Between each introduction, my eyes return to Autumn. She looks frightened, probably concerned that I’ll scold her or have her removed from the competition. I have no intention of doing so.

  “Miss Fisher,” I greet her quietly, shaking her hand. She has a good handshake, strong despite her obvious terror. “I believe we’ve met.”

  “I am . . . so sorry,” she states earnestly. “I was confused and . . . I definitely didn’t mean to interrupt your, um, meeting?”

  “Meeting,” I confirm. This close, I realize how short she is. I tower over her, at least thirty centimeters taller. It’s another unique feature to her. I’ve gotten so used to women who are about as tall as I am in this industry. Growing up, I always thought tall women were the height of beauty, pun intended.

  But looking at Autumn, I’m quickly reevaluating that idea. Between her creamy pale skin, freckles, and utterly unique hair color, she’s beautiful in a way I’ve never really encountered before.

  And I like it . . . a lot. It’s certainly different from the common blonde or brunette that I frequently see in Paris.

  Looking into her eyes, I see intelligence hiding behind her worries and a strength that’s magnetic. She intrigues me, this American girl. She’s clearly still worried that I’m going to berate her in front of everyone.

  But perhaps I should teach her a lesson. Because what was that raunchy display all about?

  For a long moment, I let the tension draw out. “It would be beneficial if you are more careful and on your best behavior from here on out,” I warn quietly, my eyes flicking down to her generous cleavage.

  She catches her breath, unintentionally presenting herself for my eyes to feast upon, and I swallow thickly when I see her nipples stiffen beneath the garish polyester. “Yes, sir,” she replies before dropping her eyes.

  I’m instantly rock hard in my slacks. Is she flirting? Someone watching wouldn’t think so, but that’s what I’m feeling. Is she playing coy to garner favor for the contest, perhaps? Or is she truly naturally meek?

  If so, that will be a problem. Fashion is cruel, destroying even the most egotistical designers and models easily. But I remember the way she straightened her spine when I walked into the room, and even now, though her eyes lowered at first, she’s lifted them once again.

  That strength will be important if she has any hope of competing with the other finalists.

  I turn, giving her my back, and walk away a few steps, leaving a breathless Autumn to watch me take the center of the room to address the group.

  “Welcome to House Corbin,” I tell them all, my voice strong and commanding. “This will be your place to work, to strive, and to achieve for the next month. The three fashion shows that comprise the contest will all be held within the month. The first of which is in a mere five days.”

  The girls stiffen, realizing how serious things are despite the silly costumes and antics of their morning. “Now, the rules,” I begin. “Rule one. You will have all the material and supplies you desire. Do not feel constrained in any regard as to your creativity. Two, we understand that such short timelines require some concessions. You will be allowed to outsource portions of the creation process—though not the designing—to our bank of expert seamstresses. We are interested in what you can design and what is possible, not whether you can stitch it yourself. Three, you are to manage your own time. You are all professionals. We have provided a workspace you may use if you’d like. Or work in your provided apartments, or at a café table. It matters not. Completion of your designs on time to walk the runway is solely your responsibility.”

  There’s a murmur of agreement.

  I pause and look directly at Autumn even as I address the whole group. “Follow all rules. No questions asked.”

  Next to her, Molly grins. “Oh, Daddy, don’t threaten me with a good time,” she says, causing a couple of the women to giggle.

  I’d like to join in, but instead I level them all with my steeliest gaze. “Is everything clear?”

  They nod like bobbleheads, and I dip my chin toward Tobias, giving him the floor. He gives me a look of ‘we’ll have to gossip about whatever this was later’ but smiles warmly at the designers. “If you’d like to follow me, I’ll show you to the workspace Monsieur Corbin spoke of.”

  The women follow him from the room, and I watch as Autumn wobbles slightly in her ridiculously high boots. With my eyes, I trace the shape of her calf up to the pale strip of thigh between the boots and skirt and curl my hands in desire to make that trek with my fingers.

  Going out through the door disguised to look like a bookcase, I enter a back hallway and take the shortcut up to my aunt’s office. I knock once on the door and wait for permission to enter.

  “Entrez,” I hear from the other side of the glossy white door.

  Inside, Jacqueline sits behind her glass desk, studying a stack of white papers in front of her. “Ah! Simon, come in. Did you meet with the girls?”

  I sit in one of the white leather chairs in front of her desk, eyeing her carefully to judge her mood. It’s a skill I learned long ago and have had experience practicing.

  “Women, Jacqueline. Or simply finalists. None of them are girls,” I correct, taking a calculated risk. “And yes.”

  Jacqueline waves her hand dismissively. “They are here to work, to bring House Corbin to new heights. If that is possible.”

  Her superiority complex is impressive in its size.

  “It matters. We will be doing interviews, introductions, and presentations on the competition in the coming weeks. The marketing is centered on House Corbin supporting young female designers like you once were, ones who need exposure and opportunity.”

  The Fashion Females Under 25 competition might have been my idea, but Jacqueline is the public face of it. I’m suddenly worried that she will use and manipulate these women, perhaps take advantage of their creativity and leave them empty-handed. It’s an idea I hadn’t previously considered. Jacqueline is cold and austere, but honorable in her arrogance.

  But she is also proud, and the source of her pride is falling in a previously unforeseen way.

  It’s something to consider.

  “Fine. I take it you met the women, then?” she concedes.

  “Yes. In those ridiculous, HR-worthy costumes.”

  She smiles at the scolding. It’s a tiny lift of her lips, but it’s there. She did enjoy that ridiculousness.

  “Tobias’s idea. Rather outlandish, don’t you think?”

  She doesn’t actually want my opinion, so I don’t offer it.

  “Venerable came with a warning this morning. He seems to think I’m straying, getting out of line from your lead.” It’s a statement, but a question all the same. I respect my aunt and what she's built here. More importantly, I appreciate the life she gave me when I was left in her hands unexpectedly. I don’t wish to challenge her place either way, personally or professionally.

  “Yes,” she sighs. Grabbing a metal case from the desktop, she opens it and removes a slim cigarette. It’s a filthy addiction, but all too common here. Jaqueline leans back in her chair, not lighting the white stick, thankfully, but holding it between her long, thin fingers out of habit. “He came to see me after your meeting with him. Unlike him, I am willing to admit there is a changing landscape in fashion. It is not easily quantifiable the way he’d prefer, however.”

  “He’s getting bold, making demands and speaking with disrespect and condescension. I won’t put up with it,” I tell her sternly.

  Jacqueline and I walk a tightrope with one another. There is love between us, one of family blood, and respect for our individual gifts. But there is an edge where she needs me but hates that she needs anyone, even her nephew whom she’s raised to be her eventual replacement many, many years from now. Though she often takes the opportunity to remind me that I will not be in charge until she is dead, cold, and in the ground following an elegant service. And even then, she will haunt me if I do anything to displease her or dishonor her memory or the child she created, House Corbin.

  Not me.

  Jacqueline is my mother’s sister, and though she raised me from a small toddler to be the man I am today, I am not her creation. Or at least she doesn’t feel it to be so.

  “You think Pierre Venerable is disrespectful to you?” She laughs heartily. “Dear boy, you have no idea what ill-mannered buffoons I suffered to get House Corbin off the ground. If I could handle them thinking me only good for smiling at a camera or spreading my legs, then I think you can handle Pierre’s impertinence.”

  “I’m happy to do so. I simply meant that you may not approve of the way I choose to handle him. I’m already coming up with some rather violent ideas.” I grin savagely, though violence is not my preference and I wouldn’t actually hurt the old man. Physically.

  Mentally? Emotionally? Financially? All on the table and under consideration, though.

  “He holds a significant share of House Corbin stock and has the ear of the board. Even I answer to someone, Nephew.” She frowns, and I wonder if she’s reconsidering her choice to make the company public years ago. It was before my time in the office, but I’ve studied the history of every bit of House Corbin, from the first collection to present, and every business decision Jacqueline has made. It’s my history too, and my future, and I want to know all I can.

  “The competition will be a good thing,” I assure her. “You’ll see, and so will the board, including Venerable.”

  “Agreed. If it works, then it will be a great thing for House Corbin,” she says, communicating without saying who will get the credit in that instance. “But if it doesn't . . .”

  Her words hang in the air, and I can read them clearly. This is a kill or be killed industry, and there’s a saying . . .

  Blood is not thicker than fashion.

  For a tense moment, Jacqueline fixes me with her gaze, driving the point home before she smiles again and picks up her lighter. “Run along now. I have work to do, and I’m sure you do as well.”

  I stand, grateful to get out before she lights up.

  When I arrive back at my office, I find Tobias sitting outside. He stands as I approach and smiles broadly. “Thought you’d like the verdict from the finalists.”

  He is a brilliant man, and I appreciate his anticipating my desire to know everything. “Come in, let’s sit.”

  My office is white and crystal with golden accents, much like the rest of House Corbin. It’s cold and modern intentionally, a way of making the clothes become the main focus. I gesture to a chair, and both Tobias and I sit.

  “Spill.”

  “They are all very excited to be here, some more nervous and others more assured of their talents. There was much discussion of you, I must say.” He wiggles his eyebrows, lifting and lowering them salaciously.

  “Such as?” I prompt, surprisingly curious as to what they had to say about me. Or at least curious what Autumn had to say.

  “They think you are a ‘thirst trap’, as Molly called you. Yori was initially concerned you might be ill, even asked if you needed a bottle of water. But once they worked out the slang, it was understood that you are sexy.” He chuckles, shooting me a friendly jab. “If only they knew what an ass you are.”

  “Hopefully, you didn’t tell them,” I joke back, knowing he would never. Tobias has been with Jacqueline for a few years now and became a surprisingly good friend despite his proximity to my aunt.

  “Didn’t have to. Beatrice did that for me. She’s French, so she knows the gossip and your reputation.”

  “Merde,” I growl. “What did she say?”

  “That the Eiffel Tower would dwarf your ego, you earned your position by name only, and you are a man whore who can take home any woman you’d like, but then you kick them out with nary a call for a taxi immediately after bedding them.” He delivers all this with a straight face and zero emotion.

  My brows knit together, and I feel my face redden with fury, though it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. But the other finalists haven’t. Autumn hasn’t, or at least she hadn’t before Beatrice opened her mouth and spewed forth rumors as though they’re the truth of my character. “How dare she?”

  I’m clenching the arms of my chair, but Tobias shrugs casually. “She’s not wrong, though I will add that your reputation as a lover isn’t quite so crass. I usually hear after breakfast, at least.”

  His smirk is one that only he could get away with. If anyone else were to suggest I’m that rude, I would filet them with words at the least. I’m not stupid. I know physical altercations aren’t in my best interests when my looks are my trademark.

  “Fuck off, man. I don’t want them to think of me like that . . . or House Corbin,” I argue, adding on that last bit after a too-long pause.

  “Mmm-hmm. Believable. Totally.” He waits for me to banter back, but when I’m sullenly quiet, he offers, “Sounds like the hens are escaping the hen house tonight as well. Going to a club to celebrate the start of their adventure.”

  Instantly, all I can think of is Autumn at a club or bar, her body swaying to music as a smile curls her lips. The lights would dance on her pale skin, her hair a fiery beacon to the other patrons. She’d be instantly surrounded by Parisian men trying to charm her. My blood heats at the imaginary possibility. “Where?”

  He studies me for a moment curiously before lazily replying, “Les Chautons Fous.”

  CHAPTER 5

  AUTUMN

  Tobias’s tour amps up our excitement even more, if that’s possible. The workroom is spacious and bright, with a wall of windows that overlook the city and large tables to spread out our work. The supply room is a rainbow of fabrics, trimmings, and notions. The air itself feels full of potential.

  Getting to know the other competitors today has proven to be interesting as well. As embarrassing as the costume debacle was, the outrageousness of it broke the ice between us and I’ve enjoyed talking to them.

  Katarina has revealed herself to be dryly sarcastic with a wicked sense of humor, though she rarely laughed at her own zingers today. Yori is quiet, listening more than speaking, though I get the sense that she’s keenly observant, likely cataloging everything she hears. Molly is as wild and crazy as I remember, possibly more so, speaking with no filter or concern for how her words land. Beatrice is a harder read. She’s polite, classy, and aloof.

  I feel like the competition will be fun, and thankfully, no one seems too antagonistic. Not even Beatrice, despite Molly’s and my earlier concerns that she might be a Regina George type. She actually suggested that we all go out tonight to get a feel for Paris before we’re too busy to enjoy this adventure.

  Back in my tiny apartment, I flip through the pieces I brought, considering what will be most appropriate for a Paris nightclub. I’ve started with a black spaghetti-strap bodysuit with a thong bottom, perfect for any skirt I select. But which one?

  Suddenly, I’m struck with brilliance. We were allowed to bring our wardrobe items home with us, and the plaid scarf I used as a train is calling to me. I pick it up, thumbing the edge, and then wrap it around my waist. It’s just long enough down my thighs to work perfectly. I add a skinny leather belt that encircles my waist twice, strappy Mary Jane stilettos, and a delicate pearl necklace.

  I don’t have a full-length mirror, but I can visualize the outfit in my head. I’m ready.

  Downstairs, I see a minivan stopped near the curb. I can hear the music bumping from here, and the vehicle’s rocking from left to right, not from people having a lovestruck passionate encounter but because Molly is sitting in the passenger seat, dancing wildly. The door slides open mechanically, filling the street with deep bass beats, and Beatrice lifts one perfectly arched brow. “Is she always this . . . way?”

  I laugh and warn, “This is her sober and serious. You should see her when she’s drunk and wild.”

  “A une bonne nuit!”

  Oh! I know that one . . . “To a good night,” I repeat in English. Thanks, DuoLingo!

  Pulling up in our taxi outside Les Chatons Fous, which Beatrice told us means ‘The Crazy Kittens,’ our taxi driver pauses and says something to Beatrice, who answers back. The resultant conversation sounds like it’s bordering on an argument, with the driver throwing his hands up at the end but of course still accepting our euros.

  We climb out, and as we do, Yori turns to Beatrice. “Was there a problem?”

  Beatrice laughs. “He was telling me this place caters to tourists and kept insisting that we let him take us to another nightclub that is more authentic.” Though she doesn’t move her hands, I can hear the attitude-filled air quotes when she says authentic. “When I insisted, he was saying Niçoise are ignorant of Paris. I had to correct him.”

  “He knew you were from Nice?” Molly asks, and Beatrice nods. “How?”

  “My accent. You wouldn’t notice, but to natives, there are nuances from the various regions. Like you would know a Texan cowboy from a Californian surfer, no matter that they are both American.”

  I wonder if those are the only American references she knows. They are stereotypical, but I understand what she means given that I was instantly identifiable as from the Boston area when I first arrived in New York City. It took a while for the variety of the city to change my ear and my tongue.

  “Come.”

  We follow Beatrice to the gold and red painted double doors of the club, and I note that she slips some money to the bouncer as she passes. Inside, I have to pause to let my eyes adjust in the weathered brick foyer. It’s clearly darker than outside, but as we go through the inner doors, a whole new world is revealed.

  Everything is swanky, with dark oaks, red leather, and brass touches that give the club a sense of understated luxury. It’s the sort of club I could imagine the Curies sitting in, sipping wine and discussing science and art with Cousteau or Renoir. It has the aura of age and the feeling of immortality.

  On one side of the club is a beautiful bar with a brass rail and multi-colored bottles all contained in their own little cubbyholes, some of them labeled, some of them not. Filling the other three walls is a collection of booths and tables, intimate and lit by a candle in the center of each. The center of the space is a wooden dance floor that’s already filled with people moving and shaking to a song I’ve never heard, probably because it’s in French. In the far corner is a dark hallway with a velvet rope stretched across it leading, I suspect, to a VIP section that I can’t see.