Once I returned to DC, after sanitizing my body and clearing out the hard-core sex images that had been burned into my brain, I continued the construction on U Street in full force. I made picture frames, racks, shelves, and other decorations from scratch. I found random pieces of material on the street and built “art pieces” out of them. Maman had taught me much more than I realized.
In the midst of all the preparations, it occurred to me that I was nearly a solo act. In the time it took Moe to make the shelves in the men’s area, I built the fitting rooms, set up the bar and the office, painted the walls, obtained all the necessary permits, decorated the entire store, took care of all the orders, and recruited my friends to help out. I even constructed an entire wall in the women’s fitting room with cutout photos from newspapers and fashion magazines. It took me four days just to cut out all the articles and modish images I wanted to use. I felt like the work wasn’t being distributed evenly, but our line of communication had been completely disconnected by this point. I was afraid to say anything that might make the situation even more awkward.
Almost a year after I first stepped foot into the Haunted Town House on U Street, we were finally ready for our grand opening. Moe, of course, didn’t think a grand event was necessary, especially after he heard what I had in mind. I wanted the opening to be so big and lavish that the entire city would hear about it. We weren’t going to have much foot traffic because of the location, and it was my mission to make our name known.
My friends Mark and Antony had created the High Rollers Club, an exclusive luxury sports car club that brought liveliness and lavishness to hot events around DC. I saw their concept in action at a Gucci store, and my eyes lit up like fireworks. They had been on my radar ever since. The High Rollers Club was just what we needed to take the event to the next level. An appearance from them would link our brand with a high-end lifestyle and generate more buzz at our opening.
Once they were on board, it was much easier landing an alcohol sponsor, given the stampede of models and sports cars that would be at our boutique. Our guest list was comprised of five hundred movers and shakers who I had personally invited by phone, text, and email. I also asked some of my club promoter friends to help me blast the event. After racking up an A-list crowd and an alcohol sponsor, I snagged Washington Life magazine’s attention, and an editor agreed to cover the grand opening.
Happily, pounds had shed off my body like wool from a sheep thanks to my recent construction-worker gig, which meant that I could fit into my fabulous, couture dress. Ten of my girlfriends slipped into glossy black dresses and worked in the boutique that day. I also asked some of my friends to model our merchandise and walk around the event as succulent eye candy. Maman catered the party. Of course, she made the most delicious, visually appealing food. She hadn’t lost her touch from her party days in Tehran. She even spelled out the name of the boutique in her salad olivieh.
The sports cars arrived one by one. Around fifty antique and brand-spanking-new Ferraris and Lamborghinis filled the parking lot adjacent to the boutique. The street art and the broken fences didn’t even look so bad anymore—they blended in as part of the decor. The beautiful models strutted up and down the boutique to music spun by two popular DJs. The store was out of control. Moe sat in the men’s section and chatted with his girlfriend throughout the entire event. When I asked him to mingle and network with the crowd, he laughed at me and said, “These are all your friends. I don’t know anyone.”
Up until the very last second before the grand opening, I had been busy doing paint touch-ups, hanging and tagging clothing, and perfecting every tiny detail. But now, I finally stood in a corner with a glass of champagne in my hand and took a deep breath. Looking around, I wanted to cheers myself for how exquisitely the boutique and the opening had turned out. I could finally take a moment to appreciate the long, eventful journey of creating my second baby. I felt accomplished as friends and family congratulated me on my success. And at least for tonight, I would try to ignore the trouble in my relationship with Moe and the obstacles I would need to overcome to keep the store afloat.
The event was a hit. We sold thousands of dollars of merchandise, met some of the most successful people in town, and were featured in DC’s most popular blogs and magazines. I had created an event that had to be written about. After living in Iran and having to navigate its strict laws, I knew how to be resourceful. I reached out to my network and made the best out of what I already had at my fingertips for free.
Unfortunately that promising moment was short-lived. The credit crisis that crashed Wall Street in 2008 changed everything. It was the worst financial disaster since the Great Depression. I was on such a high, just to have it all come crumbling down so rapidly. Our clientele wasn’t growing because they didn’t have money to spend anymore. The boutique was severely affected, and the future of the store seemed bleaker with each passing day. In addition to that, Moe and I had become like an old married couple that couldn’t stop bickering even if we tried. The fights between us seemed endless. Our conversations got shorter and shorter, and we finally reached the point where we communicated solely through emails—even when we were in the same building.
I had to get ready for damage control.
Eric’s company was struggling too, and he couldn’t fulfill his financial end of the bargain (i.e., half of my share). Moe didn’t want to front any more money than I had, so we were strapped for cash. I was put in a pretty tough position and became the intermediary between Eric and Moe. The tension between all three of us was unbearable. Every part of me was beginning to suffer—emotionally, psychologically, financially, and physically. I was a ticking time bomb waiting to explode. I had to either fix the situation or plan my escape.
Finally, I confronted Moe about the grim reality of our store’s future. We needed to work as a team more than ever, but the fact that we didn’t have a contract made things even more complicated. When Faisal pulled out so long ago, I went full steam ahead with building this company, forgetting the most critical part of the business, which was the contract. Moe and I never signed one! ALWAYS SIGN A CONTRACT!
I knew in my heart that I had fought as hard as I could for six months to keep the store afloat, and there was no fight left inside of me. I couldn’t magically make the investment appear out of thin air. There was nothing more I could do to create a successful future for our business without money coming in. As Donald Trump once said, “Sometimes your best investments are the ones you don’t make.” I needed to remove myself from this situation before investing any more time and energy into a dead end. That night, I consulted a lawyer who was also a good friend of mine. He suggested that I offer Moe three options:
1. Hand the company over to me. I would stay at his family’s building for another year and pay his investment back with the store’s profits. Then I would move the store to another location.
2. Pay me back my investment, withholding the profits from the costs of my construction work, and he could keep the brand.
3. Split the merchandise and furniture fifty-fifty and walk away.
Moe didn’t want to buy me out because he had no experience in women’s clothing. Instead, he said that I could buy him out, but I would have to move out of the space immediately. You would think he would be more grateful for my months of free labor, and the property’s value increasing because of it. And he had no interest in the third option.
My two biggest regrets from this experience were not being a cotenant on the lease and not signing a contract. I got so caught up in the idea of owning the boutique that I failed to cover my ass. Technically, all the merchandise inside the store belonged to me too, but I didn’t have the money to battle it out in court. Legally, I wasn’t allowed in the building after-hours, and he had changed the locks; besides, seeing him would’ve triggered a panic attack for sure.
After weeks of arguing, we couldn’t come to an agreement. Ultimately, Moe decided to change the company’s name and run the business under another entity, with the help of his girlfriend. I don’t know what happened to me, but I had lost my will to fight. I wrote it off as a huge loss and just walked away, which was a very hard pill to swallow. Moe and I never spoke to each other again.
It broke me into pieces every day knowing that my company had been snatched away from me so easily. I had no control over what I had worked so hard to build. But on the other hand, I also felt freed from what had become an increasingly difficult situation and a terrible burden. I cried myself to sleep for months. Why was reaching this American Dream so hard? Thousands of dollars and a whole lot of time and energy later, I still didn’t get what I believed I deserved. Money wouldn’t repair me. I walked away from this chapter of my life realizing, “If partners were good, God would have one.” That is what my father said for many years after his business partnership failed. At the time I thought his saying was funny, but it wasn’t funny anymore after it happened to me!