I tightened my grip on the stylus, the cool metal steadying my nerves as I tapped it against the smartboard a few times. The sharp clicks bounced around Hellen's corner office, where morning light poured through floor‑to‑ceiling windows and stretched long across the polished oak conference table.
Coffee mugs, rolled factory blueprints, and half‑eaten pastries from our rushed breakfast cluttered the surface, the room smelling faintly of espresso and sugar. I was dressed in fitted black pants and a crisp emerald blouse that hugged my curves, my raven hair tied back in a loose ponytail that swung with each step. My focus stayed locked on Hellen.
"What are you trying to do, Emily?" Hellen asked, amusement in her voice. She sat back in her leather chair, legs crossed in tailored navy trousers, navy blazer open over a pale silk blouse.
"I was trying to get your attention," I said, letting a small, teasing smile slip through even as my stomach tightened.
"Is that so?"
"Hellen, you should change your hairstyle. I am really getting bored seeing you in the same style again and again."
Hellen stilled, giving me a shocked look. "You are getting bored?"
"Don't get me wrong, Hellen. You look really beautiful, but change is good sometimes."
Her blonde hair was pinned in its usual neat chignon, one strand softening the sharpness of her gaze as she looked up from the tablet where spreadsheets had been holding her attention a minute ago.
Hellen said, "Next time, I will change my hairstyle." She had a serious look.
Why was she getting so serious?
I turned towards the board, and looked at it seriously. This plan had lived on whiteboards, napkins, and in my head for weeks; now it was finally about to breathe.
She folded her arms lightly over her chest, mouth curving. "You have all of it, Emily. You have since the storeroom and the noodles. Go on—don't worry. Please, start your presentation."
My heart thudded a little harder as I clicked the remote. The first slide flashed onto the smartboard—a bright collage filled the screen—fluffy Persian cats stretched in sunbeams, golden retrievers racing through parks, tabby cats caught mid‑jump, small dogs in knit sweaters, bigger dogs in raincoats, even cows in patterned blankets, and a couple of goats in ridiculous little jackets.
Beside the photos, simple charts showed rising lines and numbers—pet apparel market growth, social media stats, dollars spent on 'fur babies.' I liked animals too much—honestly, you can't hold it against me. Whoever hates these cute animals, must be a monster.
"Animals?" Hellen repeated, one eyebrow climbing, genuine surprise breaking through her controlled, alpha calm. She set her tablet down completely. "What do animals have got to do with our business?"
"Yes. Animals," I said, lifting the stylus and gesturing at the screen. My voice steadied as I spoke. "Hellen, we need to be honest about where we are. This company hasn't been very good... at making the name and the aesthetic of high‑end fashion, but we don't have the capital right now to push a full luxury line."
"So, you plan to see animal clothes?"
"Fabric sourcing, shows, Milan, Paris—if we force that now, it'll snap back in our faces. Viktor will circle, and we'll burn cash we don't have."
I clicked to the next slide—a simple timeline of her company's finances, debts, and factory downtime, overlaid with my arrival. "At first, I was angry. I thought you'd tricked me into jumping onto a sinking ship, especially after I saw the factories," I admitted, feeling a brief flush of shame.
"Fooled you?" Hellen tilted her head slightly, eyes softening. There was no anger there, only curiosity.
"Yeah." I gave a small, rueful shrug. "Then I remembered what you said the first day. You were upfront—about the looming bankruptcy. You didn't hide it. I took it wrong, and I'm... sorry for that."
Her features eased, and she waved it off with a small motion of her hand. "It's in the past. What matters is now. Go on."
I took a breath and tapped the slide changer again. "Step one... of my plan—we pivot. While the company's name stays the same. We create a sub‑brand— 'Helly Paws'—a clothing line for animals. 'Helly' means 'Hellen' and 'Emily'—a mix of our two names."
For some reason, Hellen's face turned red.
"What happened?" I asked.
"N-nothing... m-my face... I-I have cold."
"Cold? Are you fine?"
"I-I am fine... just carry on, will you?"
The next slide burst open with mock‑ups—cats in soft knit sweaters embroidered with tiny pawprints, dogs in bandanas printed with constellations, cows draped in thick, quilted blankets built for cold mornings, horses with sleek fly‑veils marked discreetly with a Herlos crest.
Colour palettes were seasonal but simple; small notes labelled 'organic cotton,' 'recycled polyester,' 'washable.'
Hellen's jaw actually dropped a little as she leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the table.
"You really want us to dress pets?" she asked slowly. "Dogs, cats... cows?"
"We're not throwing away the core," I said quickly. I stepped closer to the board so I could point to the numbers on the side—clean graphs of market size climbing year over year. "We're setting luxury aside temporarily. Look at this—the global pet apparel market is in the billions and still growing, driven by the humanization of pets and social media."
Hellen said, "But this company's identity is—luxury."
"People won't buy our clothes, Hellen. We don't have any name in the market, and no capital too. Owners treat their animals like family now; they buy birthday cakes for them, throw parties, and yes, dress them up. It has lower production costs than a human couture line, turns over quickly, and if we do it right, it can fund everything else."
She tapped her fingers slowly against the oak. "Fine, the market exists. But how do you make sure animals actually like the clothes? They're not models; they rip off anything that bothers them."
"That's why it's not just about them," I said, feeling my confidence grow as I moved to the next slide. A couple of key points popped up in bold, with some survey stats underneath. "Most owners say they buy clothes both because they think it's cute and because they believe their pets are happier or more comfortable—warmer in winter, calmer with certain fabrics."
"You think that we can design both?"
"With our budget, we can design for both."
"How?"
I tapped through a few details on the slide with the stylus. "For the animals, we focus on comfort—no itchy tags, seams placed where they won't rub, breathable and flexible materials, easy closures that don't pull fur."
"Good, carry on."
"For cats, maybe hoodies with hidden catnip pockets or blankets that smell like chamomile to calm them. For dogs, raincoats that are actually waterproof and light, not stiff plastic. For farm animals, blankets that keep them warm but don't trap moisture or restrict their movement."
I clicked again. A photo mock‑up showed a woman and her dog, both in matching plaid coats. Another showed a child holding a cat in a tiny sweater, the same colour as the child's scarf.
"For the owners, we lean into status and aesthetics. Matching sets. Limited collections. But at the same time, we will launch 'everyday' collection too."
"What about marketing?"
"Collaborations with local shelters where a percentage of profits go back to animals—also, we will collaborate with different animal groups—this will market us. It's still connected to this company's core—clean lines, good fabrics, subtle logo placements—but at a scale we can afford right now."
Hellen's eyes stayed on the screen, but I could see her mind working behind them. She drummed her fingers once more. "Who's designing all this? It's a different world from gowns and suits."
"Me, for a start," I said, flipping to a rough org chart slide. "I'll sketch the first collections. I already have concepts for seasonal lines, festival lines, even a 'workwear' line for farm animals. But I don't plan to do it alone."
"So, we are hiring?"
I pointed down the chart as I spoke. "Yes, we hire people who know animals' bodies and behaviour—vet techs who can tell us where harnesses chafe, pet groomers, maybe even behaviourists who advise on what stresses pets."
"We pair them with seamstresses and pattern‑makers laid off from other lines who want stable work."
"Yes, Hellen. We will also bring in a couple of indie illustrators to design prints that will pop in photos. Overall, I will be the head designer—my sketches will be the one they will work on. And, if you're willing, we tap into some of the people already in your factories, retrain them for smaller runs and quicker cycles."
Her chair creaked as she stood and came to stand beside me, close enough that I could feel her presence at my shoulder. She took the stylus from my hand and traced the outline of a tiny dog sweater on the board, thoughtful.
"Pet couture to save human couture," she said quietly. "I never saw that coming."
"You don't need to pretend it's glamorous," I said with a half‑laugh. "It's practical. The pet clothing market is projected to keep growing steadily over the next few years, and it's driven by the exact kind of customers we ultimately want—people who care about image, care about quality, and are already comfortable paying a premium for 'special' things."
"If we win them here, we can carry them into the next phase when we're ready to bring back full luxury."
"I need a year to get us back on feet."
She glanced at the final slide of step one—simple revenue projections, a modest breakeven line crossing in month three, profit stacking up afterwards.
"These numbers," she asked, "you're confident in them?"
"As confident as I can be without real‑time sales data," I replied. "But the margins on small pet garments are generous if we price them right, especially with your existing factories and logistics."
"We don't have to build everything from scratch."
"And honestly? One good viral video of a cat in a Herlos hoodie and a dog in a matching raincoat could do more for us than a runway show in Paris right now."
The room went quiet for a moment. The hum of the air conditioning, the distant city noise, the faint clink of a mug settling somewhere outside the office door—all of it seemed to fade as Hellen looked from the board to me and back.
Then her mouth curved, just slightly.
"Alright, I'm listening. Step one—Helly Paws. I'll take it seriously." Her gaze met mine, steady. "Now, tell me step two."