Chapter 12
The Paris Trip
The Paris collections were the crown jewel of the fashion calendar, and Chroma’s coverage was sacrosanct.
The trip had been on the calendar for months, a glittering, five-day whirlwind of shows, parties, and industry schmoozing.
It was supposed to be their first trip together as a couple, a romantic backdrop to their professional partnership.
Now, it was a minefield.
They boarded the Eurostar in a silence that was both tense and exhausted.
Isla stared out the window as the London suburbs blurred into the Kentish countryside, then gave way to the flat, green fields of France.
Luca was buried in his tablet, reviewing show schedules, but she could see the tension in the set of his jaw.
Their hotel room was a beautiful, airy suite at Le Meurice, overlooking the Tuileries Garden. It felt obscenely luxurious for the chasm that separated them. They moved around the space like ghosts, unpacking in silence.
The first show was at the Grand Palais. Backstage was its usual hive of activity, but Isla felt detached, an observer behind a pane of glass.
She took notes, interviewed designers, but her heart wasn’t in it.
She watched Luca work the room, his charm and authority effortlessly turning back on, and felt a pang of loss for the man who had looked at her with awe.
That night, there was a party at a private mansion in the Marais. The air was thick with perfume and the clinking of champagne flutes. Isla stood near a towering floral arrangement, feeling utterly alone in the crowd. Luca was across the room, deep in conversation with a legendary Italian designer.
She saw a well-known editor from a rival magazine approach him, leaning in close, her hand resting on his arm in a familiarly possessive way.
Luca laughed at something she said, and the sight was a physical blow.
It was a glimpse of his life before her, a life that would continue, seamless and glamorous, without her.
She couldn’t breathe. She set her glass down on a passing tray and fled, weaving through the glittering throng until she burst out onto the quiet, cobbled street. The cool night air was a shock. She leaned against the ancient stone wall of the building, trying to steady her racing heart.
A moment later, the heavy door opened and Luca emerged. His face was etched with concern. “Isla? What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
“I just… I needed air,” she stammered.
He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the pain she was trying to hide. The professional mask he’d worn all day finally slipped. “This is killing me,” he said, his voice raw. “Being here with you, like this. It’s worse than not being with you at all.”
“I saw you with Alessandra Conti,” she whispered. “You looked… you looked like you used to. Before me.”
He stepped closer, his hands cupping her face, forcing her to look at him.
“Isla, look at me. That was nothing. That is my job. It is a hollow performance. You… you are the only real thing in my life. And I am watching you slip through my fingers because I was too much of a coward to defend you with my heart, and not just my head.”
There, on a dark Parisian street, with the sound of a distant party leaking through the walls, the carefully constructed dam between them broke. The distance, the hurt, the professional resentment—it all crumbled in the face of his desperate, heartfelt confession.
He didn’t kiss her. He just held her face in his hands, his forehead resting against hers, their breath mingling in the cold air. It was a surrender. A plea.
The Paris trip was no longer a minefield. It had become their last, best chance at a ceasefire.