When Autumn stands and pulls the dress off Chloe, she finally looks around and catches my gaze. I’m stuck, wanting to go over and encourage her but knowing she wants to earn this on her own. Autumn’s eyes are full of fire, and I try to send her a mental message . . .

  Good girl. Keep fighting. The competition’s not over yet.

  I risk a small smile, but she turns away to start getting Chloe into her final piece.

  Autumn

  “Atrocious.”

  “Terrible.”

  “Quite unfortunate.”

  “What in the absolute fuck of tom-fuckery is going on here?”

  I hear all this and more as I wait for Chloe to come off stage. And okay, that last one was me and it wasn’t quiet given the looks everyone else backstage is shooting my way. It was an exhibition of pure, unadulterated shock and fury. This is my one big, last chance to make a good impression on the fashionistas in the audience, and it’s going completely off-the-rails wrong.

  First, Chloe’s been hanging onto Simon’s arm since they stepped out on the runway, and the way they posed together at the end has me fuming. I don’t mind a bit of dramatics on the runway, but they need to be planned and approved by the damn designer. And I’m not ashamed to say that I’m jealous and want to snatch Chloe’s blonde extensions right from her scalp for touching my man that way.

  Second, what happened to my Love is Blind dress? It was perfect moments ago. I double- and triple-checked it myself, but now it looks like it’s been through a blender that was on pulse mode, with slashes here and gashes there. Hell, the oopsie with Jeanette’s peek-a-boo nipple wasn’t this bad, though I guess it’s some small blessing that Chloe doesn’t have her tits out. The way she was strutting around near-nude earlier tells me she probably wouldn’t have a single issue with doing a topless fashion show.

  Third, that walk was appalling. I don’t know Chloe’s modeling experience, but judging by what she just did, I don’t think she could smoothly walk down the sidewalk, much less a runway.

  Simon peels Chloe off as they come through the curtain, and I’m doing my best to keep my anger under control when I see her.

  “What the hell was that?” I snap as I push her to my workstation.

  “Calm down. It wasn’t bad, the shoe thing was barely noticeable,” Chloe tells me, sounding completely unfazed.

  “Not. That. Bad?” I repeat through clenched teeth. I take a deep breath, on the verge of a scream. I’m about to stab her with the scissors in my pocket. I’m about to—

  No, don’t ruin this any more than it already has been, I tell myself. I can’t fix the dress issue when it’s already walked and been seen, so the main thing I need to focus on is the presentation for my finale piece. I don’t have time for anything else right now because my second look, the red va-va-voom gown, is already out on the runway.

  I help Chloe into my mourning dress, doing up the hidden zipper and quadruple-checking this time to make sure that every stitch and seam is perfect. I give her explicit instructions, reverting to the make-shift sign language I used with Jeanette in case Chloe doesn’t understand my accent . . . though she’s been responding to me very clearly in English. Using my fingers, I tell her, “Walk down the runway as gracefully as you can manage, one foot in front of the other. No touching Simon. I don’t want oil all over my gown.” I hold my hands up in emphasis. “No hands on Simon.”

  After that, I go so far as demonstrating a semi-reasonable model walk myself. “Got it?”

  Chloe’s lips quirk as though she’s trying not to laugh at me. I might not be the best walker, and I’m definitely not built like a model, but at least I’m not an uncoordinated rhinoceros trying to make it in runway fashion.

  “Oui?” I ask. There’s a lot more I’d like to say, but I stick with the bare minimum because I’m not sure Chloe can handle anything else. Hell, I’m not sure I can handle anything else without going crazy.

  “Oui.”

  I let her go back to the line-up, giving myself a single, solitary second to breathe and send a prayer to anyone listening that this show isn’t totally fucked.

  “Uhm, hey . . . Autumn?” Molly says, interrupting my moment.

  “What?” I grit through clenched teeth.

  “Sorry, but what’s up with your designs?” Molly recoils as I snap glaring eyes to hers. “I saw them yesterday, but now they’re . . . well, look.”

  Molly points to the backstage monitor, and I see that my fourth look, the green satin pantsuit, is walking. Except it’s not my pantsuit. It looks like the lapels have been trimmed to next-to-nothing skinny, the buttons are undone, and the jacket is swinging dangerously close to a full frontal on the model, and the pants are also rough cut at the hem like Chloe’s dress was, making them a full three inches shorter than I intended.

  “What the fuck?” I shout, even louder than before. If the music wasn’t thumping, I’m sure the audience would hear me.

  “Your other pieces were . . .” Molly starts, but seeing the flames rising in my cheeks, she points again.

  My va-va-voom dress with the thigh slit is now extra wide and extra high, completely scandalous to the point that the model probably flashed vajayjay with every stride down the runway, and the white bridal-inspired gown has skin peek-a-boos cut in it like the first dress did.

  Nothing in my collection is as I intended it to be. They’re all . . . ruined. And so am I.

  How did this happen? Everything I’ve worked for stripped away in minutes.

  I run to the monitor, needing to see my last piece walk. Hopefully, if one out of five designs is right, that can be a tiny light of saving grace. It has to be enough.

  Except . . .

  Chloe and Simon reach the end of the runway. Simon stops, standing with his legs spread wide and his arms at his side, but I’m looking at Chloe and my mourning gown. The zipper on the side, that I know I locked into place, is half-undone, and a wide swath of Chloe’s bronzed skin and side boob are peeking out.

  “No,” I whisper, my hands covering my mouth.

  That’s it. The last nail in the coffin. I’m zero for five and utterly humiliated.

  I don’t think anything could be worse. But instead of turning to walk back, Chloe aligns herself at Simon’s side and grips his face in her hands before planting a big, open-mouthed kiss to his lips. He freezes for a split second and then . . . kisses. Her. Back.

  I’m this close to stomping my way out there myself, but Molly physically holds me back. “One second . . . wait one second and then I’ll create a distraction for you to destroy her.”

  I don’t process what she’s saying. I don’t even truly hear her. The only things keeping my feet rooted to this spot are Molly blocking me and the anger and hurt building from deep in my soul, swirling up to the surface.

  Chloe finally releases Simon after what seems like an eternity but is probably only two seconds, and then she smiles, holding his hand as they strut back. As they come through the curtain, everyone backstage begins clapping in celebration of a good show, congratulating each other and hugging friends.

  I stomp up to Simon and Chloe, barking, “What was that?”

  She’s still attached to Simon’s side like a barnacle, and while he’s not touching her, he’s not stopping her from touching him either. Chloe grins happily as she gives Simon an intimate look. “Oh, just a little kiss for old time’s sake.”

  “What?” I say quietly as the words slap me squarely in the chest. “You two . . .” I point back and forth between them.

  Chloe laughs, a tinkling sound of condescension. “Of course.”

  Simon pushes her away then, his eyes imploring me. “A long time ago. She’s Venerable’s niece.”

  Chloe flashes innocent doe eyes my way, “Oh! Are you two . . . I didn’t know.” But she knew. It’s obvious that she knew when she gives me a smug smirk of victory.

  I hold my hand up, palm toward her. “Say one more word and I will show you a straight-up WWE Smackdown, starting with that pretty face of yours. Take off my dress, get your hands off Simon, and get out of my sight,” I yell. “Now!”

  Chloe looks like she might say something else or throw a barbed comment my way, but when sees that I’m deadly serious, she retreats quickly.

  “Autumn.” Simon’s voice is hard, commanding. “We’re in the middle of backstage.”

  He’s warning me that everyone has frozen and gone silent at the spectacle we’re making . . . that I’m making. They’re all listening and watching us. But I don’t care. I have nothing to lose here . . . I’ve already lost it all.

  “And?” I ask. “I think they’ve already figured out that I’m the fool, don’t you? Beatrice warned me . . . Simon the playboy, Simon the womanizer, but I believed you. Tobias told me, but still . . . I trusted you.”

  I’m ranting, hands flailing as I shout, and Simon stands there and takes it, letting me rage. He doesn’t argue a single thing I say, which lets me know . . . I’m right.

  “What did Tobias say?” he says quietly.

  “Men have their wife, their mistress, and their whore. And they should never meet.” I narrow my eyes, daring him to disagree.

  He steps closer to me, and on his bare chest, I see the necklace I so carefully placed there and suddenly become aware of the weight of the one around my own neck. When he’s quiet, I reach under my collar and grip my necklace tightly, the disappointment firing through me like lightning, and then I yank it as hard as I can. The sharp pain at the nape of my neck as the clasp gives makes me cry out, but I don’t let that stop me. I shove the necklace at his chest, and when he doesn’t take it, I let it fall to the floor with a clatter.

  I want him to rage with me, tell me I’m wrong and make me believe again when all the hope I had just publicly shattered into a million pieces.

  “Autumn, you know that’s not true.” Simon’s jaw is hard-set, his nostrils flared, and his eyes stone as he glares at me. “You know what this is.”

  I thought I did, but all I can hear is Tobias. Wife, mistress, whore. And all I can see is Simon kissing Chloe.

  “Don’t tell me which one I was. I think I know.”

  I storm off, shocked silence and uncomfortable side eyes everywhere, until a few people snicker, talking behind my back now that they’re confident I’m not going to throw punches in their direction. I go back to my area, gathering my personal items up.

  I should’ve known! I think, shoving stuff into my bag. Why am I so stupid? I was just a tool. A check item on his list of conquests! All that talk about my being different was probably him wanting to try something new. More cushion for his pushin’! I’m such a gullible dupe for his poor-me pity story.

  Nobody says anything to me as I sling the strap for my bag over my shoulder and turn around, pain-filled tears burning in my face.

  “Fuck you,” I hiss, storming for the door. As I do, I see Beatrice and Chloe fist bump, and it hits me like a ton of bricks . . .

  They sabotaged me.

  It’s like acid on my already wounded heart, and this perfect storm of fuck-ups swirling around me sends me into a tailspin of epic proportions.

  I let the vitriol loose, snidely telling Chloe, “I wouldn’t be celebrating too much. You might’ve fucked up my relationship with Simon and my designs, but did you forget that the entire fashion world just saw you bomb the runway? I’d be surprised if you ever walk again.” I flick my eyes to Beatrice, and with hurt in my voice, I say, “I helped you. I cheered you on. I thought we were . . . friends.”

  Beatrice looks sad, tears popping to her eyes as she quietly says, “Autumn—”

  “Save it,” I bite out and spin, walking straight out the door.

  Once I’m on the street, I break down. I get quite a few strange looks as I ugly cry, wiping snot on my sleeve as I stomp down the sidewalk. At first, I don’t know where I’m going, but eventually, I find my way back to the House Corbin building.

  I can barely stand the sight of the building any longer, but I have some personal items in the workroom, and while a pair of scissors might not mean much to some people, they mean something to me.

  I gather my things, shoving them into my bag and berating myself.

  God, I was such a fucking fool. I not only opened my heart to Simon, but to my new so-called ‘friends,’ only to be stabbed in the back.

  I’m rolling up my favorite set of scissors in their carrying case when the door opens. I don’t look up, too angry to get into it with whatever security guard is coming in to escort me out of the building.

  “Ahem,” a female voice says. Jacqueline. “That was quite the scene.”

  “It’s fashion. Temper tantrums and bitch fits are the norm,” I tell Jacqueline shortly, regretting that I already put my pointy objects away.

  She waves a hand airily, unconcerned. “It’s fine. My purposes were well-served, regardless.”

  I stop, immobilized as the pieces fall together in my mind. “Did you put Simon’s ex with him intentionally?”

  “Oui,” Jacqueline says unapologetically. “And I insured that your designs were . . . well, less than they already were.” She presses her perfectly lined lips together as she gloats, as though she’s trying to keep from laughing out loud—at me.

  I cross my arms, glaring at her.

  “You needed to learn what you refused to see. My nephew is a man of appetites and expectations, and you meet neither. With your designs, or with . . . yourself.” She looks down her nose at me, scanning me from head to toe, making me feel like a slug unworthy of oxygen or her presence.

  It’s as though I can hear her thoughts . . .

  You’re not good enough. Not for Simon—he deserves better. Not for House Corbin—inexperienced, unimaginative hack. You’re nothing but a small-town girl who should know her place, which is at most as the Apple Saucing Queen.

  That voice is all too familiar—it’s my mother’s, but amped up, playing to the insecurities I hold at my core. I’ve fought hard to override them, deny them, and change them, and usually, I do well. But right now, when I’m at my lowest, it’s so damn hard to shut them up and they’re hitting all the best hits—my heart and my art.

  There’s another voice screaming to be heard, though—my own, the hopeful, dream-filled little girl who refused to be quieted by her mother, and now, by Jacqueline. It ignites something in me. Jacqueline threw gasoline on the fire already burning through my soul, but instead of destruction, I can feel myself turning into an absolute inferno.

  “Quite proud of yourself, aren’t you?” I don’t let her answer, letting the words roll off my tongue with every bit of agony I’ve been holding in since the day I left home for FIT. It’s not all Jacqueline’s fault, but I lay it at her feet, nonetheless.

  “I was excited to come here, thrilled at the opportunity to work at your side, learn from the Jacqueline Corbin, the woman who forged new paths in the industry. I looked up to you and wanted to follow in your damn footsteps. Then I get here and you’re . . .” I scan her up and down, sneering at the disappointment I see in front of me. “Were you that threatened by my designs? So worried that something fresher than the stale, same old redux you’ve been spitting out for decades might be better that you had to sabotage them? You highlighted me as a Fashion Female Under 25 and then had my collection walk looking like shit. That reflects on you and House Corbin too.”

  She scoffs, seeming surprised that I’m daring to speak back to her at all, much less so aggressively. I don’t give a fuck.

  “As for me and Simon, maybe he did only see me as a stupid whore, but if so, what does that say about your parenting? How could you raise a man who sees women that way—as disposable, playthings only good as a flashlight replacement? Oh, that’s right, you’re not a parent. Not his mother. You never wanted him. He told me that too, or maybe that was one of his tactics to get me into bed. I don’t know at this point.” I shake my head, trying to focus. “All I know is that if this is what House Corbin and your so-called family are like, I don’t want anything to do with them. I’d rather be alone and work as an assistant for Nora for the rest of my life than sell myself short like that.”

  She stands there slack-jawed and wide eyed, but I don’t give her a chance to get her thoughts together. I shove past her and out the door, putting House Corbin, Jacqueline, and Simon behind me.

  As quickly as I can, I make my way back to my apartment and then look around. I need to get out of here . . . now.

  What do I need? I leave the fashion inspiration board on the wall, souvenirs of my days with the other designers and dates with Simon set around where I saved them. I don’t want any of that. I grab my clothes and shove as much as I can into my suitcases willy-nilly. And then, with one last look, I shut the door and go downstairs to call a taxi. I’m going home to New York City and putting this shitshow behind me. Hopefully, this fire will carry me there until I can collapse in my own bed.

  CHAPTER 26

  SIMON

  I watch Autumn escape the backstage area with furious shock roiling in my soul. My feet are rooted to the floor. My tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. My heart turning to stone.

  She left.

  Just like my mother.

  I thought Autumn understood what she meant to me. Means to me. I’ve been bluntly honest with her, uncomfortably let her into my secrets and my past, and shared things that I never would’ve dreamed of sharing with anyone else.

  I thought she would see through Chloe’s obvious display for the press. With every major player in the fashion industry sitting in the audience of the big finale show, it wasn't as though I could push her away on the end of the runway. The outcry would’ve made the whole debacle that much worse. There’s always a bit of acting to modeling, and while I would never disrespect Autumn, making a scene that way would’ve brought questions I didn’t think she wanted.