"I designed the lighting specifically for the original cases. If they change them, the entire visual concept falls apart." I pulled a pin from my mouth, adjusted Naomi's waistline with fingers that had gone slightly numb. "Tell them if they modify one more element without my explicit written consent, I'll fly there myself and make them regret it."
"Noted."
Milan. Twelve days away. My second boutique. My first outside of London.
I'd been thinking about it constantly—waking at three AM to scribble notes, sketching layouts during meetings, obsessing until Naomi threatened to confiscate my pencils. This wasn't just expansion. This was a statement. Milan was the heart of fashion, where careers were made or quietly buried.
Another little boutique,I thought, and almost smiled.
I heard my father's voice again. The way he'd looked at me across the dinner table when I'd presented my business plan at nineteen, fresh out of school, burning with ambition. I had charts. Projections. A five-year strategy I'd perfected through sleepless nights.
"She wants to start a little boutique," he'd said to my mother. Not to me. Never directly to me. "Isn't that sweet?"
Sweet. Like I was a child playing dress-up.
It shouldn't have surprised me. I'd spent my entire adolescence trying to be included in conversations about the family hotels, sitting in on meetings, studying the business from every angle. Each time, the same dismissal. "Don't worry your pretty little head about all this, darling. It's frightfully dull."
Well. This pretty little head had built a brand from nothing. Had dressed celebrities and royalty. Had been featured in every major fashion publication on three continents. And in twelve days, I'd open another little boutique in one of the most competitive markets in the world.
I wondered what he'd say about that. If he could say anything at all.
"You're grinding your teeth," Naomi observed.
"No, I'm not."
"You are. You get this look when you're thinking about your father." She didn't move from her position, but her eyes tracked me. "What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
I pinned the last adjustment and stepped back. "Done. You can breathe now."
Naomi exhaled dramatically, rolling her shoulders. "Finally. I was starting to see spots."
"Drama queen."
"Perfection takes sacrifice." She examined herself in the mirror, turning slowly. The silk moved exactly as I'd intended—liquid, graceful, alive. "It's beautiful, Isa."
"It's adequate."
"It's extraordinary and you know it." She caught my eye in the reflection. "Stop deflecting compliments. It's unbecoming."
Before I could respond, Meg's voice cut through.
"Miss Dubois? There's someone here for you."
I glanced at the clock. My afternoon was supposed to be clear. "Who is it?"
Meg hesitated. That slight pause told me everything.
"A Mr. Davies. He says he has a surprise."
Naomi's head turned sharply. Her eyes found mine, narrow and assessing. I hadn't told her Femi was coming. Mostly because I hadn't known myself.
"Send him in," I heard myself say.
Femi appeared in the doorway moments later, and every woman in the room stopped what she was doing. Navy suit, no tie, looking like he'd stepped out of my most inconvenient fantasies. In his hands, a silver box tied with black ribbon.
