“What’s this?” I ask as I dig into it. Inside, I find my finale dress from the first show. I find myself suddenly choked up. “I can’t wear this.”

  Not open to argument, she holds it up to my chest. “Yes, you can. And yes, you are. It’s a wrap dress, so it’ll fit your curves perfectly. The deep V neckline is going to make your tits look so amazing that I’m going to want to motorboat them. And I have heels to help with your height issue.”

  She’s truly thought of everything. I rub the soft fabric between my fingers, nearly in tears over the hard work I put into every piece of my three collections. It was hard to leave them behind, but I had to. “How’d you get this?” I whisper, looking around as if Jacqueline Corbin herself might barge in and snatch it right out of my hands.

  “I stole it.” Molly’s matter-of-factness doesn’t surprise me. Hell, she probably walked out with more than my one dress. “Put it on. We have a reservation.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her tearfully as I hold the dress to my chest.

  I step behind a screen in the model area and change. The dress isn’t the same as it was on Jeanette, but I feel good in it, as if something valuable did come from the shitshow at House Corbin.

  I learned that I’m a damn good designer.

  When I walk out, Clay and Molly are standing by his desk, their heads together as they whisper. I know they’re talking about me, but I can’t be upset. They’re my friends and they’re worried about me. It’s sweet. I just wish there wasn’t a reason for them to worry.

  Clay and Molly both rave over how good I look, to the point of ridiculousness.

  “Can I deep dive in that crack?” Molly asks, pointing at my cleavage.

  Clay twirls a finger in the air. “Spin for Daddy.”

  “Ew, gross,” I tell Clay. To Molly, I say, “Ask me after a few drinks when stupid ideas sound more reasonable.”

  I force a grin so she knows I’m totally kidding. I’ve taken an oath of celibacy and a vow of solitude. I’m done with men for a long time, a very long time. I might never fully recover from Simon.

  Molly takes me to R Lounge, which is known for its scenic view of Times Square. She orders for us, and shortly after, the waiter brings us a cheese board and two rose sangrias. I sip my drink, looking out the window at the spectacle of lights and people.

  “Cheese for your thoughts,” Molly offers.

  I glance over to find her holding up a piece of cheddar, which I take with a heavy sigh. I nibble at it, telling her, “Once upon a time, this life was my dream. I thought I would have everything I could ever want right here.”

  I point out the window, not really meaning Times Square itself, but all of New York. It was such a big deal for me to leave home and move here, but now . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to go back to Massachusetts, I know that much. I can hear Mom saying ‘I told you so’ in my head. I don’t need to hear it for real.

  But New York seems less exciting than it was before. Less fulfilling. Like Clay, the city hasn’t changed, but I have.

  “And now?” Molly ventures quietly.

  I shrug, not knowing how to put what I’m thinking and feeling into words.

  After a stretch of silence, Molly says, “Did you hear that Beatrice won? She’s supposed to get an internship with Bitch Corbin.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard, but other than the obvious betrayal, she deserved it. Any of us did. We’re all great designers.” It’s hard to admit but absolutely true. Beatrice fucked me over, but she is a good designer, and if things were different, I would be thrilled to wear any of her pieces. Or Molly’s, Yori’s, and Katarina’s.

  Molly snorts out a sardonic laugh. “I thought you’d be ready to bitch slap Beatrice, ranting about how she should’ve been disqualified, or taken out into the streets and publicly humiliated. I was excited to tell you that I gave her a big ol’ chunk of my mind before things were over. We had it out. There were tears—hers, not mine, of course. So what’s with this pageant girl ‘we’re all deserving’ shit?”

  I truly laugh a tiny bit for the first time in days, which is exactly what I hoped hanging with Molly would do. She’s such a supportive friend and a great hype girl, you can’t help but believe her and have fun with her. Even in the worst of times.

  “I just feel . . . disappointed. In Beatrice, I mean.” I’m not touching the other topic— Simon—with a ten-foot pole right now. I’m not ready, not with Molly. Claire was sympathetic, Nora and Clay patted my shoulder and gave me hugs. Molly? She’ll plot and plan out Simon’s untimely death by ‘accidental’ car crash, and likely follow through with it. “I’m grateful for the opportunity because I learned a lot, especially about myself as a designer. And I got to reconnect with you and meet the other designers. But I’m disappointed in how it ended up.” Tears spring to my eyes. “I love you, Mols. Thank you for coming.”

  “Damn, girl. I didn’t do nothing yet. Just got you cheese and alcohol. Is that all it takes these days?” she teases. But she finishes up with a heart-felt, “Love you too. Don’t make me get all weepy, though. This eye makeup took me forty-five minutes, and I’m going to make the most of it.”

  She gives me what I think is supposed to be a modelesque smize look, and it’s actually not half-bad . . . until she twitches.

  “Was that supposed to be a wink? Or do you have a lash in your eye?”

  “Bitch.” She takes a long drink of her sangria and then lifts her chin at me, silently telling me to drink up. “All right, time for the nitty-gritty. What the hell happened with you and Simon?”

  “Uhm . . . well . . .” I fall quiet, unable to find the words.

  “Okay, how about this instead . . . stop me if I’m wrong. He got one look at that twerking ass on day one and was smitten. Chased you all over Paris until he got in your pants, or more likely, got you out of them. He fucked you stupid and sore at every possible opportunity, and you caught the feels. When Chloe pulled her stunt, you went DEFCON Five and blew everything up. ’Bout right?”

  My eyes have fallen to the table where I’m studiously choosing a type of cheese as if it’s a life and death decision. I mean, is heartbreak more of a cheddar or a blue cheese situation? “DEFCON One. Five is the best, one is the worst. But it wasn’t only sex. It was . . . more. Or I thought it was.”

  “Was it the real deal?” Molly asks around the cheese she picked easily and shoved into her mouth.

  “More real than anything I’ve ever felt before. We didn’t say it, but I fell in love with him. That’s what the necklace thing was about. When he put that on me, it meant something. And when I put one on him, I was saying . . .” I trail off and shove cheese in my mouth, not knowing or caring what kind it is.

  “Hmm. Well, shit. If it was what you say it was, are you gonna give him a chance when he comes crawling your way? Maybe make him grovel a bit? Or apologize with his tongue?” She grins gleefully. “Oh! You could tie him up, sit on his face, and have him write his apology on your clit with his tongue till you come at least three times. And then? Cockblock him. That’d be fun.”

  I can’t help but laugh a little at her crazy ideas, and somehow, a confession falls off my tongue. “He always made me come more than that.”

  Molly’s eyes bug out. “More. Than. Three. Times?” When I look at her sheepishly, she shakes her head. “Girl, I know you’re smart and all, but sometimes you can be stupid as hell. If a man was making my kitty purr like that, I’d be latched onto his dick no matter what.”

  She’s kidding, but I don’t laugh this time. It wasn’t the sex with Simon, though that was amazing. It was who he is. Or who I thought he was.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going there, and he’s not coming here. Why would he? He can have anyone, obviously. And I’m just . . . me. The foolish young American who got duped.”

  “I’m pretty sure you mean . . . the amazing, awesome Autumn who got—” She jumps, “Sorry, hang on.” She digs around in her purse for a moment until she finds her phone and then clicks around on it for a moment. “Text message to confirm a meeting.”

  “For a job? Are you thinking of staying in New York?” I’m excited at the prospect of having her here. Then I won’t be so lonely, at least, and Molly and I can definitely have fun whether we’re bingeing Netflix or going out. Though it’ll be a while before I feel like a night on the town beyond this. I eat another piece of cheese, washing it down with sangria.

  “I don’t know. I’ve got feelers out all over. The competition got us all a bit of attention.” She looks out the window and points. “Hey! Look at that!”

  The Times Square view is what this place is known for, but there’s no telling what Molly is checking out in the mass of people below. Naked cowboy? Drunk Elmo? A bachelor party of muscled up men in fancy suits? It could be nearly anything.

  I follow where Molly’s pointing to find one of the famous LED billboards displaying a picture of . . . me and Simon in front of the Eiffel Tower. I’m looking at the camera and smiling goofily, and Simon is looking at me with a soft, adoring expression. I think I’m dreaming for a moment, but there’s no mistaking my flaming hair in high definition, nor Simon’s sharp jawline.

  “I dunno, he looks pretty smitten to me,” Molly says slyly.

  “What’s going on?”

  Behind me, I hear a voice say, “You are all I’ve ever dreamed of, all I could ever want, Princesse.”

  I turn to see Simon on his knee, putting him at eye level with me. I’m in shock, but I don’t think, I just act . . . impulsively. I lunge for him, slamming my lips onto his.

  Why?

  Because I love him. I don’t know what’s happening, but I will not give up this opportunity for one more kiss. Not for him, but for me—because I want it.

  When his tongue demands entrance, I allow it until he sighs into the kiss in relief. That’s when I push him away. “I’m mad at you.”

  Molly laughs as she loudly whispers, “You probably should’ve led with that, girl.”

  The whirlwind flip of my mood seems to amuse him because Simon smiles in response. “Oui, and I with you.”

  “You’re mad at me?” I balk. “What for?”

  He lowers his chin, staring at me from beneath his brows. “You know how I feel about you. I made that abundantly clear, repeatedly—”

  “So I hear,” Molly says, interrupting Simon.

  “Shh! I wanna hear this,” I tell her, waving my hand to shut her up. I think she laughs, but my attention is on Simon, who is still on his knee beside our table.

  “Yet, you thought I would kiss Chloe by choice?” He sounds hurt and a bit angry.

  “I saw you kiss her back,” I argue defensively.

  “What you saw was me trying to not draw attention to her boorish behavior by making a scene, especially when you had told me implicitly that you wanted to stay quiet until after the competition. I was stuck between a rock and a rock, don’t you see?”

  “A rock and a hard place,” I correct.

  Simon shakes his head. “What you thought was me kissing Chloe was me muttering ‘what the fuck’ as she kissed me.”

  I don’t believe him. I know what I saw.

  Molly holds up a hand. “Hold, please, it’s buffering. In three, two, one . . . here.” She flips her phone around where she’s pulled up a YouTube video of the fashion show. The scene between Simon and Chloe has been popular, I guess, given that the video has over a million views. I don’t want to watch it again, but Simon lifts my chin, forcing my eyes to the screen.

  I focus on Simon’s mouth—the hard press of his lips as he walks down the runway looking like a bad boy, the parting of his lips in surprise as Chloe plants one on him, and then the movement of his lips as he kisses her back.

  “Wait, rewind that.”

  Molly rewinds the video, and I watch as Simon’s lips, mid-kiss, say ‘what the fuck’, and then an instant later, the kiss is over. I can’t see Simon’s face as they walk back, but I can see the muscles in his back popping and the way his hand is clenched before he forcefully relaxes it.

  “I didn’t believe him either when he begged for my help,” Molly tells me. “Hung up on him three times before Tobias got me to watch the video, which I then went over with a detective-level, fine-toothed comb before agreeing to help this idiot.”

  I look from Molly to Simon, Simon to Molly, and realize that they’ve conspired to get me here tonight for this. The Times Square billboard, both of them in New York, the apology . . . like it’s all some grand gesture.

  Wait . . . the apology.

  “You haven’t apologized yet,” I say sternly.

  Simon meets my eyes, cupping my chin as though he can’t not touch me. “I am sorry that I hurt you. My intention is only to love you, worship you, and make you happy.” Honesty shines in his eyes, and to someone at another table, it must appear that he’s proposing because someone says ‘aww’ and then I can feel eyes on us.

  I test my heart to see if it’s enough, but my heart shouts back to grab onto Simon and never let go, and to be quick about it before someone else swoops in to snatch him away. Not that anyone could. “Accepted.”

  A clap sounds out around us, and I start to explain that we’re making up, not getting engaged, but Simon stands and takes my hand to lead me to my feet as well.

  “Let’s see the rock,” someone shouts.

  My eyes widen, and Simon smirks, holding up his outstretched palm. I look down and see my necklace. No rock necessary. “I didn’t think I was ever going to see this again,” I confess.

  “I had to get it repaired, but it’s yours. It always will be.”

  He doesn’t turn me around to put it on my neck, but rather, reaches around me to clasp the necklace into place. As I tilt my head to give him better access, I see the chain around his neck too, right where it belongs. I reach up to trace the line of it against his warm skin.

  “Oh, one of those things,” a voice says knowledgeably.

  I don’t feel any need to explain what this means to Simon and me. I know that these necklaces signify our love, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks or knows about it.

  It’s for us.

  “All right, I’m feeling a bit third-wheelish now,” Molly says, drawing my attention. “You two go on and celebrate doggy style. Menage e trois with my bestie has never been my thing. I’m going to eat my weight in cheese, drink another sangria, and then go upstairs to collapse. Jet lag is a bigger bitch than Jaqueline. I’ll probably order a huge room service breakfast in the morning, too.” She looks at Simon as she says that, and I ping-pong between them again in confusion until she explains, “I’m here on Money Bags’s dime. I’m staying in style tonight—king-size bed, private balcony, view of Times Square. I’m not as easy as you are.” She says it with a grin, and I know there’s something else she’s about to add. “Probably because I didn’t get the whole three-plus orgasm treatment in Paris.”

  Simon looks at me with wide eyes. “What all did you tell her?”

  “Not everything,” I say pointedly.

  But that only makes Molly more curious. “We’ll come back to that another time. For real, get out here, you lovebirds. Go smack each other’s asses or something.”

  She waves her hand, dismissing us, but before I go, I lean down and give her a big hug. “Thanks. For everything.”

  As Simon leads me out of the lounge, I hear Molly behind us shout, “One round of champagne for everyone in honor of love!” There’s a cheer around us as people raise their glasses at us as we make our escape.

  Outside, I laugh. “You know she’s going to put that on your tab, right?”

  Simon shrugs. “You own my heart, but I fear Molly has her hands on my wallet until she checks out of the hotel.”

  He flags down a taxi and tells the driver an address I don’t know. When I look at him curiously, he explains, “There’s something I want to show you.”

  I laugh. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line, now that we’re in my city? It’s my turn to show you around.” Simon puts his hand on my thigh and squeezes, and I realize what he means. “Oh, did you mean you want to show me your dick?”

  I forget to ask more questions because Simon weaves his hand into my hair, gripping it tightly by my scalp, and kisses me passionately. Suddenly, New York City seems like the best place ever, as long as I can stay at Simon’s side.

  CHAPTER 28

  SIMON

  We’re outside what looks like a normal New York City building, a few doors down from a parking garage, and in the other direction is a Taco Bell. But in front of us is a steel roll-down gate secured with a padlock.

  “What’s this?” Autumn asks. “I thought we’d go to a hotel.”

  “Patience,” I assure her, taking a key out of my pocket. I unlock the gate and roll it up, then unlock the door to lead her inside. At the end of the short entrance hallway is a cargo elevator, where I take Autumn up to the third floor. “We’re here.”

  I flip on the lights, revealing the wide-open space. It’s bare, concrete, and large, at least a hundred and fifty square meters, with zero charisma or appeal beyond its location.

  Autumn lifts an eyebrow. “Okay, we’re here. What is it?”

  “The future home of Autumn Fisher Designs,” I announce without preamble. “What do you think?”

  “What? I . . . but . . . but how?” She’s stuttering as she examines the studio, completely in shock. “What?”

  “I left House Corbin.” Her eyes lock onto me, and she opens her mouth as though she’s about to argue, so I keep going before she can have a chance. “I couldn’t stay after Jacqueline pulled that stunt, but beyond that, it opened my eyes to the truth. I was never going to have an opportunity to fully grow there. I’m Jacqueline’s nephew and will always be seen as such, and nothing more, no matter what I do.”

  “You quit House Corbin?” She’s several steps behind me, still processing my explanation, but she’ll catch up. I know she will.