Chapter 6
Anthony
There’s a particular kind of chaos that goes on backstage at a runway show.
It’s controlled and curated, glistening with the illusion of effortlessness.
All the while and just out of sight, a dozen interns frantically sprint around with garment bags, makeup artists have mascara-induced breakdowns, and creative directors bark orders like generals about to lose a war over the hemline of a silk trench.
I don’t mind the chaos. I helped build it.
But tonight, as the newest Voss & Bartley collection takes its turn under the lights and the first model glides down the runway, I find myself only half-present.
As I sit down in the audience, front and center, I’m not really watching the show.
My eyes might follow the models, but my mind is elsewhere.
Because I know she’s here.
April’s seat is seven rows down, tucked in the left beside the lighting crew. She’s far enough away to pretend we’re strangers. It doesn’t surprise me considering she’s not spoken to me since she walked out of my office two days ago.
Apparently, she put in a WFH request for the last two days. She communicated through my assistant.
I should be focused on the show. There are critics, cameras, and a cluster of board members watching me. Among those are Joseph Brant and Karen Bartley, my late wife’s sister. She’s sitting directly behind me and slightly to my right, breathing down my neck like always.
Joseph leans into my space first. “The board knows,” he says, low enough for only me to hear. “Karen’s been talking. Just a heads-up.”
I don’t look at him. “Fine. Let them talk.”
He hesitates as a model passes right in front of us. “You have a solution?”
“I’m working on it,” I murmur.
He waits for me to say more, but I don’t give him anything else. Joseph is probably the only member of the board I genuinely get along with. When he backs away, I know he’s not going to pry further.
Karen, on the other hand, is less discreet.
She waits until there’s a quiet transition between walks to speak to me. Her voice is casual and as smooth as honey. Her black dress shimmers as I glance back at her. “Anthony,” she says.
“Karen.”
“You know I have the easiest solution for you.”
“I take it you were listening to me and Joseph just now,” I say dryly.
“You’re not exactly quiet,” she retorts, resting her chin on her palm on the back of my chair, way too close to my space. “You need an heir. A wife, a child, someone connected to Voss & Bartley to keep it all intact. Someone already partially in the family, even.”
I instantly whip my head around to look at her and say, “You’re joking.”
Her lips curve, but it’s not quite a smile. “I have frozen eggs. The board would approve. It would be easy. The legacy remains, and the business stays in the family. I don’t think Natalie would mind.”
The mention of her name makes me stiffen. “Natalie is dead. I don’t think skeletons can mind anything.”
“You know what I mean, Ant.”
“My answer is no,” I say flatly.
“No to the eggs, or no to me?”
I lock eyes with her, unflinching and headstrong. She looks far too much like Natalie and far too little like someone who actually cares. “Both,” I say.
She doesn’t recoil, but the steel that clearly slips into her posture tells me she wasn’t expecting me to be so blunt.
“I already have someone in mind. I’m sorting it.”
I slowly turn back to the runway, letting my gaze stop for just a second on April. I pull my phone from my pocket and send a text.
Me:
I’m surprised you showed up.
I turn my screen off and watch the runway. However, I’m waiting and wondering if she’ll even respond. A minute passes, then two, and then it vibrates in my hand.
April:
You said the launch was mandatory. I wasn’t going to risk being fired again.
I smirk.
Me:
Not planning on firing you, April.
Unless you cause a scene here and start heckling the models. Then we’ll have problems.
April:
Was that a joke?
Did Anthony Voss just make a genuine joke?
What timeline am I in?
I stifle a laugh with my hand as my eyes flick from my phone to the runway and back again.
Me:
I was being entirely serious.
April:
Liar
I know before I even send it that it’s risky, but I do it anyway.
Me:
Brat.
The pause is clear. That single word hangs in the digital and physical space between us. I stare at the runway, not showing a hint of fear that I may have gone too far with one single word.
But when she responds, it’s a clear shift.
April:
So are you asking all of your employees to carry a baby, or am I just lucky?
Me:
Oh, my apologies. I thought the offer would be flattering.
April:
I was mostly horrified
Me:
And yet, you haven’t quit. You’re here.
April:
Because I have rent and bills to pay, and I quite enjoy having heating in the winter.
I’m halfway through typing a response when her next one comes through.
April:
Can I ask you something and get a real answer?
Me:
Yes.
April:
Why don’t you just fuck a model without protection and pop out a baby that way?
Me:
Language. I’m still your boss, April.
To answer your question, that would be complicated and messy. In case you were unaware, most models care a great deal about their bodies and wouldn’t want to have a kid until they retire.
April:
Okay. That makes sense.
But, like, for clarity’s sake:
… If I said yes
And I’m not saying yes, Anthony
But if I said yes, it would be my baby, right? Not someone else’s egg? That’s how it sounded.
Me:
Yes. Yours and mine.
There’s a pause so long I think she might not respond at all.
April:
Hypothetically, I say yes. I’d have conditions. Money upfront, a raise, full benefits WITH DENTAL.
And for you to stop calling my work “fine.”
I’m serious about the last one
For once, I struggle to hide the smile spreading across my face. She’s considering it. She’s genuinely, properly considering it.
Me:
Demanding.
I like that. It’s a good quality.
April:
That’s the least surprising thing you’ve ever said.
Me:
Anything else you’d want?
April:
Yes
If you ever make me throw out an entire draft and start from scratch again, I will go to the press.
Me:
It’s cute when you make threats you won’t follow through on. Do you think I believe you?
If your press release was written in the throes of some vivid fantasy about me throwing you over my desk, I reserve my right to ask for a rewrite. How’s that?
I glance at her again. Even though she’s half-hidden by the lights, I can see her red cheeks. But she’s not looking at me, she’s watching the runway. I can tell by the way her mouth parts and how her head turns just slightly that she damn well knows I’m looking at her.
I’m probably going to hell for all of this.
I sit back, my phone in my hand, watching the finale march begin. I wonder how long it’ll take her to reply to that one.