Two months later, Concrete Roses was live.
The launch party was held at The Skylark, a Black-owned event space in Brooklyn. It wasn't fancy, but it was real—exposed beams, string lights, and a DJ spinning old-school R&B.
Women of all backgrounds filled the room—writers, entrepreneurs, creatives, hustlers.
Deja was there. Zora was there. Even her mother showed up, nodding approvingly at the turnout.
As Maya stood at the front, microphone in hand, she looked out at the crowd and exhaled.
"This started as just an idea," she said. "A vision for a platform where we could tell our own stories. And now, it's real. Because of all of you."
The room erupted in cheers.
Maya smiled, feeling it—the beginning of something big.
And for the first time, she knew she had made the right choice.