But she left. As angry about her designs as she was at me.

  I guess I’m no better, no more important than a dress. I shouldn’t be surprised—my mother left me easily, and my aunt certainly never made me feel wanted, which makes Autumn the latest in the line of women who were supposed to love me but didn’t.

  As the door closes behind her, all eyes turn to me for a reaction, and I steel my spine to keep from collapsing in a heap on the floor over the necklace Autumn tossed. When I put it around her neck, it was a way of telling her how I feel. I thought she meant the same thing as she put mine around my neck.

  I was obviously wrong. So wrong. I want to pick it up, or curl up with it pressed to my chest.

  Instead, I force myself to step over it, giving it no mind—at least visibly—as I walk to the makeup artist’s station. “Can I have a towel, please?”

  She shuffles around, moving things on her workstation to find a white towel that she offers me with a weak smile. “Uhm, here, Mr. Corbin. I’m, uh, sorry about—”

  I cut my eyes to hers sharply and she quiets immediately.

  I rip the towel from her grasp and roughly rub it over my body, wishing I could wipe away the last hour as easily as the oil on my skin. Or maybe the last month, I think scornfully. Once I’m reasonably clean, I slip on a shirt, leaving it unbuttoned.

  There’s an entire roomful of people expecting a mix-and-mingle post-show right now, and I don’t give a fuck. I need out of here. But dozens of people approach me, some of them unaware of what’s happened backstage and others wanting the scoop about me and Autumn. I ignore them all, but they delay my escape.

  I’m thankful when I finally make it to my apartment. Even Xerxes can’t improve my mood right now, though he tries valiantly. When I peel my clothes off, dropping them on the floor, he curls up in my shirt, licking at the oily residue. I should scold him, but I don’t care right now . . . about anything. I’m empty inside because I gave my heart to Autumn and she dropped it on the fucking floor like it was nothing.

  Like I’m nothing.

  I climb in the shower, washing oil out of nooks and crannies that should definitely not have oil in them. As I rub shampoo into my hair and down the back of my neck, I feel the chain lying there, heavy and accusatory. I grip it in my fist, wanting to rip it off and be free of the shackle to the woman I love who didn’t love me enough to stay.

  But I can’t do it.

  I’m too weak.

  I release the necklace, but my hand won’t unfurl, and before I know it, I rear back and punch the tile wall of the shower. I grunt and recoil, realizing that the tile has slashed my knuckles. I hold my fist to my chest as I sink to the floor, letting the water pour over me from above, wishing the pain inside would wash away as easily as the blood swirls down the drain.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, only that the water turns cold before I reach for a towel. I get dressed, bandage my knuckles, and pour myself a heavy measure of scotch. I flop onto the couch and Xerxes curls up next to me.

  “Arf!” he says, and for once he doesn’t sound domineering. He sounds . . . commiserating.

  Using my good hand, I pet him and murmur, “Maybe you were right about Autumn. I know you didn’t like her.” He rolls over, giving me his belly for rubs, but after less than a minute, he nips at my hand and barks again, reminding me that he wants his dinner. “Maybe you don’t like anyone unless they’re feeding you, you mangy mutt.”

  I’m putting some steak slices in his bowl when there’s a knock at my door. For a split second, I’m filled with hope that it’s Autumn and start to rush toward it. But I remember what she said, what she did, how easily she left . . . and my feet stop.

  “Simon! Open the door, now.”

  Tobias’s voice is harried and high-pitched as he bangs on the door again.

  “Whatever it is, I don’t give a fuck,” I snarl as I open the door.

  Xerxes heard Tobias and is already tippy-tapping happily around his feet. I guess he does like some people after all, but also, Tobias usually comes over with treats in his pockets. Food is still his love language, I suppose.

  “Jacqueline did it,” Tobias tells me, out of breath from the few flights of stairs. When I don’t respond quickly enough, he plants his hands on my shoulders and gets right in my face. “Jacqueline. She did it.”

  I shake him off. He’s not one to drink, but he’s bright-eyed and flushed so perhaps he got a bit sloshed at the after-party. “What?”

  He growls and makes a visible effort to focus himself, smoothing his shirt and taking a big breath. “Jacqueline. The show. Autumn.”

  That gets my attention.

  “What about Autumn?” I demand.

  “Jacqueline fired Jeanette, replaced her with Chloe. I don’t know about Marisol . . . I think she really just got sick. An unfortunate coincidence,” Tobias says, explaining nothing.

  “Tobias.”

  He shakes his head. “I know, sorry. Jackie set Autumn up—replaced Jeanette, got Chloe to go after you, had Beatrice destroy her collection, all of it. It was . . . Jacqueline.”

  I narrow my eyes, scanning him for any lie. But I find none.

  “What the fuck? Why?” I run my fingers through my hair as I pace, trying to figure out what in the world my aunt could be thinking. Why would she ruin the best thing to ever happen to me? Why would she ruin the show?

  “I don’t know. But I saw Jacqueline and Chloe talking, and you know people like that forget people like me are even around. I’m just the help.”

  “That’s not true,” I argue.

  “It is. Not for you, not always. But it’s totally true for Jackie and Chlo-Ho.”

  I’ve never heard Tobias call Chloe that, not while we were dating and not after, either. But it rolls off his tongue so easily, so I know he’s thought it and probably said it before. “What do you call Autumn behind her back? And me?”

  His brows jump in surprise at the question. “Uhm, Autumn. And if you don’t get your ass over to your aunt’s house right now and figure out what the fuck is going on, your new name is going to be Dumbass. Go!” He shoves me out the door, in only my athletic pants. No shirt and no shoes.

  But he’s right. I need to figure this out.

  “What the fuck happened tonight?” I snap as I push my way into Jacqueline’s penthouse.

  I haven’t been here in years. Not really. She has an annual holiday dinner party, but I’m a guest like anyone else. It’s not home, not to me.

  But tonight, I barge in like I own the place.

  “Simon! Excuse you,” my aunt says, her hand pressed to her chest as though she has no idea what I’m talking about.

  It’s late and I’ve been through the wringer, but she looks as fresh and pulled together as she did before the show tonight. In fact, she’s still wearing her gold outfit and heels, likely only just getting home from the after-party. Ignoring me, she walks into the parlor and picks up her glass of wine before settling in her favorite chair. It’s no comfy recliner, of course, not for Jacqueline Corbin. Her favorite place to sit is a tall, throne-like, leather tufted chair that speaks of power and opulence as much as the woman who sits there does.

  “You did this, didn’t you? What in the world were you thinking?” I snap in angry disbelief. But I believe Tobias whole-heartedly, and that says something ugly about my aunt.

  Jacqueline sips her wine and sets it down, totally unruffled. “You’ll thank me one day.” She looks at me with almost . . . disappointment in her eyes. “You’ll realize that this was for the best.”

  She sounds so sure of herself, completely apathetic that she’s broken me apart. And like Humpty-Dumpty, I don’t think I’ll ever be put back together properly again. I was already broken but had managed some degree of repair over time, with stitches made of distrust and a protective barrier to keep people at arm’s length. Autumn barreled right through the barrier and climbed in between the stitches to make herself at home in my heart, though, and now . . . I’m destroyed from the inside out.

  Yet Jacqueline sits there, prim and proper as you please, with a smirk on her face like she hasn’t done a damn thing wrong.

  In some misguided attempt to explain herself, my aunt tells me, “The designers should’ve been grateful for a chance to design with House Corbin, not gallivanting around Paris trying to snare you in their net.”

  “You’re not talking about the designers, you’re talking about Autumn,” I hiss.

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes, but they’re so young . . . under twenty-five?” She huffs indifferently. “None of them have found their artistic vision yet.”

  “Like you?” I retort. “The woman who refuses to change even though the market is screaming that you’re outdated? Are you holding onto your dusty crown that tightly? To the point that you can’t allow progress? Were you ever going to let this competition be successful or did you always plan to interfere with it?”

  I don’t speak to Jacqueline this way. Nobody speaks to her this way. It’s all deferential ‘yes, madame’ and ‘what can I do for you?’ in her world.

  But if I was force-fed an ugly wake-up call tonight, then she’s going to get one too.

  She stands, high color in her cheeks and her voice shriller than I’ve ever heard. “How dare you! She was not worthy . . . not of House Corbin and not of you.”

  “How would you know?” I ask harshly. “You don’t know Autumn, and you sure as hell don’t know me.”

  “I know enough!”

  Her chest is rising and falling as she glares at me. Most people would wither. It’s what she’s used to, what she expects. But I don’t cower in the slightest. I stare back stone-faced. We’ve had disagreements—over fashion, over collections, over business—but tonight is different. This is personal, between her and me, and it’s been building since I was a child. After tonight, things will never be the same between us. They can’t be.

  She sneers. “There’s no silver lining here, Simon, and if you think there is, you’re the fool. This competition idea of yours? House Corbin was built on classic elegance and will always be for that customer base. We don’t need new and flashy, certainly not young and trashy. None of those designers deserve to work with House Corbin.”

  “You mean with you, I presume?” I interrupt, speaking over whatever justifications she’s told herself. “Like you’re so much better than they are. Weren’t you once a young designer, trying to start a fashion house? What makes you different from them?”

  The challenge is bold and blunt, but she doesn’t flinch. “Nothing. That’s why I know what that American is doing. She wants this by any means necessary, even if it means seducing you to get it. And like a fool, you let her.”

  I gawk at her in shock, my brows climbing my forehead. “Are you serious? She didn’t seduce me. I pursued her, despite her repeated attempts to put me off because she was worried about the competition and wanted to win rightfully.”

  Jacqueline doesn’t seem the least bit swayed by that new information. “Fine, so she’s adept at playing hard to get, scheming to make you think the relationship was your idea.”

  “That’s not what happened.”

  “However she managed to seduce you—or vice versa—I told you both there would be consequences.” She says it as though this outcome should’ve been obvious, like her destroying me was the only recourse she had.

  “So because I didn’t do what you wanted, you took away the only love I’ve ever known,” I say quietly. I search the floor as realization dawns fully. “For one month of my life, I knew how beautiful and all-encompassing love could be. I finally understood what drives men to write songs and poetry, why people will do anything for it, how absolutely everything in life boils down to one thing . . . love.” I lift my eyes to hers, accusing. “And you took it away from me because I didn’t obey you?”

  “I’ve loved you!” she argues. “The best I could. I’ve given you everything, and you stand here, ungrateful for a life most would dream of?”

  “You gave me shelter, education at boarding schools, care by nannies, and even a career . . . as long as I didn’t actually challenge or inconvenience you. But no, you didn’t give me love.” Sadly, I understand something else. “I’m not sure you know what it is yourself. Or else you couldn’t have done what you did. Especially to me.”

  She clacks her mouth shut, out of arguments. Maybe because I’m right, maybe because she doesn’t care enough to argue anymore. It doesn’t matter.

  I was right, there’s no coming back from tonight. Not for me, not for Jacqueline, and not for us.

  “I’m tendering my resignation from House Corbin, effective immediately.”

  She huffs out a sigh of disbelief. “Simon, take some time to calm down. A vacation, if you will, or a sabbatical if you need longer. But don’t be rash, not over some young American who dismisses House Corbin and our ‘so-called family’ so easily.”

  “I don’t need a break. I’m done.”

  Sadly, it’s true. I think I’ve been done for a while, and this competition was a last-ditch effort to see if there could be common ground between my aunt and me about the direction House Corbin was heading. But if anything, it’s shown that there’s none. I think Jacqueline knows it too, but she will never admit it. She’ll never confess to setting me up, hoping I would come around to see things her way so I would stop challenging her place on the throne.

  And then I process what my aunt just said. “What do you mean our ‘so-called family’?”

  “That’s what she called us.” She makes it sound like I’m supposed to be offended at the label, but that’s not what’s bothering me.

  “When?” I ask carefully, sensing that there’s another bomb about to explode and needing to be thoughtful in my approach.

  Jacqueline waves her hand, unconcerned. “When I saw her in the workroom. I wanted to make sure she knew that she’d brought this on herself. She was quite mouthy, saying she’d rather work as an assistant her whole life than for a day as a designer at House Corbin.” She looks at me aghast, thinking I’ll take her side.

  “Yes, I can understand why, given your actions.” I regard her fully, without doubt or hesitation. “I’ll have my office cleaned out on Monday. Right now, I have somewhere I need to be.”

  “What? Simon! Where are you going?” she shouts.

  But I’m already gone, in more ways than one.

  My aunt manipulated me, even before the competition began. But tonight, she manipulated Autumn too, and that is not something I can let stand. Autumn should’ve known better, should’ve trusted me.

  She shouldn’t have left me.

  But I need to look her in the eye, both of us knowing how we were played like pawns, and see whether she stays or leaves. I have a shattered heart telling me that she’ll still go, but somewhere in the shadows, there’s one tiny seed of hope, planted by Autumn herself, trying to break through the dirt and damage to bloom.

  In my car, I think . . . Where would she go?

  The obvious choice is her apartment, and when I get there, I pound on her door. “Autumn! Open the door, please. We need to talk.” There’s no answer, and I hear no movement inside, so I bang again. Only then does the door behind me open.

  “She’s not there. I saw her come in earlier, but then she went out again,” Autumn’s neighbor informs me as she looks me up and down before clenching her robe at her neck. I forgot that I’m still only partially dressed, but it’s not like I’m going to bust into the neighbor’s apartment. Unless she’s hiding Autumn from me.

  “Where’d she go?”

  The woman shrugs. She doesn’t know. “Quiet down. We’re sleeping, like reasonable people at this time of night.”

  She shuts the door, and I race down the stairs. Parisians.

  I drive for hours, all over the city, hoping to find her somewhere. She’s not at the Eiffel Tower or the Luxembourg Gardens, especially at this hour. She’s not walking the Champs Elysees or any of the other tourist places she loved.

  Eventually, exhausted and bereft, I go home. There’s a piece of me that desperately thinks I’ll find her there, waiting for me with Xerxes snuggled up in her lap. But when I get home, not even my beloved dog greets me. It’s so late, he’s passed out in the middle of my bed, so I curl up on the couch.

  The next morning, I try again. But now that it’s daylight, there are tourists to contend with. I crane my neck left and right and still don’t see Autumn’s shock of red hair anywhere. She’s not responding to any of my messages or calls either. I’ve been calling every hour, begging her to listen to me.

  I even go so far as calling Molly to see if she knows where Autumn is, but Molly nearly takes my head off through the phone line. All I get is, “You fuck with my friend, and I’ll fuck you up so badly that they never find the pieces. Oh-kay, thanks for your consideration for the competition. Byeee!”

  And she hangs up on me.

  I’d be worried that something has happened to Autumn—after all there is crime in Paris—but my gut tells me there’s no foul play. She simply doesn’t want to be found, at least by me.

  Monday morning, I’m an utter mess when I leave my apartment. Downstairs, I see Madame Laurent setting up her bread station for a day of sales. “Bonjour,” I tell her blandly, not wanting to be rude.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur! It’s a beautiful day, non?” She greets me with all the happiness of a woman thankful to wake up to another sunrise. But then she peers at me closer. “Oh! What’s wrong?”

  “Work,” I answer stiffly, unable to discuss Autumn when everything in my soul is telling me to search again. And if I don’t find her, to search more.

  “Non, this face is heartbreak. Tell me what has happened with your lady love?” She pats my hand gently. “You seemed so happy when I saw you together.”

  “I can’t find her. We had a . . . fight?” I sigh heavily, “I’m not even sure what it was. She’s here for the competition at House Corbin but we . . .”