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She was running out of time. She had to get going. Everyone else could gush over Nikos Karellis, but it was Dad’s friend Martin Lopez and his millions that she needed to see. She was going to approach him tonight and ask him to finance the business. She’d offer five per cent. Twenty per cent. Whatever it took.
Outside she heard a car prowl along the lane. Surely Barbara wasn’t back again...?
She jumped up and ran out through the studio and down the stairs, then burst out into the courtyard. She slid the bolt across the wooden door and leaned back against it, breathing a deep sigh. But there was no knock, no screeching voice, just the quiet sounds and sights of a summer evening: water bubbling over the giggling cherubs in the fountain and the sun-dappled flower beds, sleepy and still.
Peace. If only she could stand still and enjoy it—but that was half her problem. Instead of busying herself out in the world, she had shut herself away, hiding in the familiar silks and satins, and beads and crystals that hung in the boutique.
She looked through the French doors of the shop.
Fairy tales were made real in there. Women were made into princesses. Dreams came true.
Once upon a time she’d believed that. She absolutely had. Happy ever after was the only ever after there was.
How wrong she’d been. Happy ever after didn’t exist.
