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“I didn’t say anything, Brooks.”

“Your face did.”

“Harper!” Eleanor interjects again, fixing her gaze on her. “Save your claws for the competition. Tomorrow at 8:30 a.m., I want to see that you’ve come to an agreement on that sketch you’ve been talking about.” Eleanor picks up her iPad slowly. “And a warning to both of you: this magazine survived the 2008 crash, survived the digital age, and will survive your divorce. If either of you isn’t able to put the fall issue ahead of your personal grudges, I’ll provide a box for you to pack up your things. The door is still in the same place.”

Without another word, Eleanor leaves the room, and Victoria realizes her brother was right.

No one breathes for five long seconds. Julian is the first to stand up, gathering his equipment as fast as he can.

“Well. It’s been a real pleasure. If I don’t die of a heart attack, I’ll see you tomorrow. I wish you all the best.”

Solange looks at Harper with sympathy.

“Do you need anything?”

“Leave before this gets out of hand, Solange.”

“All right. I’ll leave you two… lovebirds.”

*

At 9:20 p.m., Harper has begun to develop a visceral hatred for every shade of olive green. She has three dresses hanging on the central rack in the wardrobe archive, fourteen silk swatches scattered across a table, and a strained trapezius muscle that’s going to hurt for days.

The building on Madison Avenue is dimly lit. At this hour, the newsroom has lost the frenetic pace of the day, and all that can be heard is the distant murmur of life beyond its walls.

Victoria has been on the other side of the dressing room for almost two hours, in silence, jotting things down in her sketchbook. They haven’t exchanged more than ten words since six in the afternoon. And that’s very dangerous.

“The emerald,” Victoria says suddenly.

Harper looks up from the computer, blinking to focus her eyes.

“What?”

Victoria points to the two dresses with the tip of her pen.

“The emerald. It works better than the earth tone you were pushing for. It has more presence.”

“Two hours ago you told me that emerald green looked like an out-of-season Christmas tree,” Harper reminds her, narrowing her eyes. “You insisted, in fact.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Victoria says, turning around. Her eyes meet Harper’s. “I don’t want easy choices. The coward’s choice. Green is dangerous; it’s rich. And this cover needs a little danger to pull us out of the rut.”

Harper watches her warily. Exhaustion is no excuse to let her guard down.

“I never would have imagined you’d even go so far as to overturn your own opinion.”

Victoria turns toward the clothing racks, but Harper is sure she sees the flicker of a genuine smile. And suddenly, Harper notices the details again. The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear when she hesitates… The slight tap of her foot against the floor when she reads a long text… The movements of her fingers as she takes off her jacket…

“Damn photographic memory.”

“We could keep the emerald, yes,” Harper says quickly, forcing herself to look at the fabrics, “and balance it with more… understated accessories.”

Victoria approaches slowly.

“Show me that combination.”

Harper brings two pieces of fabric together on the table, and their fingers brush against each other in a way that feels far too pleasant.

“Yes, I like it,” Victoria announces.