I make myself a simple breakfast of warm muesli and juice. Xerxes gets lightly seared beef bites in his bowl. Yes, my dog eats better than some people. But if I can spoil anyone, I can spoil him.

  “Will you be a good boy while I’m at work?” I ask Xerxes.

  On a whim, I grab a link of sausage from the refrigerator to add to my bowl, but just as I sit down, Xerxes comes flying over, jumping to snatch the sausage from my hand.

  “You little shit nugget!” I yell, chasing the naughty monster. Xerx runs across the living room, keeping the couch between us so I can’t steal back his prize. He pauses on the far side long enough to bite the sausage in half, swallowing both too-big bites almost without chewing. I glare, my hands on the back of the sofa as I measure the best way to reach him. “You wanna see if Yorkies can fly?”

  “Arf!”

  “Keep it up,” I tell him as I give up, knowing there’s no use in fighting for a sausage that’s already gone. I sit and start quickly eating my breakfast. “Your days might be numbered.”

  Xerxes tilts his head, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as if he’s laughing at me. He might be. He knows my threats are as empty as his perpetually hollow stomach.

  Once my bowl and Xerxes’s are empty, I toss them in the dishwasher. After a quick shower, I pull on a pair of running pants and a tight white cotton tank-top before putting on my favorite pair of Asics, ready for my morning’s activities.

  Outside, I stop at the corner to talk with Madame Laurent. Seventy-seven years old, she comes every day to her little corner station to sell baguettes. She says it’s mostly to keep herself busy and entertained in her old age since her husband died, but I suspect it’s also because she needs the small amount of income she earns each day.

  “Good morning!” I greet her, winking and bowing grandly as I take her soft-skinned, bony hand. “When are you going to answer my deepest prayers and become my bride?”

  Madame Laurent rolls her eyes, waving me off. “Oh, hush, you scoundrel! You know I’m too much woman for you!”

  I grin, placing a kiss on her arthritic knuckles. “Perhaps. How are you this morning, Madame?”

  “The back is acting up, but it’s nothing I can’t handle,” she assures me. “The doctors tell me that it’s the rheumatism. But, eh . . . what can I expect at my age?” she says with a lift of her bony shoulder.

  “Well I think you should expect the best at any age. If you are correct, you’re not surprised. If you’re incorrect, you can obsessively talk about it, disgusting bowel movements and all, and no one bats an eye.” Charmed at my irreverence, she giggles, the sound a lovely reminder of a younger Madame Laurent. “And tomorrow, can I get one of your wonderful baguettes?”

  “I’ll give you one, if you give me yours!” she teases saucily, making me laugh.

  We joke all the time, and it’s with a little hop in my step that I climb into my Bugatti and drive out of my nice, respectable neighborhood into one of the rougher areas on the outskirts of Paris, where I find L'orphelinat du Soleil, the Sun Orphanage. Originally a military armory and powder magazine owned by The Sun King, Louis XIV, the orphanage was started by Napoleon III before yet again we decided that royalty was something we were better off without.

  Now, it’s one of the largest non-religious children’s homes in Paris, and as I pull up, I think about this ritual. I typically come on Saturday mornings, but with the weekly competitions culminating with Saturday evening fashion shows, I’ve made other arrangements for the next few weeks because the care given here is close to my heart and I wouldn’t dream of skipping my visits. I park, smiling to myself as I see that my five charges are already outside, warming up by kicking a soccer ball around.

  There’s tall, blond and lanky Claude, who can jump like a mountain goat yet somehow stumbles over every pebble in his path. Or sometimes even when there’s nothing but air in his way.

  There’s Raphael, who’s dark, deep-voiced, and stocky. Though still a teen, he’s often mistaken for a man much older, and he uses that to his advantage. He’s the least capable jumper, but his balance and upper body strength are without equal.

  Samuel, the jokester of the group. He uses his sense of humor as a defense mechanism to hide his sensitive soul. He’s been through a lot in his short seventeen years, more than any other boy I’ve worked with, but yet, you’d never know it until something breaks through his armor of humor to the tender heart beneath. The last time that happened, I found him crying over a dead bird that he’d never even seen before.

  Then there’s Theodore, our sarcastic counter to Samuel’s more lighthearted humor. He’s just as scarred, but with a darker edge to his humor that is the opposite of his nearly platinum blond hair and good looks.

  Finally, there’s the most troubled and oldest of them, Tristan. Tall and grumpy, he trusts almost nobody. Considering the number of times he’s been betrayed by those who had called themselves his family, I understand. I handle him with silk gloves, as carefully as if he were made of dynamite. I’m still trying to find that connection with him that will allow me to help guide him into an adulthood of happiness.

  They’re calling out insults to one another as they kick the ball, mostly related to dick size and promiscuity.

  They’re good kids who are going to be good men, if given the proper guidance and mentorship. I plan to be that for them. That’s why we started doing parkour together, the running and skills creating an individual transformation based on awareness of what’s around you and what’s inside you. This morning, like the guys, I could use a bit of focus myself too.

  I clap my hands loudly, getting their attention. “Are we ready to run?”

  Starting slowly, we take off, the boys letting me lead them through the property. I remember doing runs like this even before it was popularly known as parkour, jumping over obstacles, climbing fences and walls, seeing if I could do tricks off the obstacles. Back then, it was simply boys being wild. Now, we treat it much more formally, learning and growing as we go.

  We loop the property as I increase the difficulty, stringing together larger jumps and more complex steps as we finish our warmups and leave the grounds to head into the surrounding neighborhood.

  “So, how has your week been?” I ask them as I turn over the lead to the boys. It’s one of the tools I’ve used to keep them interested and to build their friendship. They take turns leading, and as the leader, they learn to accept the responsibility.

  It’s built them into a unit. Or it’s building them into one, day by day.

  “Could be worse,” Samuel says with a little shrug as Tristan leads them down an alleyway, doing alternating wall jumps to avoid the potholes. “You know the home took in five new boys this week?”

  “Five?” I repeat, and Samuel nods.

  “The people are not doing well,” Claude adds as he vaults a garbage can. “More and more Parisians end up on the streets. Not all of them even reach the home.”

  It’s true, and something that pains my heart. I’m a wealthy man, worth millions . . . yet I could be richer than all the models in the world combined and not be able to make enough of a difference. I can’t save them all, but I can try to do right by these young men. And in turn, hopefully, they’ll continue the course and help another child when they are able.

  “Not that the home is doing well either,” Tristan grumbles as he drops back to let Claude take over.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I heard Monsieur Jardin talking about it,” Tristan says, jumping to touch a bar over his head. “Donations are down, so they’re struggling with monies to keep everyone fed and clothed properly. And with break coming, the younger boys will need to be kept in line all day.” Truthfully, I’m more worried about Tristan staying in line. If he strays, the consequences could be much more severe.

  Theodore interjects, “They’ll put them to work—mopping and scrubbing the dormitories.”

  Samuel jumps to touch the bar too, landing gently. “It’s their filth. If they picked up after themselves, it wouldn’t get so disgusting.”

  It’s not that bad. I’ve been in the dorms, but with children comes mess, and when you multiply it by several boys, the dirt increases exponentially too. The difficulty with funding is much more concerning, though.

  “I can try—”

  “Forget it, Simon,” Tristan says. “The boys in the home aren’t getting families. And we’re definitely not. Too old.” He points at Raphael. “Too broken.” He points at Theodore. “And too much of an asshole.” He points at himself. I note that though he judges himself harshly, he left out the two boys who wouldn’t be able to hear that sharp truth. He’s not as much of an asshole as he thinks he is. “Besides, we’ll have aged out soon enough.”

  We reach the grounds of the home again, and I take over the lead, slowing everyone down for a cool down lap before we stop and stretch.

  “I have been appealing to the mayor and the city officials, trying to do what I can,” I tell the boys as we stretch our calves. “Homelessness is a multi-faceted problem, and installing outdoor piss stations isn’t the solution.”

  “Might as well piss on the mayor, for all the good it’ll do you,” Theodore says. “Seriously, Simon, what good is appealing to a bunch of selfish assholes who complain about the availability of caviar or whether the foie gras is authentic? They’re not going to care about us unless it benefits them.”

  “Someone’s got to care. I care,” I point out. We lie down in the grass, doing flutter kicks for our stomachs. “I’m going to keep coming, checking on you, doing parkour. You keep working hard in your studies, developing yourselves. And when you get out there, I promise you I’ll help you find jobs, maybe even a girlfriend or two.”

  “Stop,” Tristan says angrily. “Cut the shit, Simon! Girlfriends? Come on, we’re barely above street trash! You really think a nice girl is going to want us?” He sniffs, laughing harshly. “Actually, I bet you could find some House Corbin girl who would. I bet they do anything you say.”

  “Trist!” Claude thunders. “That’s out of line!”

  “What?” Tristan spits bitterly. “It’s true, we all know it. In fact . . . why the fuck are you even here, Simon? You don’t know what it’s like being us. You probably wipe your ass with silk and gargle with champagne.”

  “I haven’t always.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, the way I see it, you’ve got the world by the balls—job, women, money, all of it. You can do whatever the fuck you want. Life’s too easy for you, Simon. You want to give us advice? Fuck you!”

  “Hey, dumbass,” Theodore says, knocking Tristan’s foot with his own. “All that shit you just said? That’s why we should be listening to him. He’s actually been successful in life. Maybe he can help us with ours.”

  Tristan jumps to his feet, ready to fight. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, did you listen to anything I just said? He doesn’t have to work for any of it! It’s all been handed to him! He won the genetic lottery with his looks, and everyone kisses his ass or slobs his knob!”

  I say nothing, waiting for Tristan to get it out. He needs to. This is poison to his soul, and even if it’s acid to my emotions . . . he needs to say it.

  “He’s using us to feel good about himself!” Tristan roars. “The same as those selfish government assholes you were talking about.”

  “Tristan.”

  He stares at me for a second, and realization of what he’s said dawns heavily, but instead of taking it back, he turns and marches angrily back toward the dorms. I sigh, watching him go, wishing I could go after him and help calm him . . . but that would only make things worse.

  “Simon, we’re sorry about Tristan,” Samuel says quietly. “He’s having a hard time.”

  We finish our workout, but Tristan’s outburst is a heavy pall on the mood. Still, when we’re finished, I do what I always do, giving each boy fifty euros.

  “Claude, can I trust you with Tristan’s?” I ask, pressing the bill into his hand. “Will he accept?”

  “He will . . . he just needs to chill,” Claude says, looking over his shoulder toward the dorm uncertainly.

  I force a smile, clapping him on the shoulder.

  The truth is, Tristan’s words stung, even if they weren’t fully true. Yes, I’m lucky my aunt raised me. But I did have my fair share of struggle, and I’m trying to give back.

  And even if he’s stubborn, even if he pisses me off sometimes, I won’t give up on Tristan. I understand where he’s coming from.

  I just hope I can change his perspective before he does something . . . permanently stupid.

  CHAPTER 8

  AUTUMN

  I’m nervously tap dancing in my flats, a concession from my usual heels because of the amount of work I’m going to do today. I don’t know who’s going to greet us this morning—Jacqueline with her elegant frown, Tobias with his friendly smile, or Simon with his cocky . . . cock. I’m not sure who I hope comes, either. Tobias is the safe choice, with no CEO pressure or sexy questions I don’t have the answers to.

  I’ve replayed Friday night at the bar a million times over the weekend and have yet to come to any reasonable conclusion. My embarrassing interruption possibly gave Simon the wrong idea about me, but if that were the case, then why the charade of the get-to-know-you talk? I want to hope that he sees something interesting in me, both with my designs and me as a woman. But that’s crazy. I’m here for one thing only—to compete in the Fashion Females Under 25. That’s my focus. It has to be, because this is going to take all my creativity and a big dose of luck.

  Somewhere, someone must hear my hopes because the door opens and Tobias enters. He’s wearing slim-fitting white slacks, a plaid pink and white button-up, a bowtie, and loafers. He could be at a country club mixer, or apparently, working at House Corbin.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselles. It is my honor to discuss this week’s competition with you.” We ready our pens, taking notes as he speaks. “The theme will be Summer of Youth, and you will create five designs that encompass that feeling. Each of you will be assigned one special model for a look of your choice, and the other models will be assigned at random. The runway show will be Saturday evening at eight P.M. Work as you see fit, here in the provided workspace, out in the inspiration of Paris, or wherever your muse speaks to you. The supply room is available with most anything you need, or we have an account set up with a nearby fabric store. We want you to succeed, so let your minds run wild, your hands work freely, and create something innovative that has the potential to move House Corbin into the future.”

  Energy is buzzing in the room, each of us ready to begin designing. Already, ideas are whirling through my mind.

  “Please select a card with your model’s name and measurements,” Tobias instructs, holding up five white cards with the House Corbin logo visible.

  Katarina runs toward him, her heels clicking on the floor. She snatches a card and dashes back in line with it pressed to her chest.

  The remaining four of us look at her and then each other and then attack Tobias for cards of our own. “Ladies, you don’t even know what you’re fighting for. All of the models are suitable, I assure you.”

  I grab one and hold it tightly as though Yori might steal it from me, but it’s with a smile because we’re all laughing at our own outrageousness. “Mine, mine, mine,” I drawl out, mimicking the seagulls in Finding Nemo. Only Molly seems to get it.

  “Shut up, you rats with wings,” Molly answers. We meet eyes, grinning like loons.

  I look at my card. Jeanette. The accompanying photo shows a gorgeous woman with short, tight natural curls, full lips surrounding white teeth, and a sparkle in her eyes. She’s perfect and I can’t wait to meet her.

  “First things first, I think we should go down to the supply area. I know we went there on our tour, but now that you have the theme, the options will seem much more real, I think.”

  Smart man. Summer of Youth . . . I need lightweight fabrics, probably bright or pale colored as well. Nothing too crazy. I’m not a neon leather kind of designer. I look around, wondering if any of the other ladies are.

  Tobias stands straight, his arms straight up in the air overhead. “On your mark—”

  He looks at us, and I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m looking at him stupidly, wondering what he’s talking about.

  “Get set—”

  Oh, shit. Are we starting the competition now? Like running for first choice of our fabrics? What happens if two of us want the same one? I’m envisioning Katarina and Beatrice rolling around on the floor with a bolt of fabric clutched between them. Molly would swoop in while Katarina was pulling Beatrice’s hair, and Molly would be the victor, holding her gold lame fabric high in celebration.

  “Go!” Tobias shouts, and we take off like bats out of hell, aiming for the single door. The bottleneck is inevitable, but we manage to squeeze through without injury. Barely.

  The supply room is heaven, fabrics as far as I can see stacked on shelves up to the ceiling. There’s a cutting table in the middle, but Tobias told us on the tour that we’re welcome to take the fabric bolts back to the workroom if we’d prefer. I start grabbing, not sure where I’m going with my designs but also not willing to lose out on fabrics that speak to me.

  I run back to the workroom with several bolts, spreading out on my assigned table. The space we’ve been given is enormous, much larger than anything I had at FIT or even at Nora’s. The room is large enough to hold five generously sized tables, a slew of various sewing machines, laptops, printers, and every other thing I could possibly need to design and create clothing.

  Even better than that is the vibe it has. The rest of House Corbin is modern and cold, but the workroom has a much friendlier feeling. It’s open, organic, and has tons of light, and even now, as the five of us perch at our workstations, we can chat easily as we draw. I’m on a tablet, as are Molly and Katarina. Beatrice and Yori said they prefer the feel of pencils and paper.