Chapter 2 #2
Maya’s face lit up with triumphant glee before her expression suddenly shifted, her eyes widening as if a lightbulb had violently exploded above her head.
“Wait!” she said, straightening up. “You have to come tonight.”
“Where?”
“The launch party for my Noir campaign!”
Maya grabbed a sleek, heavy cardstock invitation from the makeup counter and shoved it into Elena’s hands. “Half the city’s fashion elite will be there, plus every eligible bachelor and influencer in a five-mile radius. It would mean the world to me if you were there.”
Before Elena could answer, a harried assistant poked her head into the room. “Mrs. Montgomery? Your aunt is asking for you in her office upstairs. Immediately.”
Elena looked down at the black invitation resting in her palm. NOIR — Exclusive Winter Collection Preview. 9 PM.
For the first time in months, the idea of going to a high-profile party didn’t feel like a chore. Maybe it was because it was for Maya. Or maybe, if she was being entirely honest with herself, it was because she was going without her husband, Kyle.
She liked being Elena Waldorf far more than she liked being Mrs. Montgomery.
“I’ll be there,” Elena murmured, sharing a secret smile with Maya before heading toward the elevators, her mind already racing through the depths of her closet. For the first time in a very long time, the evening felt promising.
****
“Elena, please sit down before you wear a trench into my vintage Persian rug,” Aunt Julie said, not bothering to look up from the mountain of legal documents on her mahogany desk.
Elena dropped into the velvet chair across from her with a theatrical sigh. “Bonjour to you too, ma chérie,” she offered, tossing a bit of French into the air just to mock her aunt's tightly wound European sensibilities.
Julia ignored the bait entirely, calmly unscrewing her fountain pen.
Honestly, Botox should have come with a government health warning, because her aunt's face barely moved anymore.
She permanently carried the effortless, terrifying expression of an aristocratic French woman who was mildly disappointed by everyone in her immediate vicinity.
Yet, she was undeniably stunning. Julia Leclair carried herself with the kind of intimidating elegance that money couldn't buy, but a lifetime in Paris certainly could.
Her rich, caramel-brown hair fell in a flawless, glassy wave over one shoulder—not a single strand daring to defy gravity.
Instead of a stiff suit, she wore a beautifully tailored, asymmetrical cream skirt and a silk blouse that screamed high-end couture.
She didn't look exactly like Elena's mother, despite being her younger sister.
Elena's mother had been softer, warmer, like sunlight through a window.
But every now and then, Julie would tilt her chin at a certain angle or give a faint, elusive smile, and a wave of nostalgia would hit Elena right in the chest.
“You’re staring,” Aunt Julie remarked dryly, still signing papers.
Elena smiled faintly. “Just wondering if I’ll look that terrifyingly good when I’m forty.”
“You won’t if you keep surviving entirely on iced lattes and three hours of sleep,” Julie replied, her sharp French accent lacing the words with an elegant, judgmental sting.
Elena chuckled. “Ah, there’s the warm, maternal support I come here for.”
That actually earned the briefest, rarest twitch of a smile from Julie, and for a fleeting second, the suffocating tension in the room evaporated. It felt like years ago—before the car crash, before the business started drowning, before everything between them became a minefield of careful words.
It felt like being fourteen again, sitting on a marble counter in Julia’s Parisian mansion while her aunt sipped Bordeaux and taught her which high-fashion designers were secretly sleeping with which tabloid journalists.
God, Aunt Julie used to be so much fun.
Elena’s eyes drifted to the red-inked financial reports spread across the desk. She hesitated, tapping her fingers against her designer bag. “Can I ask you something?”
Julie leaned back, her gaze finally meeting Elena's. “Depends on the question.”
Elena pressed her lips together, summoning her courage. She reached out, casually pulling one of the reports closer as if she were just browsing. “It’s just… it’s been almost ten years since Dad died, and the company still isn’t stable, aunt Julie. We keep bleeding top-tier investors.”
She looked up, her voice careful but steady. “Is it possible that the traditional management style just… isn’t working for the modern market anymore?”
Silence stretched across the room, heavy and suffocating. For one beautiful, delusional second, Elena thought her aunt was actually considering her input.
Then, Julia’s expression turned to ice.
“Excuse me?”
Elena instantly regretted opening her mouth.
“I didn’t mean it as an attack—”
“If you hadn’t gotten yourself arrested at fifteen for doing drugs, I wouldn’t still be cleaning up your mess.” Julie fired back, her voice a whip crack of aristocratic disdain.
Elena groaned, throwing her head back. “Come on, Aunt Julia! That was a decade ago! And for the millionth time, I didn’t even do drugs!”
“You were underage, highly intoxicated, at an illegal warehouse party where the police seized narcotics,” Julie countered smoothly, adjusting her cuffs. “In the eyes of the media, the distinction is entirely irrelevant. It was a scandal.”
Elena looked away, a familiar, hot frustration bubbling in her throat.
She loved her aunt fiercely. Julie had raised her after her parents died.
Julie had fought the ravenous paparazzi like a lioness to protect her.
She had held Elena’s shattered life together with perfectly manicured hands, time and time again.
She was the last living piece of her mother.
But Julie had a fatal flaw: she would rather blame the company’s downfall on Elena’s teenage rebellion than admit that Waldorf Fashions was drowning due to her own outdated stubbornness.
Julie stacked the papers with a definitive, sharp thwack against the desk. “Either way, we absolutely need Harrington's client. Do not mess this up, Elena.”
“I know,” Elena muttered.
“And if there is an opportunity to arrange a direct meeting with this investor, I want it done immediately. Isn’t William Harrington supposed to be a close personal friend of yours?
Ask him for a favor. We need a bulletproof relationship with this new backer before another fashion house catches his eye. ”
Will was already doing her a massive, career-saving favor just by bringing his mysterious, ultra-wealthy client to their boardroom table. But Elena kept her mouth shut. Julia didn’t want an equal partner; she wanted an obedient niece.
“I'll talk to Will,” Elena nodded slowly, though an uneasy sensation settled deep in her stomach.
A man with that much global capital didn’t move anonymously through the New York financial circuits unless anonymity itself was his primary weapon. Who was this guy?
Before she could ponder it further, a sharp knock saved her from the interrogation.
Aunt Julie straightened instantly, her flawless, corporate-matriarch mask sliding perfectly back into place.
The door opened, and her assistant stepped in. “Ms. LeClair, Mr. Harrington has arrived with the legal team. The boardroom is ready for you.”
Perfect timing, Elena thought, a wave of relief washing over her. She stood up so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. If she stayed in this office any longer, she was going to end up in a French prison.
“Duty calls,” Elena said with a breezy, dramatic salute, thrilled to escape the lion's den.