“He didn’t tell you?” she says, dropping her gaze. “He’s got to be the most stubborn man I’ve ever known.”
“Jules,” I urge, placing a hand on her arm. “What are you talking about?”
“Brenda wants a quarter million to sign over primary custody.”
“Is that a fucking joke?” I’m…appalled. Livid. Disgusted. I can’t keep track of all the emotions I feel in the few seconds after she tells me. “Tell me that’s not real.”
“It’s real; he has two days or she’s threatening to rescind,” Juliet says. “I don’t think she will; she’s desperate to keep this man who, apparently, doesn’t want kids.”
“Does he have the money?” I know he doesn’t have that kind of cash readily available. We’ve had conversations about how Brenda’s demands have drained his savings.
“Not all of it.”
“Why?” I can’t finish the question, but why didn’t he ask me? Why would she ask such a thing of him? Why would she give up her daughter for money? So many questions.
“See my previous statement about how stubborn he is,” she says. “Plus, he doesn’t want to add to anyone’s burdens. Especially yours.”
“Money isn’t a burden of mine.” For the first time since meeting Grady, I’m actually upset with him. This doesn’t need to be an issue, at all, and I can imagine how he’s been agonizing over it.
“Does he know that?”
“Shit, probably not,” I say as Luke comes out of the back room.
“Louisa,” he says softly, his arms outstretched. Luke has always reminded me of a mixture between Calvin Klein and Tim Gunn. His features are taut angles topped with salt and pepper hair. He’s an enigma in the industry; the designer who’s been around forever but never ages a day. The biggest question in this industry is how old is Luke McCallister.
No one knows. Not even Jules.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him while he hugs me. “I’m happy to reschedule as soon as I’m healed enough for makeup to cover.” Today was supposed to be a fitting, and tomorrow the shoot, but I don’t see how that can happen, now.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he says sternly. “Pierre does. And anyone in this business that chooses to still work with him.”
“What he said,” Juliet adds, pointing at her boss, who is really more of a friend, at this point.
“Still, I’m sure this,” I say, gesturing in a circular motion around my face, “wasn’t the vision you had for this dress.”
“No,” he says, propping two fingers under my chin and turning my head side to side.
“I did have an idea I wanted to run by you, though.”
“What’s that, darling?”
“What if I was the face of a ‘fashion for domestic abuse survivor’s’ campaign?” It’s the spark that came to me on the walk over. We’d have to rush it, because I don’t want to do this with makeup. I want my real wounds front and center. “I mean it literally, Luke. Louisa Moreno’s bare face.”
Both are watery eyed as they contemplate my idea.
“We’d have to get garments here quickly,” Luke says.
“I can start making calls,” Juliet tells him. “It’s early enough to get some overnighted.”
“Eight,” Luke says. “Find me eight designers to get garments here, tomorrow. We’ll use my dress and my photographer.”
“Really?”
“I’d be honored, Louisa. Truly.”
“I’ll call Vivian, see if she can expedite some publicity,” I tell them, my fingers shaking as I pull out my phone. The idea is a solid one, but I didn’t expect them to be so eager to back meon it. It’s not the sort of support I’m used to. “I’ll see if she has someone who can set up a 501(c)(3) quickly.”
“Make the calls,” Luke tells us. “Then, come back. I’ll get the dress ready.”
