“Steve,” I muttered.
“STEVE!” She squealed.
The bark that erupted from the foyer sounded like a greeting for a long-lost queen. I stepped inside just in time to see Steve—my French bulldog, who usually has the dignity of a Victorian gentleman—wagging his entire body. Vanessa dropped to her knees, and the traitor immediately began licking her face, acting like they’d been soulmates in a past life.
“Traitor,” I breathed.
Vanessa didn't even hear me. She was whispering into the dog’s ear about saving him from "Satan."
“Please,” I huffed, walking toward the kitchen. “That dog is living the dream. Hundred-dollar food, a high-end dog bed. He even has his own room.”
She snapped her head up, her eyes wide. “He has his own room?!”
“Yes.”
“C’mon. I’ll show you.”
I led the way, Steve bolting down the hall ahead of us. I watched her take in the house—the floor-to-ceiling windows, the marble island, the sunlight. She was so distracted she walkedstraight into my back. I felt the impact all the way down to my feet, but I kept my voice steady.
“Spare rooms. Bathroom. And—Steve’s room.”
I pushed the door open to the dog’s suite, complete with his bone-printed teepee and his own TV.
“Even your dog’s a spaz,” she laughed. Then she looked at me, her expression turning surprisingly soft. “You know what’s funny? If you’d just told me you needed a capsule collection for Steve to keep living like a king, I would’ve said yes. No elaborate trap necessary.”
“Easier, sure,” I murmured, meeting her eyes. “But less fun.”
I showed her the master bath and my own bedroom, enduring her "teenage boy" jokes and her “is this where the magic happens" winks with as much stoicism as I could muster. Then, I opened the door to her room.
“Your room,” I said.
“Jail cell,” she countered, though I saw her eyes linger on the king-sized bed.
“Any inmate would kill for digs like this.”
The final stop was the studio. Since the auction I’d spent every minute perfecting this room. I’d converted my office, bringing in mannequins, sketchpads, and every swatch of fabric I could source. I’d even bought an iPad and had the designers atEver Aftertell me which apps they used, just so she’d have every advantage.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice small. “This is perfect. It’s exactly what I’d design for myself if I had the choice, even the light…” she trailed off.
I felt a surge of pride, but I pushed it down. I pointed to a small box on the desk. “I found that when I was packing. Figured I’d give it to you. If you don’t want it, I can put it in storage.”
She opened it. Inside sat my mother’s locket.
I watched her throat close up. I’d had that locket for twelve years. I’d kept it in my safe, a relic of a time when the world made sense. Giving it to her felt like handing over a piece of my own heart, but I kept my face blank, focused on my phone.
“Okay, so ten dresses, huh?” she asked, her voice thick with suppressed emotion.
“Yeah. You can do this, Vanessa.”
“What’s this top-secret project? Has to be if I’m involved off the books.”
“Just focus on the dresses,” I said, shutting her out. I couldn't tell her the truth yet—that these dresses weren't just a project. They were her way back.
“If I finish early, do I get parole?”
I finally looked up, meeting that defiant, beautiful gaze.
“Thirty days, Ness. No matter what.”
