How can I judge her designs objectively?

  The stage is one I’ve walked a hundred or more times, considering House Corbin has used it for a decade. The lights are bright, meant for showing off the clothing for viewers here and in the photos later.

  But the flow of this show will be different from anything we’ve ever done, a sign of the freshness with which we’re approaching this competition. Each designer will have their five designs walk, there will be a two-minute break, and then the next designer’s time begins. The small separation will give people a moment to digest, make notes, and prepare for another style presentation.

  As we wait for the show to begin, I listen to the chatter around me. Most of these people are high society by birthright. They’re people who have never had to struggle for a meal in their lives. Even the ones who did work their way up, as designers themselves or industry insiders, have forgotten what that time in their life was like. I’m blessed to have never known struggle but also acutely aware that my life could’ve been so very different, and the seriousness with which these people discuss the latest red carpet fashion is off-putting.

  Why aren’t we discussing politics or poverty or anything that’s actually important?

  I love fashion. It’s been the foundation on which I was raised. But there’s got to be more to it. It can be a platform for change, for growth . . . for good in the world. Or at least I would like it to be. Fashion can be fun, but it needs to also mean something.

  One day, when I take over House Corbin, I will make that my priority—giving to the world in a way that creates opportunity while simultaneously creating clothing for people to be excited about.

  Or it will be my priority if I ever get the chance.

  Because even now, as I sit in the House Corbin special seating, I hear whispers about our demise.

  “An ancient dinosaur battling the coming meteor,” someone says gleefully. “And we all know how that turned out. Extinction.”

  “Right, I mean, give it up already. Nobody under the age of forty would dream of wearing House Corbin.”

  Are we that out of touch? Jacqueline certainly doesn’t think so. And while I do agree that some of our more recent collections have read as a bit matronly, fashion for the adult woman is not so different now than it was in years past. Though there is a trend toward skin, skin, and more skin, elegance will always be ageless and in fashion.

  Yori is up first, and gentle piano music plays. A model appears, posing at the back of the runway. But not in just any pose. Her legs are wide, her hands on her hips, and her face looking murderous. It’s aggressive, and the dichotomy with the soft music makes my spine twitchy. Her outfit is interesting—black baggy pants tucked into knee-high, lug-soled boots, a sleeveless button-up shirt done to her neck, a kilt-like skirt thing wrapped around her waist, and a thick leather strap tied around her waist several times. I think back to Yori standing nearly nude with delicate chains for clothes at the meet-and-greet and can definitely see how it was the opposite of this. This outfit makes me think her style is gentleman pirate-meets-Highlander, the gender-neutral version.

  As the rest of Yori’s collection walks the runway, I’m not sure how it would fit in with House Corbin. While matronly seems a bit harsh, we are known for feminine elegance, and Yori’s work is razor-sharp and hard-edged. And the only thing summery about it was the lack of sleeves, which makes me wonder whether she can work within prescribed guidelines.

  During the quick break, I listen to the whispers around me, hearing words like ‘strong and powerful’, but also ‘hard and unapproachable’. Like always, there are split opinions about a collection. Personally, I find it interesting and new, but I guess time will tell. As will Jacqueline, whose opinion is going to matter more than anyone’s.

  Up next is Molly’s collection, which I find surprising, having met the woman. In person, she is exuberant and unfiltered to the point of seeming wild, but her clothing is refined, crafted of exquisite fabrics. It’s summery but focused on what a woman would wear on a summer night. There are touches of youthfulness, the dresses a bit short and flirty, but all in all, quite lovely.

  “How . . . bourgeois,” one of the VIPs, a photo editor, says. It’s a common dismissal, as if being from the middle class is an insult. “I wouldn’t wear any of those pieces to dinner, much less somewhere important.”

  “It is meant for daily wear, so I doubt Swarovski crystals would be fitting in such a situation,” I point out. “Some customers like to wear clothes that are fun and make them feel good. Things they can actually dance, drink, and live in, not only be photographed in.” The dig is a bit harsh, but given the sneer on the woman’s face, quite warranted.

  “It’s simply so . . . American,” another woman says, obviously taking the photo editor’s side. I’m not surprised. She hasn’t liked me since I turned down her offer to be my Mrs. Robinson and would likely oppose anything I say.

  I chuckle, looking her up and down pointedly. “Madame Bernard, I presume you think only French fashion is de rigueur?”

  Frankly, the woman who’s insulting Molly’s collection has zero sense of fashion, jamming her body into whatever high-cost label is currently trending. Like today, she’s wearing a full-skirted dress with puff sleeves made from a printed fabric that vaguely looks like a fruit bowl. It’s heavy, horrendous . . . and is possibly choking off the blood supply to her brain because her only response is a sniff of derision.

  “The point of this competition is to tap into a younger audience, those who don’t mind a sense of freedom, who prefer to not be bound by tradition, and who are confident in blazing new paths,” I reply. “For a lot of people, it’s a tremendous positive.”

  “Doubtful,” she says.

  Before I can comment further, the next collection begins. But I’m still thinking about what Madame Bernard said.

  How dare she have the nerve to down-talk fashion when hers is horrible? And the photo editor’s dismissal as well . . . is this the type of feedback Jacqueline is going to receive? If so, perhaps we are doomed to a future of repeating the same little black dress every year.

  Katarina’s group of models look as though they’ve walked straight out of the ’80s and I can see Jacqueline’s approval from here. The tops are tastefully cropped, the shorts squared and loose-legged, and the shoulder pads generous. But there are touches of freshness in the details, like the pleating and styling. The pieces are something I think Jacqueline would’ve worn herself once upon a time, but of course, now she only wears her own designs.

  And then it’s Autumn’s turn.

  The first outfit is a flowy caftan dress, something I’ve seen dozens of times before, but Autumn has done something new with it. The belt gives the model’s waist definition and the slit up the side of the legs is nearly scandalous. The bold, wide trim along the deep neckline is stunning, looking hand-done but not overly delicate. The model flicks the skirt, and it pops dramatically as she turns.

  “Ooh,” I hear from behind me, but then I tune out other opinions. I simply want to see what Autumn has created.

  Her next outfits are equally interesting, to me, at least. And it has nothing to do with how I feel about the woman herself. Her designs are not cutting-edge, ground-breaking inventions, but they’re new takes on old classics, which is something I can appreciate. And they’d be perfect to blend into House Corbin’s existing style catalog as we move forward.

  Jeanette walks last, wearing a sleeveless wrap dress with a wide waistband and a tie that drapes nearly to the floor. The V-neckline cuts to her waist, making the most of her breasts which bounce enticingly as she nearly prances down the runway. At the end, she poses with her arms up toward the ceiling, a brilliant smile on her lips. The twirl of the skirt as she turns to walk back reveals a long line of her leg, giving the look a bit of sexiness.

  Bravo, Autumn!

  When Jacqueline looks at me sharply, I realize I’ve said that aloud.

  “Uh, don’t you agree? The last dress in particular would be wearable by most any woman regardless of age, size, or resort location.”

  Jacqueline doesn’t respond to the small joke about Autumn’s collection being the perfect resort wear, which is definitely one way to interpret the Summer of Youth theme.

  “Let’s see what else is to come,” she replies.

  I need to be more careful. It’s not that communication between competitors and House Corbin employees is forbidden, but it could be construed as a leg up for Autumn, even if we don’t discuss the competition at all. And I don’t want to do anything that would lessen her chances of success because I know how important this is to her.

  At the same time, I have every intention of seeing her again.

  The last collection is from Beatrice, and it’s quite well done too. Of course, that’s likely because it’s very Parisian. The dresses are short but appropriate, the skirts are long and flowy, and the tops are cotton bustier-type camisoles under oversized linen shirts. It’s mostly solids, with a color palette of mostly pale blues and navy, though her finale maxi dress is a floral print that combines the two with a pop of red.

  After the show’s conclusion, I give my notebook with my evaluations to my aunt. “A good start, don’t you think?”

  “I think there was a lot of promise in some of the pieces,” she answers evasively. “I look forward to seeing what another week produces.”

  I watch as she leaves, Albert at her side, as always. They’re deep in conversation, and I wonder what they’re saying. Which designer they favored, which pieces they loved, and also, which they didn’t care for.

  Knowing I’ll be expected to make my way to the after-show cocktail hour to mingle and discuss, I make a quick move to slip backstage. Out front, the show is over, only dissection to be done. Back here, it’s still a madhouse of clothing to be hung up for transport, models getting dressed in street clothes, and cleaning up the general mess.

  As a representative of House Corbin, I work my way around the room to shake hands with each designer.

  “Good job,” I tell each of them, ensuring that no favor or feedback is given per Jacqueline’s rules.

  When I shake Autumn’s hand, I force myself to play it cool. The hand contact is no longer or shorter than with the other designers, the eye contact equally congenial, and my comment given with the same inflection. “Good job.”

  “Thank you,” Autumn replies.

  I can tell she’s busy, torn between wanting to speak to me and help her models get out of her precious pieces, so I make my visit quick.

  Standing back and watching the process of breaking down the show, I make a decision. I grab a piece of paper from a nearby makeup station and scribble a note.

  Using the hectic hustle and bustle as a distraction, I step closer to Autumn’s station. I glance around, ensuring no one is paying me any mind, and then quickly slip the note into her bag where I’m sure she’ll find it later.

  If you wish to see me, meet me at the corner of Rue Fontaine and Rue Verde tomorrow, 15:00.

  I don’t sign it. I don’t need to. She’ll know, and the corner is both close enough to her apartment that she can get there easily and far enough away from House Corbin that we can meet away from prying eyes that might be nearby.

  If she wants to.

  If not, I will honor her wishes.

  Or there’s the possibility she could turn the note in to Jacqueline. That would get me in deep trouble, and my aunt is not the forgiving type.

  But Autumn is a risk I’m willing to take.

  For now, the ball is in her court.

  I’ve only made it a few steps away when Tobias appears out of nowhere. “There you are! Jackie is looking for you at the cocktail hour. I told her you needed to use the restroom urgently, so take it easy on the champagne.” He’s pulling my arm, dragging me along as though I’m an escaped toddler who needs to be returned to his beleaguered parents.

  I shake him off. “I’m good, man. Just wanted to tell the designers ‘good job’ as thanks for their hard work. Tonight’s not all about schmoozing the critics. We need to woo the designers too.”

  Tobias raises one perceptive eyebrow. “Meaning?”

  I glare at him for suggesting that I mean anything other than the obvious, trying not to go too Lady Macbeth on him. “We want them to work with us. Yes, we’re House Corbin and all that entails, but that doesn’t mean that someone as talented as these women would choose to work for us when they could go out on their own.”

  He takes that at face value, thankfully not implying that I’m wooing any particular designer more than another, or for anything other than fashion. “Okay, but Jackie’s looking for you.”

  “I’m going to tell her you call her Jackie behind her back,” I threaten, knowing I would never do such a thing to my friend.

  Rather than being defeated, Tobias replies, “Want me to tell her what you call her?”

  We have a momentary staredown and then both laugh. “Come on, chap. Plaster that panty-dropping smile on your face and I’ll grab you a champagne.” Tobias pats my cheek in a brotherly affectionate move, which is to say a bit too hard, and I do as I’m told.

  “Make it a scotch,” I call out as he disappears, probably to first tell Jacqueline that I’ve been found and then get me the drink he promised.

  CHAPTER 15

  AUTUMN

  I’m not sure this narrow passage actually qualifies as a road, at least not in my experience. This is where you go to get mugged in New York, as it’s little more than an oversized alleyway, but my phone is telling me to go this direction to get to my destination.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. But after yesterday’s show, I found the note and knew that I had no choice. Oh, Simon would have respected me if I’d skipped this . . . but I might not have respected myself. And while I want to follow the rules of the competition, I have to at least do this today.

  Because I want to see him.

  I still have worries —lots of them, in fact—but the idea of not seeing Simon again is downright dreadful.

  Overhead, the sky is beautiful blue, with puffy clouds and golden sunlight. I’ve dressed in a favorite pair of shorts that are so wide-legged, they appear to be a skirt, a scoop-neck white T-shirt that makes my breasts look amazing, and platform fashion tennis shoes since I’m not sure what we’ll be doing.

  I make one more turn as my GPS directs and then stop. I’m here, right on time. Just like magic, or maybe a well-wound watch, a distinctly colored Bugatti with the top already down roars down the street.

  He stops, getting out to open the door for me. He’s wearing dark blue jeans and a plain blue T-shirt, which seem surprisingly casual, both for a fashion icon and a Parisian, but he’s rocking them. He’s got on a black baseball cap and aviator sunglasses that emphasize the lower half of his face, especially his strong, powerful jawline which is covered with a few days’ growth.

  “Were you watching for me? Or do you just have impeccable timing?” I ask.

  “Perhaps,” he replies without answering either way. “Climb in.”

  I settle into the luxurious leather seat, buckling up. “I can barely see your face,” I tell him as he gets back in the driver’s seat and pulls away from the curb.

  “I have a few disguises when I don’t want to be noticed so we can enjoy our day in peace,” he says, completely serious.

  I laugh so hard that I lose my breath and start wheezing a bit. “You think glasses and a hat are going to keep you from being noticed when you’re driving a bright red, million-dollar car?”

  He shrugs, unbothered. “It’s not the only one in Paris.”

  “Any of the other Bugatti owners have a jawline you can cut glass with?” I ask, tracing a finger along the scruff there.

  “Non, probably not.” He catches my finger and places a soft kiss to the fingertip. “I wasn’t sure you would come today.”

  Pulling my hand back, I settle them in my lap. “I wasn’t either. I’m still not sure, honestly.”

  Worries are building again, getting stronger every time I try to push them down. I’ve never been one to let fear stop me, though. Leaving home to move to NYC when I didn’t know a single soul . . . crushed it. Tackling an industry with all the passion I have in my heart knowing success is near impossible . . . let me at it. Working with an established designer and providing feedback like my opinion means a damn thing . . . checkity check. Crossing the globe to compete for an opportunity to work with a major fashion house . . . yep, that too.

  If I could go back and tell past me what my life would look like in only a few short years, I think Little Autumn would nod and say, ‘Of course it will.’ I wouldn’t have considered that my life would be any less because if it wasn’t what I wanted, I would keep working until it was—to prove to myself, and maybe my mom a little too, that I am good enough.

  So the chance to have the best of both worlds—professional and personal—should be an easy decision. But I don’t want to risk everything on something I’m the only one putting meaning into when this has the potential to be catastrophic for me. There’s still a whisper in my ear that Simon could have anyone, anytime he wants to, and at the end of the day, I’m just . . . me. Admittedly awesome, but also on a completely different level of life and experience from Simon, and with considerably more in jeopardy.

  Simon glances over to me, his attention torn between me and the road, and then he places his hand over my clasped ones. “I am glad you came. I thought you would enjoy seeing more of Paris, and I am thrilled to be the one to escort such a rare beauty.”

  I don’t ask where we’re going, happy to see whatever sights he wants to show me considering you can’t go wrong in Paris. And I don’t touch the flowery compliment, not wanting to dissect it too much lest it wither to nothing.

  He drives for a bit, and the whole way, I gawk out the windows to visually feast at every tidbit that we pass. I want to absorb it all, use it as a muse, and create designs inspired by it. Simon turns into a parking garage and carefully parks his car. We get out, and Simon takes my hand as we walk out onto the sidewalk.