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Uh-oh.
I instantly have that pit in my stomach like you get when you get called to the principal’s office. Not that I was ever in trouble at school. I was more like the hard-working teacher’s pet.
“Good evening, ladies. Miss Fisher, if I could bother you for a moment?” Albert says politely.
It’s a question, but it’s not like I can decline. “Of course. What can I help you with?”
Molly, always having a friend’s back, interrupts with a teasing purr. “I can help you, Albie. It would beno bother.”
Albert responds with a tight smile and then to me says, “I’m afraid this is in regard to Miss Fisher, specifically.”
I nod, setting my plate down without eating a single bite, and follow when he indicates I should do so. We walk side by side down the hallway in silence and my unease grows. Finally, I try. “Is this about the photoshoot images?”
Albert cuts his eyes my way as he presses the button for the elevator. “I’m afraid not, Miss.”
I search his blue eyes, finding nothing there. He’s gone emotionless like the professional he is, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, and knowing nothing. I won’t get any information out of him.
But I still have to try. “Where are we going? Surely, you can tell me that, at least.”
There’s a tiny glimmer inside me that hopes Albert’s been sent downstairs to bring me up to Simon’s office. But Albert isn’t Simon’s assistant. I know where he’s taking me. I only hope I don’t know why.
Please let it be to get feedback on the first fashion show.
Up the elevator, my nerves grow. I’m glad I didn’t have a chance to eat or I’d probably lose it. Salmon sounds disgusting right now. On the top floor, Albert strides down the hall easily. I haven’t been here yet, but it’s as beautifully appointed as the lower floors with lots of modern white, chrome, and glass. Albert stops in front of Jacqueline Corbin’s office and gives me a look I can’t decipher.
Then he opens the outer door, leading me to an inner door that he knocks on three times. When he opens the door, he stands aside. “MadameCorbin will see you now.”
Jacqueline sits in a throne-like leather wingback chair behind a huge gilded white desk that looks like it came from Versailles. Knowing her, it probably did. “MadameCorbin,bonjour.”
“Good evening,MademoiselleFisher,” Jacqueline responds coldly. She’s wearing red today, and while I can’t see below her waist due to the huge desk she’s perched behind, I get a very distinct Queen of Hearts impression. Hopefully, my head is safe.
I feel decidedly underdressed to be in her presence too. My slim black pants and loose linen top are not nearly chic enough, and I’ve been working all day, up and down from the floor, lying over my table, and sweating as I feed materials through the sewing machine. I run my hands over my thighs, hoping I’m wiping away lint but also drying the nervous sweat from my palms.
“I advised that there would be critiques after the shows if I felt it warranted,” Jacqueline says. She places her hand on a manilla folder on her desk, and I can see that my photo is clipped to the outside.
“Yes,” I sigh in relief.
Jacqueline’s eyes lock onto me. “Your designs were intriguing.”
That’s it? Intriguing? Is that good? Bad? Help an anxiety-riddled designer out!
I wait for her to say more, not that I expect her to wax poetic on my work, but a simple ‘I liked the dress’ would go a long way toward reassuring me and allaying some insecurities. She stays completely silent. “Uhm, thank you,” I respond a beat too late.
Her smile feels like a knife twisting in my back. “But that is not why I called you here.”
I swallow, the gulp audible. “It’s not?” I say tightly.
“You have been seeing my nephew,MademoiselleFisher.” She lets that bomb hang in the air, and when it detonates, there’s shrapnel throughout my mind and my heart. My jaw drops open, my eyes wide. It’s not exactly forbidden in the competition, but it goes against the spirit of things and I know it.
I gambled, and now I’m losing.
“Ma’am—”
She holds her hand up, stopping whatever defensive excuses I can offer.
“He thinks he can keep secrets from me, but I have known him his entire life. There is nothing I don’t know or that isn’t shared with me by someone in Paris.” She looks down her nose, ensuring that I understand that she has eyes all over the city, not that we’ve been particularly sneaky. “At first, I admired your resourcefulness. If you can’t work your way into the House, sleeping your way in is a reasonable use of your talents.”
“Excuse me?” I snap. “Are you accusing me of fucking my way to the top?” Her French accent doesn’t make her able to say whatever she wants. I’m offended and angry, not giving two shits about professionalism when I’m being accused of something so crass.
