He sets my bags on the bed, and I move to reach into my purse for a tip. He shakes his hands, “Non, non, mademoiselle. Uhm . . . enjoy Paris.”

  He touches the brim of his hat and disappears down the stairs once more, leaving me alone in my Paris apartment. Despite the tiny size, I squeal and spin in place, ungracefully knocking into the iron-framed bed that’s somewhere between a twin and a full size but looks comfortable and fluffy with quilts. “Ouch,” I mutter to the empty room.

  Beyond that, there’s a small desk with a stool tucked under it, a cooking area with a single electric eye, which is below a shelf that contains two place settings of white porcelain dishes and a coffee pot. The bare necessities, I suppose. Most importantly, there’s a single armoire closet to hold the outfits I brought with me and the special fabrics I felt would speak to my creativity for the competition.

  What there isn’t is . . . a toilet.

  Uhm, that’s a bare necessity too. I look around again, as though a door to a water closet will have magically appeared in the last five seconds, which it hasn’t, nor has a toilet manifested in the corner. Confused, I look at the apartment door.

  I pocket my key and step out into the hallway. There are New York studio apartments that have shared facilities. I’ve been fortunate enough to not live in one . . . until now, I guess. I glance at the handful of other doors, seeing similar locks and deducing that they likely have skeleton keys too. At the end of the hall, there’s a door with a different type of knob.

  I knock twice. “Pardon?” Hearing nothing, I slowly turn the knob, hoping I’m not about to walk into my new neighbor’s private space. Nothing like barging in uninvited to mark myself as a stupid tourist with no boundaries, common sense, or manners.

  Thankfully, all I reveal is an equally small bathroom with a sink, toilet, and clawfoot tub. “Hallelujah!” I whisper before making quick work of using the restroom.

  Back in my apartment-slash-room, I see something I missed. There’s a packet of information on the pillow that bears the House Corbin monogram, an offset H and C encircled in filigree swirls.

  The city outside calls to me, tempting me to run and explore, but the questions of what’s going to happen tomorrow when the competition begins win out, so I take off my heels and climb onto the bed to read and prepare.

  CHAPTER 3

  AUTUMN

  The next morning, I think I’m ready. Or at least, I’ve read and re-read, showered and primped my trademark red mane, and agonized over my outfit before following the packet’s directions down the street. Apparently, House Corbin took proximity and walkability into account when renting my apartment.

  As I walk down the street, I can’t help but feel as though I’m floating. The sun is bright, making everything seem fresh and clean, and the cafes I pass have cute tables out front with people sitting and drinking their coffee as though they haven’t anywhere to be. I turn a corner and nearly run into a woman sweeping the stoop outside a storefront. “Good morning,” I say, and then correct myself. “I mean, bonjour.”

  “Bonjour,” she answers, not pausing her sweeping.

  The streets are narrow, with the buildings pushing in on them, but rather than feeling claustrophobic, it feels like a hug full of charm and warmth. I know large portions of the city have been rebuilt over the years, but the impression I get is one of history and the passing of time. Even the gargoyles on the corner of the building in front of me seem protective and cute, in a semi-creepy way.

  I look around at the people too, noting that it’s apparent who’s Parisian and who’s a tourist. The Parisians have a more formal air about them, with predominantly form-fitting, fashionable outfits, perfectly coiffed hair, and expertly applied makeup. The tourists look . . . sloppy, with tennis shoes, denim shorts, and hair messily piled on their heads.

  I can understand not wanting to spend priceless vacation minutes on things like a time-consuming blowout, but it’s a dead giveaway.

  I also realize that my carefully selected outfit stands out wildly. I’m used to my red hair being an attention grabber, but my mid-calf-length circle skirt in a deep forest green, white button-up shirt, and nude patent heels feel more like a colorful circus costume against the understated Parisians. It’s too late to change now, though. I won’t be late for this morning’s get-to-know-you introductions and rule breakdown.

  Five minutes later, I’m outside House Corbin. It’s huge, with a towering façade that seems to loom over not just the narrow cobblestone road that it’s on, but the entire neighborhood, even if it’s the same height. At the top of the building is a series of lion statues, and on the huge wooden double doors is a golden plaque engraved with the House Corbin logo.

  “It looks like Hogwarts!” I murmur, grinning. Can I help it that the first book series that ever hooked me was the Potterverse? I watched every movie enough times that I drove Mom crazy quoting Hermione’s lines. And when Hermione walked down that staircase in the pink gown, going from nerdy to drop-dead gorgeous? My heart exploded, and my imagination went wild. I don’t know why they changed it from the periwinkle-blue of the books, but she looked magical either way.

  It's too bad I couldn’t take the time to study French like Fleur Delacour. It’d help me right now, considering that rather than Hogwarts, I’m more likely looking up at the equivalent of Beauxbatons.

  I’m shaking slightly as I open the door, stepping inside where things couldn’t be more different from the history-heavy exterior. The interior of House Corbin is modern, as though the building has been gutted and renovated to the highest of technological standards.

  Behind a long, dark granite counter is a young, blonde woman dressed in a sharp blue outfit, and I stare in shock. Whoa, it really is Beauxbatons!

  The woman says something in French, and when I don’t answer, she smiles and tries again. “You are here for the contest?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I said. “Autumn Fisher.”

  She looks at her computer and nods. “This way, please.”

  The young woman leads me down a bright white hallway to a room, opening the door. “Your host will be with you momentarily.”

  I step through to see an austere conference room, except that instead of a long table, the room is filled with white leather couches and wingback chairs. It’s some sort of formal receiving area, I suppose? The door closes behind me, and I jump in surprise.

  I hear someone cheerfully singing, “Dun, dun, dun, I’ll take you to the candy shop, uh! I’ll let you lick the lollipop—” The cheerful singing stops and the voice lets out a yell that startles me. “Holy shit! Autumn? What are you doing here?”

  I spin to my right, recognizing the voice and then the face. “Molly Rims? What are you doing here?”

  Molly and I went to FIT together, even worked on a few projects together in our freshman year, but I haven’t seen her since graduation. She looks great, her hair cut in a shaggy bob with a few braids woven through and peeking out the bottom, the same dimples framing her mischievous smile, and eyes that glitter with intelligence and bad ideas.

  She does a Mariah Carey impersonation with one hand to her ear and one waving through the air as she closes her eyes and sings, “Teaching these girls some karaokeeee favorites.”

  “That no one asked for,” a dry voice answers.

  I look over to see a towering slender beauty with a domineering look and harsh, almost sharp features to both her face and her dress. She looks like she’s here to kick ass, take names, and spit out our corpses when she’s done with them, without giving a single fuck the entire time. She looks Russian, or something similar. “She is Molly, you are apparently Autumn. I am Katarina. We are finalists in this contest.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I greet her, adding a friendly smile. This is a competition, I know that, but I’m hoping it’s not too ruthless.

  Molly is suddenly at my side, her arms wrapping around me. She’s a few inches taller than me, which puts my cheek at an awkward boob level, so I make the hug as quick as possible. “What have you been up to?”

  Molly huffs out a laugh. “What haven’t I been up to? Where haven’t I been? I went to Milan, then Berlin. I wanted to get a feel for the Euro trends, you know. Let’s see, then Mumbai, Tokyo, and Seoul. Wait . . . no, Seoul, then Tokyo. Basically, anywhere there’s fashion-forward people, I went there, sat on the street, and took inspiration. It’s been a trip.” She holds her arms out wide, encompassing the space around her as though it’s a living, breathing entity that she’s embracing fully.

  “Wow!” I say breathlessly. “I’ve been in New York with Nora Jacobs since the day after graduation.” Somehow, it pales in comparison to everything Molly has done.

  She shoves my shoulder, hard. “I know! I saw your influence all over her last collection! Congrats, bitch! You’re making that coin with her while I’m sleeping in hostels with one-night stands.”

  “That sounds interesting,” Katarina interjects. “Tell me more about that.”

  Molly grins lasciviously. “I wish there were more to tell. You’ve heard of a two-pump chump? There was an Italian who came literally only halfway in. I’d take it as a compliment to my top-notch pussy, and in the right time and place it might be hot, but I think it was more about his early shortcummings, if you catch my meaning.” She pulls a face, making sure that she’s got both Katarina and me firmly on her crazy-story hook. “Then there was the one in Mumbai, total Alpha-possessive wannabe. You know, the toxic masculinity type? Except he couldn’t get it up without a finger in his ass. And I had nails at the time, so . . .”

  “He didn’t,” I say with wide eyes.

  “He did.”

  “Russian men are very different, I think,” Katarina says thoughtfully. “They chase, they possess. There is a saying.” She pauses, translating in her head before saying, “No means yes, yes means anal. Da?”

  Molly laughs, and I shake my head. “That’s awful.”

  Still laughing, Molly tells me, “Don’t knock it ’til you try it. Sometimes, a little role playing can be fun.” Her eyes sparkle, and I don’t need to be a mind reader to know what fantasies are running through her mind.

  Suddenly, the door opens and two other women come in with the Beauxbatons woman from the front desk. Molly, Katarina, and I all straighten as though busted doing something wrong. “Your host will be with you momentarily,” the blonde repeats, and I wonder if it’s some sort of script she’s following.

  When the door closes again, I greet the newcomers. “Hello, I’m Autumn Fisher.”

  “Molly Rims.”

  “Katarina Janacova.”

  The first woman, who appears Asian, though I’m not sure of what ethnic group, dips her chin, which makes her dark, bobbed hair swing forward. “Yori Hatoshi.”

  I can’t help but take in her dress, which is straight-cut from her shoulders to her ankles in an exuberant pattern with pink and bright yellow flowers. The sleeves are folded up and tacked with oversized buttons, and the pockets at her hips are large and rounded. To the untrained eye, it’d seem a simple pattern, but I can see the slight tapering of the shape, the curve of the fabric at the side slits near the hem, and the workmanship.

  The other woman, who I couldn’t begin to guess where she’s from with her dark hair woven through with caramel highlights and strikingly dark eyes that are expertly made up with smoky shadow, says in a distinctly French accent, “Beatrice Dupont.”

  Her dress is black, knee-length, and elegant. It’d be appropriate in any environment, but if I’m honest, it’s forgettable in its basicness. A quintessential little black dress. Like her dress, there’s something reserved about her, not unfriendly, but aloof, perhaps. Maybe she’s already in competition mode?

  Molly throws me a raised brow look, silently communicating ‘mean girl alert!’

  I know the type. I think we all do. In fashion, the number of Regina Georges is exponentially high, whether designers, models, photographers, or corporate buyers. Everyone thinks their shit doesn’t stink and is in denial that they might be a single tiny feeder fish in an entire sea of fish. Add in Bravo TV shows and Tyra Banks telling everyone they need to be ‘fierce’, and you end up with an entire industry of people with a pretty big bitch streak in them.

  And I don’t mean just the women. It’s everyone, which is one of the many reasons I love Nora and her kind mentoring so damn much.

  We don’t get any further in our introductions because a voice says, “Bonjour, ravi de vous rencontrer belles dames.”

  I turn to see a mid-thirties man in a pink button-down, a plaid bowtie, and black slacks smiling at us warmly.

  Where did he come from? Maybe there’s a secret door?

  This place really is like Hogwarts!

  “Do you know what he just said?” I whisper to Molly.

  “Girl, how am I supposed to know?” she asks with a frown.

  “You’re the one who’s been living in Europe!”

  Molly rolls her eyes. “Yeah, so I know some Italian. The only French word I know is chatte.”

  “Chatte?”

  “Pussy.”

  I groan, but at the same time I’m sort of glad. I’m not the only monolingual here. Because judging by the others, some of them have no problem understanding what the guy said. Thankfully, he seems to realize that Molly and I are struggling and switches to English.

  “Good evening, ladies. Lovely to meet you. I’m Tobias, a House Corbin assistant. Or perhaps, for our Americans . . . a bitch?” He snaps his fingers with a swirl of his head, a perfect approximation of classic Damon Wayans comedy.

  I blink, surprised at his assessment. Clay and I have jokingly called ourselves Nora’s bitches, but not in front of other people. However, considering slang is a tricky part of language, I’m inclined to give Tobias the benefit of the doubt, especially considering he’s the one who flipped from French to what sounds like British English in an instant. Actually, all traces of his French accent have disappeared and he sounds as though he walked out of one of the Kingsman movies, posh and upper-crust. Meanwhile, I’m over here with some Southie Massachusetts still coloring my speech . . . of the only language I know.

  Molly goes back to her karaoke, wailing out, “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mothahhh—”

  “Ah, afraid I’m not familiar with that tune. Perhaps you could introduce me to it,” he requests of Molly, who agrees with a wink. “To that end, I would suggest that we all attempt to speak English to one another, as it is the one language the five of you have in common. I understand that sometimes there are difficulties, and I’m happy to assist with any forgotten words. I speak French, English, both dialects of Japanese, Cantonese, Mandarin, Russian, Spanish, Italian, and a little of a few others. I’m a bit of a polyglot.”

  “What does sexing lots of people have to do with languages?” Molly hisses.

  “That’s polyamorous, and only with the consent of all involved parties,” I inform her quietly, my attention trained on Tobias.

  “As I was saying before I began bragging about my linguistic prowess” —he grins, not the least bit chagrined at his boasting— “I am here to introduce you to the basics of our Fashion Females Under 25 event. We will have three weeks of competition, with a pre-selected theme introduced at the beginning of each week. You will create five looks for each show, which will be attended by a hand-selected grouping of Madame Corbin’s fashion-obsessed friends, who will provide feedback on your work. Of course, our winner will be chosen at Madame Corbin’s discretion. Questions?”

  When we’re silent, he continues. “However, before the competition begins, we felt it would be exciting to have a bit of fun.”

  “Fun?” Katarina echoes, sounding like she doesn’t know what the word means. Whether that’s the language barrier or her serious demeanor, I’m not certain.

  “Yes, each of you described your personal style on your application with three adjectives. Sometimes, the opposite of your style is even more telling of who you are, of the boundaries you’re willing to push beyond, and the creativity you possess.”

  “I’m not liking the sound of this,” Molly murmurs.

  “Plus, as I am a bit of a jester and Madame is a queen, she does enjoy a bit of entertainment. A razzle dazzle.” He wiggles his fingers in an approximation of jazz hands. “We propose that you choose three adjectives that are the opposite of your style as listed on your application. For example, if you described your style as ‘dark’, then perhaps the opposite would be ‘bright’ or ‘light’. We have prepared a selection of . . . shall I say, ‘supplies’, for your use. This will be a challenge to see how well you think on your feet. No sewing, no patterns, only simple styling using the selections we’ve provided. You will be your own model for this challenge. Be brave, be bold. Make no mistake, there is nothing too over the top, and you are being judged on your willingness to create an alter ego that is diametrically opposed to who you are as a designer.”

  Yori raises her hand. “Excuse me?” When Tobias looks at her, she begins speaking quickly in one of the languages Tobias apparently speaks because he answers her back smoothly.

  “I’m happy to translate to Russian or French if you’d like, as I did to Japanese for Yori,” Tobias offers when he’s finished. Both Katarina and Beatrice decline.

  The door opens and Tobias gestures to the blonde woman who escorted us all in. “Please follow Sarah down the hall. You will have ten minutes, no more. Be back here, ready for presentation time, and don’t be late. Madame Corbin will be waiting for you, so enter with pizazz! Remember, entertainmahnt,” he says, not quite with an accent but rather with droll flair.

  We all rush from the room, following Sarah to an area with racks filled with various clothing items. There’s one marked Tops, another marked Bottoms, and several smaller ones marked Dresses, Coats, Sweaters, and Accessories. There’s also a table full of other styling options.