Chapter 15
Willa
T wo days pass since Iskander started sharing more of his world with me, and I appreciate his trust more than I can express, but now he’s gone constantly, handling what I’ve overheard called “the front situation,” and I don’t know what that means or where he is most of the time.
The not knowing brings a new surge of panic that threatens to undo all the progress we’ve made.
I’m in the guest room converted to a hasty workroom at Iskander’s, trying to focus on a complex alteration for one of our longtime clients while Eve, my new assistant, consults with me via a video call.
Iskander hired her without consulting me, which adds another layer of anxiety to everything else.
She seems competent enough, but I don’t know her skills or whether I can trust her judgment with delicate work, and she’s the one running the in-person tasks at the shop, which adds even more anxiety.
“Ms. Reynolds, I’ve finished the sleeve adjustments on the Morrison jacket,” Eve says, angling the garment toward the camera. “Should I start pressing the finished pieces?”
I squint at the screen, trying to make out details that would be obvious if I were there in person.
The video quality makes it impossible to see if the seams are straight or if she’s managed the delicate wool blend properly.
“Please and be careful with the pressing. That fabric scorches easily if the iron’s too hot. ”
“Of course. I’ve set it to the wool setting you showed me yesterday.”
Did I show her yesterday? My pregnancy brain makes everything feel uncertain. I might have explained it, or I might have just assumed she knew. The not knowing gnaws at me worse than morning sickness.
“Eve, can you hold the shoulder seam up to the camera? I want to check the alignment.”
She adjusts the laptop angle, and I lean closer to my own screen, studying the pixelated image of work that should be perfect. Henri would have spotted any flaws immediately, but through this digital barrier, I feel blind and helpless.
“It looks acceptable from here, but I can’t see the detail properly through the video.” My voice carries more frustration than I intended. “Are you confident in the measurements we discussed?”
“I believe so, but would you like me to double-check against the pattern?”
I believe so. Not the confident assurance I need when handling a client who’s paid premium prices for custom work. Henri never would have said “I believe so” about anything in his shop. He knew, with absolute certainty, or he didn’t proceed, and that’s what he instilled in me.
The phone rings in the background of Eve’s video feed, and she glances toward it. “Should I answer or focus on the Morrison piece?”
“Answer the phone. Customer service comes first.” That rule Henri drilled into me from day one, but now I wonder if Eve understands the subtlety of managing client expectations while maintaining quality standards.
I watch through the screen as she moves to answer, her voice too distant for me to hear clearly.
The conversation lasts several minutes, during which I stare at the abandoned jacket and feel my anxiety climbing.
Is she taking proper notes? Does she understand our pricing structure?
Will she accidentally commit us to impossible deadlines?
When she returns to the camera, she looks slightly flustered. “Mrs. Chambers called about her husband’s tuxedo fitting next week. She wants to move it to Thursday instead of Friday.”
I flip through my appointment book, trying to remember the details of an order I should know by heart. “Did you check the calendar? Thursday might conflict with the Ashworth wedding consultation.”
“I... I didn’t think to check. Should I call her back?”
The uncertainty in her voice makes my chest tighten. When I was Henri’s assistant, I had the calendar memorized and would have offered alternative times while managing the situation elegantly. Eve seems well-meaning but lacks the instinctive understanding of how a high-end shop operates.
Or maybe she just lacks twelve years of mentorship under a class-act like Henri.
With that in mind, I try to cut her some slack.
“Yes, call her back. Apologize for not having the schedule in front of you, then offer her three alternative times that work with our existing appointments.” I rub my temples, feeling a headache building.
“Always check the calendar before confirming any changes.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
Her apology makes me feel guilty for being sharp, but the stakes are too high for on-the-job learning.
These clients expect perfection, and any mistakes reflect on the reputation Henri spent decades building.
“It’s fine. We’re both still adjusting to this arrangement.
” I try to soften my tone, but the stress of remote management is eating away at my composure.
“Is there anything else that needs immediate attention?”
“The fabric delivery arrived this morning. Should I inventory it against the order, or wait until you can be here?”
The question reveals another gap in her training. A good assistant should have known to inventory immediately, spotted any discrepancies, and handled the entire process without supervision. “Please inventory it now and email me any discrepancies. The supplier sometimes shorts us on quantities.”
“All right. I’ll send you a report by end of day.”
By end of day. Not within the hour, as Henri would have expected. Not with the urgent attention such matters deserve when clients are waiting for their orders.
After ending the video call, I sit alone in the converted workroom, surrounded by fabric samples and half-finished alterations, feeling more isolated than ever.
The physical distance from my shop compounds every other anxiety in my life.
I can’t assess Eve’s work quality, can’t maintain Henri’s standards, and can’t ensure our clients receive the service for which they’re paying.
The thread I’m working tangles in my hands, and after three attempts to fix the mistake, I give up and push away the fabric. The simple alteration has become an impossible challenge, and tears build behind my eyes.
A soft knock interrupts my spiraling thoughts. Alina appears in the doorway, carrying a small plate of sliced strawberries, cheese, and crackers. “I thought you might need something to eat,” she says, setting the plate on the side table. “You’ve been working for hours without a break.”
I look at the neatly arranged food and feel my composure cracking.
The kindness is exactly what I don’t need right now because it makes the tears I’ve been fighting threaten to spill over completely.
“Thank you, but I’m not really hungry.” My voice sounds strained even to my own ears.
“I think I need to lie down for a while.”
She studies my face with quiet concern. “Are you feeling unwell? Should I call Dr. Layton?”
“No, I’m just tired. Pregnancy fatigue.” I stand up too quickly, and the room tilts slightly. “I’ll be fine after some rest.”
“Of course. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.” She begins gathering the scattered fabric pieces. “Rest is more important than work right now.”
I climb the stairs to Iskander’s bedroom and close the door behind me, finally allowing myself to fall apart in private. The tears come harder now, born from a combination of hormones, fear, and frustration that I can’t seem to control.
I curl up on the bed we share, surrounded by his scent and the warmth of expensive linens, but it’s not enough to quiet the panic building in my chest. Seven babies. How do I carry seven babies to term? How do I survive the delivery? How do I care for seven infants without losing myself completely?
The questions circle endlessly through my mind, each one bringing new waves of terror that make my breathing shallow and rapid.
My chest constricts like someone’s pressing down on my ribs, and I can’t get enough air into my lungs.
I’m having another panic attack, and Iskander isn’t here to help me through it.
An hour passes before I hear his footsteps in the hallway.
He enters the bedroom looking haggard and exhausted, his usually perfect hair disheveled and his shirt wrinkled.
Dark circles under his eyes suggest he hasn’t been sleeping properly, and there’s tension in his shoulders that speaks of constant stress.
“Willa?” He takes in my tear-stained face and immediately crosses to the bed. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know where to start.” The words come out in a rush. “I can’t concentrate at work, I don’t know if I can trust Eve with important tasks, I’m falling behind on everything, and I’m terrified about the babies.”
He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me into his arms, his familiar warmth immediately soothing some of my anxiety. “Tell me about the babies. What’s frightening you?”
“All of it. The pregnancy, the delivery, and what comes after.” I bury my face against his chest, breathing in his scent. “What if I can’t carry them even to thirty-two weeks? What if something goes wrong during the C-section? What if I die and leave seven orphaned babies?”
He tightens his arms around me. “You’re not going to die.”
“You don’t know that. The doctor said there are risks with multiples and complications that could happen at any time.” The panic builds again as I voice my fears. “What if my body can’t handle this? What if I’m not strong enough?”
“I have no doubt about your strength and ability to do this.” He tilts my chin up so I’m forced to look at him. “You survived the foster system, built a successful career, and inherited a business you’re learning to run while pregnant with seven babies. If anyone can handle this, it’s you.”
“But what if I can’t? What if?—”