The instrumental music that’s been playing in the background since we walked in swells to a crescendo and fades, signaling that the auction is about to start. With Tobias leading the way, we find our seats somewhere near the back since the front rows are reserved for those who will be bidding. With Tobias on my right and Molly on my left, I’m sure to be entertained with constant auction commentary.

  Despite our back row seats, I still have a good view as Simon emerges from the curtained side of the ballroom and crosses toward the podium. He’s devastatingly handsome in a royal blue tuxedo jacket with black silk lapels, black pants, and a white shirt. His hair’s styled similar to how he wears it for work—slick and parted to the side—but different from how he’s worn it on our dates. Then, he’s usually more casual and natural.

  It’s like there are two sides to Simon . . . and I’m the lucky woman who gets to see both.

  Every eye is on him as he stands behind the podium, the unspoken king of the room. Even Tobias notices. “A handsome devil, isn't he?”

  I’m cautious of answering honestly. Does Tobias know about us? Would Jacqueline have told him? Or is Simon’s dalliance with one of the competition’s designers the talk of the water cooler? Hell, for all I know, Simon might’ve told Tobias. They seem friendly enough as work friends.

  But it’s not like I can disagree with a well-established fact. Simon is handsome. That’s why he’s the face of House Corbin. “Yes, he is.” I’m hoping the simple answer will end that conversation, but Tobias isn’t finished.

  “Every woman wants him,” Tobias continues, “and every man wants to be him . . . well, present company excluded. I’ll lump myself in with the ladies for this one.” He flashes me a conspiratorial wink, and I realize something . . . Tobias is gay, and he just shared that with me. It’s not unusual, especially in the fashion industry, but it simply hadn’t occurred to me one way or another what Tobias’s orientation might be. But I know it’s a litmus test of sorts.

  I smile back warmly. “Well, at least I’m in good company.”

  I bump his shoulder with mine, a sign of welcoming acceptance, and he smiles as our attention returns to Simon, who’s beginning his speech . . . in French. Thankfully, Tobias whispers an instantaneous translation into my ear.

  “Honored guests, good evening. My name is Simon Corbin, and let me be the first to thank you for coming tonight. We are privileged to have members of Parliament in attendance tonight, and of course, the Minister of Culture. Your presence is appreciated. I would also like to extend a personal thanks to the staff and owners of this wonderful hotel for making tonight’s festivities possible. Finally, a personal thank you to my aunt, Madame Jacqueline Corbin, and her generosity in donating the items up for auction tonight. Thank you, Jacqueline.”

  There’s a round of polite applause, and when it dies down, Simon continues. “Tonight’s auction is for a good cause. For as long as there has been Paris, there have been the orphans of Paris. But the reality for these unfortunate young people is no piece of musical theater or a Dickensian novel with a certain romantic charm. It is a hard, cruel life, and it is only the efforts of facilities like tonight’s beneficiary, the Sun Orphanage, that saves even a percentage of these innocent victims.”

  Simon takes a deep breath, and I know how hard this must be for him. To feel so close to an issue, to have it be a seed of your beginnings, and yet to have been raised so far from it, in the lap of luxury.

  He looks off to the side, and I wonder whose eyes he’s meeting, but a moment later, I realize it must’ve been Jacqueline’s because he says, “In some small way, I feel a connection with the residents we hope to benefit tonight. Many know that I was raised by my aunt, but she rescued me from the same life these orphans experience . . . because I was also left on the steps of the Sun Orphanage.”

  A small murmur of surprise shoots through the room, and Simon holds his hands up, settling everyone and quieting chattering conversations of ‘did you know that?’ and ‘I had no idea!’

  “Jaqueline rescued me, and for that, I will always be grateful. But not every child is as fortunate as I was. Most grow up short on funds, wearing hand me down clothing and cast-off factory seconds, scrambling for food, and hoping for opportunities, all the while knowing their future is more dead-end than Boulevard.” He pauses, letting that harsh reality sink into the people in the room who have never worried about such things.

  “But it doesn’t have to be this way. The great British actor, Charlie Chaplin, in his wonderful film, The Great Dictator, said, ‘We all want to help one another. Human beings are like that. We want to live by each other’s happiness—not by each other’s misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another. In this world there is room for everyone. And the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone.’ And it is true. So I come before you tonight because I believe in my heart that there is goodness within our collective hearts. That we can make a difference, each and every one of us. That while we might not be able to change the world overnight, we can do something tonight in the lives of the children of the Sun Orphanage.”

  Simon clears his throat. “I’m a simple man, one of business, not creative fanciful dreams, but I can imagine a world where there are no hungry children. A world where . . . where the cruelties of fate doesn’t mean that a child has to grow up without hope. Where the potential Einsteins, the potential Curies, the Monets, and . . . huh, even the next Simon Corbin, won’t be denied the chance to make the world a better place. Now, if I could, I would ask you to open your hearts and minds, to see what I have seen, what these orphans see. To feel what these orphans feel. But if you cannot do that, I beg you to at least open your wallets. Give a few relative crumbs from your table, because to the Sun Orphanage, those crumbs are an untold feast.”

  Tobias’s voice hitches, his translation pausing as he struggles with the emotions inside him, and I feel it too. With each word, my feelings for Simon grow, and I know that I have been blessed by fate. It’s the only way to describe what his coming into my life means. I thought the competition was my big opportunity, but as great as it is . . . it’s not why fate brought me to Paris.

  Simon is my opportunity.

  “As a final request, I’ve asked some of the boys of the Sun Orphanage to come tonight. These are boys I’ve worked with, mentored, I hope, and befriended for sure. I invited them so that you can see who your help benefits. These boys . . . they can become great, great men. What kind of men they become, at least partly, depends on you and what you do tonight. Boys?”

  On the left side of the chairs, at the front, a dozen boys stand up. Among them, I identify the five boys who played basketball with Simon, all of them looking handsome and strong in black suits. If it weren’t for the sameness of their suits, clearly all bought from the same source for tonight’s event and therefore giving the boys an almost uniform appearance, I wouldn’t have been able to separate them from any of the high society boys their age.

  The applause starts somewhere off to the right of the podium, and I realize that Jacqueline Corbin has stepped up to Simon’s side. Within moments, everyone is on their feet, clapping not just for the boys, some of whom wave a little bit as they enjoy their moment of positive notoriety, but for Simon and his efforts tonight.

  “Then,” Simon says, stepping back, “I shall invite Monsieur Montblanc up to be our auctioneer.”

  Simon steps away from the podium to take a seat with the boys, and a large man with a round belly and perfectly pomaded hair steps up to the podium. Curious, I lean over to Tobias. “Who’s that?”

  “One of France’s top newscasters,” he answers, then he shushes me as the auction begins.

  I understand and sit back to watch the action as the first gown, a deep scarlet piece with a black bejeweled neckline, comes up for auction. It’s a pretty piece, a bit dated in my opinion, with a lot of turn of the century, over the top glitz, but of course, that’s Jacqueline’s taste to a T. And for all I know, it was fashion forward at the time of its creation, since it’s not one of the pieces I recognize from their past catalog.

  Bidding is lively as five people vie for the gown, but in the end, the winner takes it for a hundred and thirty-five thousand euros. The number staggers me, and I shoot a look of shock to Tobias. On my other side, Molly hisses out, “Holy shitballs. I could stay at a hotel with my own private jacuzzi tub and twenty-four, seven room service delivery of wine by hunky firemen for years with that much money.”

  Tobias silently laughs, his shoulders shaking, and I have the feeling things have only started.

  Moments later, the next piece, a cocktail dress in swirly purple and green, is up for auction . . . and it goes even higher, at a hundred and seventy-seven thousand.

  I sit back in shock, awe, and a little bit of anger, to be honest. I’ve been in New York long enough to understand wealth, even if I struggle to choose between ramen noodles and liquid caffeine some days. And just like back in the States, these bidders are likely the ones who will bitch about their taxes or try to shuffle as much of their money into overseas tax havens as possible, but they now offer up hundreds of thousands of euros in order to look good and gain a little bit of clout.

  “I know what you’re feeling,” Tobias whispers as the fourth gown, a white beaded piece that still looks fresh and red carpet ready, goes for three hundred and seventy thousand. “You’re an open book, luv.”

  “Oh!” I fix my face to one of mild interest. “Better?” I ask Tobias.

  He side-eyes me and offers a tiny nod.

  Tobias, Molly, and I keep each other smiling, trading quiet compliments for the gowns and sassy comments about the bidders until the last gown, a dazzling black gown that is a masterpiece of elegant simplicity. The single shoulder, the way the silk shapes and flares subtly, enhancing curves and shapes, the asymmetrical train . . . it’s perfection without the need for baubles or decoration. I thought my black dress was good?

  This is as good as it gets.

  I watch curiously, not surprised as a true bidding war erupts over the gorgeous gown. Prices quickly rocket past one hundred, then two hundred, then three hundred thousand euros.

  “What the?” I whisper, gasping as I see a pattern emerging. Every time the bidding slows down, the auctioneer looks to his right and someone bids just a few thousand euros higher, pushing the clout and the prestige of the gown up and up.

  Four hundred.

  Five hundred.

  Three-quarters of a million euros . . . and I don’t see bidding slowing. If anything, as the cost has crossed into the stratosphere, more people want in on the action, chasing the golden apple of snagging the biggest headline moment of the event.

  “Check it out,” Tobias whispers as bidding slows again at nine hundred thousand euros. “I see the juicer.”

  He purses his lips, using them to point toward the front row but careful to avoid putting in an errant bid that’s probably more than he’s going to make in a lifetime. I look over as the auctioneer glances to his right, and the bidding goes up to nine hundred twenty thousand.

  It’s Simon.

  He’s doing it quietly, not making a big deal about it so as to avoid the notice, but he lifts the paddle in his crossed arms twice more, at nine hundred and fifty and then at nine hundred and ninety thousand, before literally bowing out at the next bid.

  “Un . . . deux . . . trois!” the auctioneer, who’s sweating at this point, says triumphantly as he bangs the gavel on the podium. “Vendu un million d'euros!”

  The entire crowd gasps, and the winner, a blonde woman who looks to be about fifty or so, leaps to her feet in delight as everyone breaks into applause.

  Jacqueline takes the podium, nearly hipping the newscaster-slash-auctioneer out of the way. She makes quick comments that don’t need translation to tell me they’re a thank you for everyone for coming, and make sure you pay up if you won.

  Afterward, Tobias escorts our group out of the ballroom to the garden area to mingle, telling us, “I would be honored to introduce you around if you’d like, or if you’d prefer, you’re free to do so on your own.”

  We look at each other, and slowly, everyone else wanders off, leaving only me and Tobias. “Shall we?” he asks, offering me his elbow. I slip my arm through his, glad for the company.

  “Autumn, meet Herr Schlieter,” Tobias says as I shake hands with an older German man, and then his date, who Tobias doesn’t introduce, making me curious. “He’s the Chief Legal Officer for one of Germany’s biggest department store chains.”

  “Ah, ah, Herr Tobias,” Schlieter says good-naturedly, but at the same time correcting him, “the biggest.”

  “Apologies, of course. Herr Schlieter, Miss Fisher here is one of the contestants in House Corbin’s under twenty-five contest. Her designs are lighting up the runways.”

  “Really?” Schlieter asks, giving me a look of interest. “I shall have to remember your name, Miss Fisher. Do you think you will win?”

  “I hope to, but regardless, I’m thankful to House Corbin for giving me this opportunity to do my best work.” I’ve done this song and dance before, back at F.I.T. when we would have mingle-and-meets with professors and designers, and easily slip into polite niceties.

  “Are you based in Europe?”

  “Until now, I’ve been in New York, but I’ve loved what I’ve seen of Paris so far. I think I like Europe very much,” I say with every bit of charm I possess.

  Schlieter hums and smiles. “Well, if you find time, I hope you get a chance to visit Munich while you’re in Europe.”

  As Schlieter and his date leave, I turn to Tobias. “His date?”

  She was completely silent during the entire exchange, smiling vacantly and only offering an occasional nod to show she was listening.

  Tobias chuckles but looks at me shrewdly. “There is an old European saying. A powerful man should have three women in his life. His wife, his mistress, and his whore. Hopefully for him, the three never meet.”

  He grins, expecting me to get the humor, but mostly, I just feel sorry for the woman at Herr Schlieter’s side and wonder which she is. I’m reminded that Beatrice said something similar about all Frenchmen . . . and it makes me glad that I’ve found the one who is the exception to the rule.

  We move on, Tobias introducing me around more. I appreciate every meet and greet, but as we do, I come to realize something.

  I have absolutely nothing in common with these people.

  It’s a strange realization. I’ve spent over half my life wanting to rub elbows with the fashion elite, to get myself into the orbit of the movers and shakers in the fashion world. More than that, I wanted to be admired by them, to be more than just another name. I wanted to be the name, one of those people so famous in fashion that I didn’t even need to use my full name.

  Autumn would stop meaning a season and start meaning a person, a brand, a lifestyle.

  But being around these people tonight, I’m realizing they don’t set trends. They follow. Their idea of deep conversation is to throw shade at anyone who isn’t ‘hot’ at the moment. They don’t look you in the eye. Everything is side-eyeing. And their approval waxes and wanes on a whim.

  “Tobias, can I ask you something?” I ask when we get a relatively private moment. When he nods, I gesture around us. “Does this . . . fulfill you?”

  “What do you mean?” He looks at the people around us laughing and talking, having a good time, and not getting what I’m talking about.

  “I mean . . . I got into fashion to create, to express myself, my truth. To make people feel fabulous and beautiful, to give people a lens to express themselves. Especially myself. But . . .”

  “But so many here are about as deep as a tea saucer?” Tobias surmises before shrugging. “Sometimes it troubles me. But you know what helps me?”

  “What’s that?”

  “To not give a damn what half these dumb cunts think,” Tobias declares quietly. “Apologies. That was positively British of me.”

  “No . . . no, I think you’re right,” I murmur, sipping my champagne. Maybe I shouldn’t care so much about what people like this think. My work and the merit of my work are independent of these people.

  It’s . . . a revelation.

  A moment later, my revelation is put to the test as Dead Cat Lady comes up, still looking as weird as ever in a two-tone red and blue bedazzled gown that looks like someone took Margot Robbie’s Harley Quinn look, made an evening gown out of it, and tossed it in a blender with sequins and glue. It’s absolutely horrible and not at all flattering on her, which is the biggest offense to me.

  This is one of the judges giving feedback to Jacqueline? Why? Someone should call the fashion police for this gown alone.

  “Ah, Mademoiselle Fisher, so good to see you again,” she greets me. With my correct name this time, I note. She even holds up a full flute of champagne in her hand as though saluting me. “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Yes, Tobias is wonderful company,” I reply, giving Tobias’s arm a squeeze. “And tonight’s cause is so meaningful.”

  “Ah, yes . . . the boys,” the woman muses, looking over her non-puffy shoulder to the rest of the crowd. I follow her eyes and see Claude talking to a young woman. She’s slightly older than him but looks quite charmed by his conversation. “Well, I do hope you can bring some of tonight’s . . . inspirations to your designs. Excuse me . . . Madame Le Coeur!”

  Dead Cat Lady moves off, and I look to Tobias, about to ask her name, before I realize that I just don’t care. She obviously has no idea what constitutes good fashion but has the nerve to throw shade my way?

  “Well, I know one thing,” I murmur, finishing off my flute of champagne. “If I don’t win the competition, it’s not because my designs are bad.” I mean to say it under my breath, but Tobias hears me and laughs.

  “There are indeed many ways to win and many ways to lose,” he replies. “Oh, fuck, incoming . . .”

  It’s all the warning I get before a big-bellied man with a long, gray beard approaches. He’s wearing what’s left of a suit, I presume, his black slacks and white shirt quality but ill-fitting.