There are so many options, I’m instantly overwhelmed and completely forget what my original description of my style was. But when Molly, Katarina, and Beatrice dive into the racks and Yori rushes to a table, I finally get my feet moving and follow suit.

  Classic. Elegant. With a twist.

  It comes back to me in a flash. That’s how I described my design style. I agonized over whether ‘with a twist’ was a positive rebellion against the Three Descriptors question that showed my originality or proof that I couldn’t follow basic directions.

  I flip through clothes, not knowing what I’m looking for. Finally, after considering an Amish-style prairie dress for way too long, I stop myself and close my eyes.

  Focus, Autumn. Choose your words, and that’ll guide your selection.

  “Classic. What’s the opposite?” I ask myself quietly. “Trendy,” I answer easily. “Disposable fashion, not something that’ll stand the test of time. Elegant? Trampy? No . . . maybe trashy? And twist.” I’m regretting that one, and then it comes to me. “Basic!”

  Trendy. Trashy. Basic.

  It’s perfect, the antithesis of my personal style and design aesthetic.

  With those words echoing in my head, I begin flipping through the racks as quickly as I can.

  Molly lets out a victory cry, and I glance up to see her holding a neon yellow tube top. “Got my dress! Layer one, complete.”

  “Uhm, that’s not a dress, Mols,” I warn.

  “It is if I say it is.” She’s confident, I’ll give her that. “I need a boa. Move it or lose it! Incoming!” she yells just in time for Yori to move out of her way as she attacks the rack of boas in every color of the rainbow.

  I find a neon pink scarf with a satiny sheen and grab it before running over to the jewelry table. I find a ridiculously chunky, long chain that would be enough for Mr. T to only wear one necklace, and weave the scarf through the chain a few times. Pleased with where this is going, I yank my clothes off and lay them over another table.

  Nudity, or near nudity, at least, isn’t a big deal in the fashion world. Admittedly, I’m not usually naked backstage, but I’ve used myself during the creation process more than a few times.

  I fasten the necklace around my waist, forgoing the expectation of wearing it around my neck, and then tie the scarf around my neck, creating a halter effect. Next, a skirt, or maybe pants?

  I somehow come up with the rest of my outfit—the scarf top, a skirt that I rip along the bottom seam for a frayed effect that barely covers my ass, and over the knee boots with tall platforms and spiky heels. I add another scarf as a train, tying it to the waist chain too. A few more bits and baubles, and I’m ready.

  Just in time, too, because I realize that everyone else has already completed their outfits and left the room.

  “Shit! C’mon, Autumn. Get it together.” I hurry down the hallway, realizing that I’m not entirely sure which door we came out of. They all look the same, and time is ticking.

  I grab the door handle I think is the correct one and take a steadying breath to get into character for the razzle dazzle Tobias said Madame Corbin wants. I burst inside and twirl, giving the room my back, dropping it down low to twerk and singing, “There’s some hoes in this house, there’s some hoes in this house! Yeah, yeah, yeah you fucking with some wet ass pussy! Give me everything you GOT! With this wet ass—”

  A deep, growly voice interrupts my shenanigans, and I freeze mid-twerk, slowly turning around with my knees still bent. My heart skips a beat when I see a very handsome man with dark hair sitting at a round table with an older man who looks aghast. If a scowl can curdle milk, then the man’s scowl is curdling my stomach, making me feel bubbles of emotion in my tummy.

  If he weren’t looking at me with disapproval, I would absolutely be enchanted by his devilishly good looks. His face is perfection, with full, kissable lips, a sharp jaw, and piercing whiskey brown eyes that peer out from beneath exquisitely arched eyebrows.

  He says something in French, which of course I have no clue what it means, but it’s clear he’s angry.

  His voice is guttural gravel, with a sexy as fuck accent, and the combination of the two sends goosebumps over my skin. Not having a clue in hell what he’s asking me, I squeak out, “I’m sorry! I stepped inside the wrong room, I . . .”

  My voice fails me, and when the man’s eyes dip down to where my ass is hanging out from the bottom of my skirt, I squeak and drop my train for some coverage. But it’s too late. Way too late.

  I run for it.

  In the hall, another door opens and Tobias greets me, “Hurry, Mademoiselle Fisher. We’re waiting on you.”

  I want to keep running, right out the front door and all the way home to New York, but I try to stuff down my mortification, praying that the other people in House Corbin know about this crazy challenge.

  I don’t do a grand entrance this time. I simply walk in.

  Madame Jacqueline is waiting for me. Definitely not a good sign.

  She’s a tall, regal beauty, even more so in person than through the computer screen. Her black hair is up in a ballerina-worthy bun, she has a thick coat of mascara on her lashes and plum lipstick on her pursed lips, and she’s wearing a gray pantsuit tailored to perfection.

  “Bonjour.”

  I think she’s searching for my name, so I offer, “Autumn Fisher. It’s lovely to meet you, Madame Corbin.”

  She sniffs the air as though she smells something rank. Oh, God, is it me? I was working pretty hard to get this outfit pulled together quickly, and that catastrophe back there definitely gave me the cold sweats.

  I look around the room, trying to judge whether she behaved this taciturnly with the other finalists. But they’re all wide-eyed and seem surprised.

  Molly is wearing the yellow tube top as a dress, with a rainbow’s worth of boas wrapped down her arms and legs, making her look like Big Bird at a Pride Parade. Katarina is wearing an orange mu-mu that must be ten sizes too big because she looks like a deflated balloon. Beatrice has on some sort of dominatrix outfit that doesn’t look particularly crazy, nor does she seem all that uncomfortable. If I found out that it was from her personal wardrobe, I wouldn’t bat an eye. Yori, on the other hand, definitely gives me pause. She’s naked, or nearly so. She has taupe tape covering her nipples and delicate chain jewelry draped over her hips. I don’t look too closely, but surely, she has on flesh-toned underwear underneath, right?

  “Interesting selections, ladies. I feel this has given me some insights into your creativity and imagination, as well as your work,” Jacqueline tells us. “I look forward to seeing what you create for this week’s fashion show.”

  She leans over and whispers something to Tobias, and Molly bumps my elbow with her own. “Psst, what happened? You were almost done when I left.”

  Speaking out of the side of my mouth, I tell her, “I messed up big-time. Got lost and went into the wrong room. I twerked in singing WAP to a private meeting.”

  “You did not!” she hisses, eyes questioning whether I’m fucking with her. I stare back stone-faced. “Shiiit. Hopefully, it was some nobody that doesn’t matter.”

  It wasn’t.

  I’m not that lucky. The sexy guy with the scowl and voice to die for? I know that face. It was Simon Corbin, the heir apparent to the Corbin empire.

  I don’t tell Molly that, still thinking that maybe I’ll wake up back in my Paris apartment bed. I’ll laugh at the crazy nightmare my brain conjured up to cope with the excitement and stress of the competition.

  And none of this will have actually happened.

  CHAPTER 4

  SIMON

  Ten minutes ago . . .

  Pierre Venerable is supposedly forward-thinking and cultured, but as conservative and arrogant as he is pompous. If I were to never see him at a company function or be forced to entertain his condescension during a meeting, my life would only be better.

  Not that I’m whining over the luxury I’ve been blessed with. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  But that doesn’t mean Venerable isn’t exasperating.

  “Simon, I understand that you feel qualified to lead us in a new direction. I even agree that something must be done to right this ship, but I am not certain this contest of yours is the course correction we need.”

  Only experience at dealing with snobbishness for my entire life keeps my eyes from rolling. Venerable’s family ancestry has a background in the Navy, and he owns some rather large shipping interests, but throwing every nautical term you know into non-water related conversations is overkill.

  I sniff, trying to hide my frustration. “Monsieur Venerable, while I will agree the challenges of the past few seasons have been concerning, House Corbin is, and will remain, the foremost respected brand in France. Once more, this competition will provide a fresh injection of vibrancy, allowing us to tap into the quickly changing global markets beyond French aristocracy.”

  Venerable’s face says everything he’s thinking. I can practically smell his disdain.

  To him, I’m nothing more than Jacqueline Corbin’s pretty nephew and an example of nepotism at its finest. Once, he would’ve been correct. I was nothing more than a pretty face, literally serving as the male face for House Corbin at my aunt’s behest.

  With age came the desire to be more and do more. I began by taking a deeper interest in the photography and representation of the brand during my model shoots. My interest quickly grew into learning the business side, and I immersed myself in every department, wanting to know as much as possible.

  Despite my last name, not because of it. I have earned my position as an executive director.

  “Do you know what the word on the street is about House Corbin?” I ask him darkly. To his credit, he frowns but doesn’t speak. “Stale. Repetitive. Elitist. That is what I’ve communicated to Jacqueline time and time again. It’s what got her on board with this competition.” Using his own verbal habits, I drive the point home that this is happening whether he’s happy about it or not.

  “Bourgeois,” he mutters.

  “Pardon?” I snap, glaring at him unforgivingly.

  He withers beneath my direct challenge, but judging by the way his lips are pressed so tightly together that they’re turning white, it’s with a significant effort on his part. He’s accustomed to his word being law, and in his world, that is the case. But not here. He is an investor in House Corbin, he has Jacqueline’s ear on the board, and he’s a make-or-break voice in the fashion industry.

  None of that means he can decide what happens inside the walls of House Corbin. But he is a tool I can use to my advantage.

  “Look,” I start, keeping my voice steady and amenable, “the world is changing and we must evolve with it. Shows like Project Runway have launched numerous respected careers, and bringing fresh ideas to House Corbin is key to continuing our relevance in fashion. Already, the Fashion Females Under 25 competition has increased our social media footprint and driven two new magazine editorials to our door.”

  “Oh?” His interest is piqued by that, but I don’t gloat. Rather, I continue selling him in the hopes that he’ll speak positively to Jacqueline instead of suggesting that this is an unfortunate misstep.

  “Yes. An online magazine called Haute Couture and a print piece in Vogue Italia.” I know he won’t be as impressed by the online magazine since he’s a dinosaur that grew up on thick tomes of Bazaar, but online representations are necessary with a younger market.

  I’m not old, but after spending my life with Jacqueline as a stand-in pseudo-mother and working on fashion shoots before I was able to grow a proper beard, I don’t know that I was ever truly young. And if Jacqueline was ever young and carefree, the evidence has been scrubbed from existence.

  Venerable looks skeptical and is about to reply when the doors bursts open and in comes a curvy woman with hair like the inside of a blood orange, who’s dressed in scanty clothing, singing in English, “There’s some hoes in this house, there’s some hoes in this house! Yeah, yeah, yeah you fucking with some wet ass pussy! Give me everything you GOT! With this wet ass—”

  As she sings, she bends down, her hands on her knees and her ass bouncing. And what an ass it is . . . begging to be grabbed. Or spanked.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” I demand, anger rising from the pits of my stomach. Actually, I don’t know whether to laugh at the outrageousness or to rage in fury at the inappropriate interruption.

  But . . .

  Her body is all sensuous curves, ripe and delectable in a way I am very much not used to seeing. In this world, where thin is perpetually in, I’ve gotten used to what the fashion media calls ‘sexy’. I’ve had supermodels draped on me, and the common man’s masturbation fantasies are now commonplace to my jaded sensibilities.

  But this flame-haired vixen is something I haven’t seen in a long time. Luscious and succulent . . . although I have no idea why she was shaking her ass and singing about her wet pussy.

  She freezes, shocked for a moment as she stares at me with wide eyes, her mouth agape. “I’m sorry! I stepped into the wrong room, I . . .” the woman says in strangely accented English, clearly not understanding me.

  As quick as she appeared, she disappears, closing the door behind her and leaving both Venerable and me in bewildered shock.

  “What was that?” Venerable demands judgmentally. “And what is going on in House Corbin, Simon?” I blink, trying to think of a single thing to say, and Venerable adds one more question I don’t have the answer to. “Why was she singing about her cat?”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I say, standing. Thankfully, Venerable’s understanding of English . . . casual terms . . . is less than perfect.

  Venerable sputters, “We are not finished.” As I reach the door, he calls out, “Careful, Young Corbin. You have much to learn and would do well to stay within the boundaries Jacqueline created before you were a speck in the universe.”

  That is the message he came to deliver today, and despite the interruption, he was successful. But I’m not going to let him leave with the last word.

  “Boundaries are meant to be crossed and redrawn. If we stay stuck in a box of our own making, comfortable and secure in the knowledge of every corner, we will never explore all that is possible. In fashion, or in life.” Narrowing my eyes, I say, “Hopefully, you will see what happens with the upcoming shows and your fears will be assuaged.”

  I let my ears lead me, and a mere two doors down the hall, I hear voices. That explains the mistaken door choice, but not the outfit nor behavior. Opening the door, I’m greeted by one of the oddest sights I’ve ever seen . . . within the walls of House Corbin or outside them.

  It appears to be a masquerade party of sorts. Five women, all in various outrageous costumes, are chatting with Tobias, who’s holding court as he speaks about the history of House Corbin.

  Conversation stops when I close the door behind me. “Monsieur Corbin,” Tobias says congenially. “Come, come . . . meet our guests.”

  “I’d be delighted, though I’ve already met one of them.” I pin the redhead with a stormy look.

  She makes a sound of embarrassment, shrinking into herself. But almost instantly, she corrects the movement and straightens her back, eyes meeting mine and holding steadily.

  Isn’t that interesting?

  The brunette next to the redhead throws an elbow, nudging her in the rib. “Is that the ‘meeting’ you interrupted, Autumn? Because I’m considering interrupting one myself . . . by divorcing my knees and doing a little twerking of my own.”

  And now I’m reminded of my vixen’s name. I saw it, along with a peek at her social media, when we went through the applicants for the competition. I’d been intrigued then, but now, I’m fully interested.

  “Molly! Shh!” Autumn hisses.

  The brunette lets out an evil chuckle but quiets, though her eyes speak volumes.

  “Ladies,” Tobias says, “this is Simon Corbin, executive director of House Corbin, and as I’m sure you know, the face of our brand. He is the one who came up with the Fashion Females Under 25 competition.” He makes the announcement with a small golf clap that I’m sure he’ll give me shit over later.

  “Thank you. I am wondering why our guests are dressed so . . .” I trail off, not sure how to describe the variety of craziness in front of me.

  Tobias laughs easily. “It was a brilliant idea your aunt had. Have them dress up amusingly in a style to be in opposition to their usual. And voila.”

  “Interesting,” I allow, though I don’t like it. The competitors Jacqueline and I selected are all talented, innovative designers. They should not be reduced to dramatic antics, despite the tempting sexiness of the frayed strings adorning Autumn’s upper thighs. An image of the same frayed bits hanging over her ass while she twerked forms in my mind, resulting in a tightening in my slacks.

  One of the women steps forward. She’s wearing a strappy black leather harness over a low-cut silk camisole and slim-fit cigarette pants with a zipper that begins near the belly button and disappears between her thighs invitingly. “Bonjour, Monsieur Corbin. Je m’appelle Beatrice Dupont.” She holds her hand out, not for a handshake, but rather for me to kiss the back of it. I glance from her eyes to her hand and then take her hand in my own and move it up and down a few times. Her eyes darken in disappointment.

  Next, Yori steps forward, introducing herself and bowing her head slightly. I only know konichiwa in Japanese, so after that, our introduction finishes and she steps back.

  Next comes Katarina with a firm handshake and direct eye contact as she introduces herself in Russian. I can carry on a passable conversation in Russian, and she seems delighted by the fact, despite my accent being embarrassingly poor.

  Molly skips up to me, leaning forward with pursed lips that scare me at first, but thankfully, she presses her cheek to mine on one side and then the other, making a loud smacking sound to the air. “Nice to meetcha,” she says gleefully.