Villainess Marked For Her Alpha Chapter 48: My First Conference

For so reason, Hellen had bolted from the office mid-conversation, her navy blazer vanishing through the door with a clipped excuse about ’urgent work’ that rang hollow—she’d never left alone in our shared space before.

Not once since I joined the company as the co-owner blueprints. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving sunlight to slant lonely across the prototypes, my floral maxi whispering as I took a deep breath, heart thudding uncertain.

Twirling in the plush leather chair, skirt flaring pastel blooms, I spun slow circles on the hardwood—hah, what now? —before her absence clicked—the new recruits eting. She’d dumped it on . Alone.

"When she cos back, I will give her a piece of my mind!"

"I can do this, can’t I?" I muttered to the empty room, pulse quickening alpha-sharp as I jumped from the chair, bare feet—now covered with heels—slapping cool oak, maxi slits fluttering at my calves while I bolted down the hall.

The conference room doors lood glass-panelled at the corridor’s end, murmurs humming behind like a hive. I shoved them open dramatic, floral dress billowing, and fifty heads snapped up—textile engineers in rumpled polos, civil engineers clutching hardhats, fashion designers holding their sketches, chanical whizzes with grease-stained fingers, vets, vet techs, even random creatives—baristas, waiters, students—clutching sketchpads thick with ’own ideas.’

They stood bolt-upright, chairs scraping, eyes wide on the petite alpha in chiffon storming their ranks.

I strode to the podium smooth, heels clicking but confidence surging, floral maxi pooling elegant as I gripped the mic stand, scanning their faces—hopeful, hungry, unemployed edges sharpening their stares.

"Please sit down," I said into the mic, voice amplified crisp, waving manicured fingers through raven waves to tuck a strand behind my ear, erald eyes sweeping command. This feels a bit natural, isn’t it?

Chairs shuffled obedient, murmurs dying. Behind lood the smartboard, prototypes glowing larger-than-life—cat hoodies with catnip pockets, dog bandanas starry-printed, cow blankets quilt-thick. Stylus in hand, I flicked to the next slide—resus stacked like evidence.

"We have a lot to discuss, but first—I welco every one of you." I paused, letting it land, hips cocked subtle against the podium. "I’m Emily Leonhart, co-owner of Herlos and the originator of Helly Paws. Not bragging—it’s my baby, straight from desperation to viral. Your other boss, Hellen Jacksen, had urgent work, so you’re stuck with today."

Nods rippled, intrigue lighting faces. Stylus clicked—new slide—market stats spiking, unemploynt graphs plunging into our org chart. "Most of you were unemployed, weren’t you?"

Collective nods, murmurs affirmative—eyes grateful but wary.

"Well then, be grateful for this shot. You can’t bail halfway—commit, or the door’s that way." My tone brooked no argunt, inner fire flaring brief as I paced the podium. Stylus tapped chanical sketches next—gears for adjustable harnesses, prototypes gleaming steel-and-fabric.

"These? Prepared by Hellen, your other boss. She’s a software wizard too—coded half our production pipeline." I traced a diagram, admitting honest, "Can’t break it down technical, but she’s grilled every engineer here already, right?"

Nods firr, respect murmuring. Good. Click—textile swatches blood vivid—organic cottons breathable, recycled poly stretchy, bamboo blends antimicrobial. "Textile engineers, vets—your spotlight. Simple job—source materials that flex, breathe, wash clean. Organic where possible, stretchable for wriggly pups, no irritants. Vets, vet techs—certify zero infection risk—no rashes, chafes, allergies. Test on everything, okay?"

Hands shot up like eager saplings across the conference room, ideas bubbling feverish in the sunlit hush—I pointed the stylus like a conductor’s baton at a young vet tech first, her scrubs crisp under a ponytail of chestnut curls, stethoscope dangling like a talisman at her hip.

"Ask away," I said, voice steady through the mic, floral maxi whispering as I shifted weight, heels flexing subtle against the podium’s cool base.

She stood hesitant, clipboard clutched tight. "Who will design the actual things? The clothes, the fits?"

I smiled sharp, erald eyes sweeping the room. "That will be —head designer, start to finish. We’ve got fashion pros on payroll too, sharp with patterns and seams. But the creative wildcards—you students, baristas, waiters with your outside-the-box sketches—will feed ideas, prototypes, tweaks. Overall? My vision stamps most of it. Paws first, polish later."

Nods rippled approval, pencils scratching frantic. Another hand flew up—a girl in her mid-twenties, textile engineer vibe strong with safety glasses perched on freckled nose, clipboard dense with fabric swatches pinned like dals.

"Ask," I prompted, stylus tapping the smartboard where material charts glowed—stretch percentages climbing beside allergy-test icons.

"What’s our target? Pure profit, or quality focus?" Her voice cut direct, eyes challenging but bright.

I leaned into the mic. "Both. Profit funds our coback—dreams don’t pay themselves. But quality hooks the virality—clothes animals love wearing, not ripping off. Owners spend big on ’fur babies’ who look cute and comfy. We have to create both everyday clothes and luxury items for them. Cut corners? We flop. Nail both? We own the market."

"Why both?" the freckled textile engineer pressed, pushing up her safety glasses, voice threading sceptical, her clipboard swatches rustling as she leaned forward in her chair.

I flicked the stylus sharp against the smartboard, blooming a split chart—everyday bandanas at $15 skyrocketing to luxury quilted coats at $150, sales projections spiking dual peaks. Floral maxi swayed as I paced the podium, bare toes silent on cool tile, raven waves catching sunlight like ink.

"Both everyday and luxury products for animals are necessary," I shot back firm, eyes locking hers. "Everyday keeps cash flowing—affordable sweaters, raincoats, collars for the daily dog walker. Quick turnover, high volu, funds the factories humming. But rember that the everyday products must have so design in them as well."

Murmurs swelled intrigued; a chanical engineer in grease-flecked sleeves raised his hand next, burly fra hunched eager. "But luxury—ain’t that risky upfront?"

"Risky is for the people who are starving," I countered, clicking to mock-ups—a Persian cat draped in cashre-trimd velvet, golden retriever in peacock-style hoodie. "Luxury hooks influencers, holidays, ’treat-yourself’ owners dropping huge amount of money on Instagram flexes. Quality everyday builds loyalty; luxury builds legends. Vets—your infection-free certs make luxury trustworthy. Textile folks—stretch organic for play, silk blends for show. We tier it—budget pups to pampered princes or princesses."

The vet tech piped up again, ponytail bobbing. "What if animals reject fancy stuff?"

"Test it," I grinned, shaking my head. "Catnip pockets in luxury hoodies, chamomile weaves for calm. chanical—adjustable fits no chafe. Both lines cross-pollinate—everyday fabrics upgrade luxury prototypes. Profit, owners and paws happy—or we pivot fast."