different strips until they both smiled at the same one.
An older man came in next, his steps slow but certain. He bought the same perfume last time" Velvet Rain" .
"It reminds me of my late wife," he told me every time.
I always wrapped it carefully for him, as if the bottle itself carried something sacred.
By the time the boutique closed for lunch, my heart felt full.
Later that evening, I changed into a cream silk blouse and wide-leg trousers for a private networking event at a local gallery.
The gallery smelled faintly of oil paint and wine. Conversations hummed around me like soft music.
"Ms. Hale!" one of the organizers greeted warmly. "We loved your display at the launch. Your work is really making waves."
I smiled, passing out my business cards as more people gathered, asking about my inspirations, my process.
"I think of perfumes like stories," I told them. "Each note is a word, each layer a chapter. The top note introduces you, the heart note makes you feel, and the base note stays like memory."
By the time I left, most of my cards were gone, and my cheeks ached from smiling.
When I got home, the girls were waiting.
"Mama!"
Their arms wrapped around my legs, grounding me.
Dinner was pasta, eaten with laughter and silly faces. Bath time was chaos, as always, water everywhere by the time we were done.
After they were asleep, I sat by the window, journal open in my lap, jotting down ideas for the summer line.
Outside, Arden City glowed with nightlife. I stared at the lights and thought about how far I'd come.
Five years ago, I'd been broken. Lost.
Now I was building something real not just a business, but a life.
And for the first time in years, I wasn't just surviving.
I was living.