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Right. That night was just a secret. A secret that time would completely erode.

This was fine.

❦ ❦ ❦

Thanks to my strong interview performance and decent resume, I'd been assigned to the secondary ready-to-wear brand division, handling sample alterations and basic pattern drafting.

At first I still worried intermittently, but as the daily grind intensified—ripping seams, redrafting patterns, screaming at temperamental fabric suppliers over the phone—my nerves finally loosened.

I discovered something immensely comforting. Corporate CEOs were insanely busy. He spent most of his time in the executive suite or locked in conference rooms.

There was no way—no reason—for him to come down to our bottom-tier sweatshop full of thread scraps, coffee stains, and fabric debris.

My work area was a full eight floors from the CEO's office, and I had zero clearance for major meetings.

So I was safe. Really safe.

I exhaled long and deep, pouring all my energy into the fabrics I loved.

When my fingers traced rough linen and delicate silk, every emotion got quarantined into another world.

But in this building built on capital and variables, calm was always just the illusion before the storm.

Friday evening, near closing time, restless energy saturated the whole department. I was kneeling in front of a dress form, tape measure in hand, adjusting the pleats on an asymmetrical hemline.

A thick black file folder landed on my desk, scattering loose pins.

I jumped, head snapping up.

Department head Brenda stood over me, her perpetually tight face twisted into an expression mixing anxiety and manic excitement.

"Caldwell, drop what you're doing. Now." Brenda planted both hands on my desk, words firing like a machine gun. "A core executive's assistant got rushed to the ER with acute appendicitis half an hour ago. But tonight, that executive needs someone to fly to Paris for a private fabric preview ahead of Fashion Week next week."

I held up my tape measure blankly, brain still catching up. "So?"

"So someone dug up your final interview analysis on that antique jacquard fabric. Orders came down from the top floor." Brenda took a deep breath. "You're being pulled. Tonight, you're accompanying your direct superior to Paris as his assistant."

"Direct superior?" I yelped, heart racing.

A terrible thought flashed through my mind, but I immediately dismissed it.

Impossible. IS·MA was huge, with tons of executives. No way it'd be him specifically.

Besides, "direct superior" usually meant the VP managing our entire secondary brand division.

So this meant my first chance since starting to work directly with a core executive. This was a lottery ticket falling from the sky.

"Me? But I'm just a week-old intern. I don't even know all the suppliers' names yet." I tested the waters carefully.

"Nobody cares if you know the suppliers! What matters is you were requested from upstairs!" Brenda shoved the file into my arms, brooking no refusal. "Listen, Ruby. This is a ladder that'll save you five years of climbing. Don't screw up in Paris, and when you get back, you'll convert to full-time, maybe even get your own product line."

Brenda's words were a lighthouse, instantly clearing all my hesitation and anxiety.

She was right. This was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to prove my worth.

Screw it. I didn't care anymore. I was grabbing this opportunity with both hands.

"Flight's at nine tonight, JFK Terminal 4. Here's your e-ticket and itinerary." Brenda checked her watch, tone non-negotiable. "You've got under three hours to go home and pack. Don't be late, don't dress like you work at a Brooklyn garage, and don't embarrass the company."