18. Natalie
NATALIE
The Alton Hills Fashion Federation Gala hums with quiet glamour.
It’s not the full-blown Vue spectacle I once imagined, but our presence is unmistakable.
The space strikes a balance between Carter’s timeless polish and Vue’s modern edge.
Warm lighting against clean lines, white linen softened by darker tones.
Elegant, but not stiff. Modern, but not cold.
Cosmo and I weave through the crowd, passing a pop star practically bathing in camera flashes. She tilts her chin just so, feeding on the attention like it’s oxygen. To avoid the frame, I step sideways and give a brief nod to a photographer I recognize.
A quick adjustment of my dress strap steadies me.
I went with a chocolate brown silk number from the autumn collection.
It falls in clean lines that move when I do.
Under the lights, the fabric catches a soft sheen, enough to look elegant without showing off.
I’ve opted for low heels. Not just so I can survive the night, but because Cosmo can’t stand being shorter than me.
He, of course, looks like the human embodiment of confidence in a deep sapphire tux that glints under the lights, a black silk shirt with a sharp collar, and shoes that actually sparkle.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” he says for the third time, giving the room another slow sweep of approval. His attention catches on the Vue logo projected across the far wall. He smiles, clearly pleased. Never mind that the Carter logo beside it is just as large.
I’d love to take credit for how well the event turned out but it was a team effort. Henry, in particular. His instincts and quiet edits are subtle but they’re what tie everything together. He makes it all look effortless.
I scan the room and spot him in seconds because the crowd practically rearranges itself around him. He looks as perfect as you’d expect in a tux, it’s like he was born for rooms like this.
He’s talking to a woman in a silver gown.
Her back’s to me but I don’t need the full view to know the type.
Tall, tanned and blonde. She laughs, leans in, and her fingertips brush his arm.
I somehow resist rolling my eyes. Is it written somewhere that every time Henry shows up, at least one woman has to throw herself at him?
“Let’s get started,” Cosmo says, plucking a champagne flute from a passing tray before disappearing into the crowd. I follow, slipping into work mode. Tonight isn’t for celebrating; it’s for winning people over, convincing them that Vue is the future.
I move through the room with purpose, zeroing in on the models, actresses, and influencers we flagged earlier. I pitch Vue’s new direction like it’s the next big thing. Like we’re not chasing anyone but they’ll want in before it’s obvious we don’t need them.
I’m about to take a breather when I spot Emma Presley across the room. Dinner’s coming up fast, but I’ve got time for one more conversation.
She’s been gaining traction lately with her clever styling, sharp brand instincts and a face that photographs like a dream. We’ve met once before. Hopefully she remembers.
I cross the floor with purpose, rehearsing my opener on the way. But as her group shifts, my confidence wavers. Standing with her is Nina Tarsh…and Silvia Carter.
My chest does this little squeeze thing.
For a half-second, I consider spinning on my heel and fleeing.
I should’ve anticipated this. Of course Silvia would be here.
She’s never come before, but this year is different.
The escape idea vanishes the instant her attention lands on me.
So I lift my chin, paste on a professional smile, and walk straight toward them.
Emma’s face lights up when she sees me. “Natalie, good to see you,” she says, leaning in for cheek kisses.
“You look incredible,” I say, matching her brightness.
She beams, turning slightly toward her companions. “You’ve met Nina, right? And of course, you must already know Silvia Carter.”
Of course I know her. Everyone does. But we’ve never been introduced, and she has no reason to know me.
“Natalie Wright,” I say, offering my hand.
“Natalie,” she repeats, a pause hanging delicately between us. “I’ve heard such interesting things.”
Her hand is cold, her grip light. Up close, the resemblance is unmistakable.
She has Henry’s eyes, only colder, as if someone turned the warmth down a few degrees.
She studies me, taking her time. I hold still, not sure if I’ve passed whatever invisible test she’s giving.
Her mouth tilts, barely. Not a smile. Not approval either.
“Henry seems to be the center of attention, as usual,” Nina says lightly, lifting her champagne. “Who is that he’s with?”
“Isla Barrington,” Silvia says. “She just got the campaign with Altier.”
My gaze snaps across the room. The blonde in silver, standing too close to Henry, is Isla. His model ex-girlfriend.
Something twists low in my stomach. I school my expression and take a slow sip of champagne. It tastes metallic.
“Shame about the press,” Silvia says. “They’ll make that the story of the night and forget the charity entirely.”
She doesn’t sound especially disappointed. I should care about the optics. This will dominate headlines and Vue will vanish in the shadow but I don’t. All I feel is a slow, sick twist in my chest, the kind that makes it hard to breathe.
A microphone squeals. A collective flinch ripples through the room. Onstage, Edward Long recovers with a practiced smile and leans into the mic.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you could take your seats,” he says.
I excuse myself, letting go of whatever plan I had to impress Emma, and make my way toward our table. I move through clusters of guests, smiling when I have to, wishing I could dissolve into the crowd instead of pushing through it.
I drop into my seat beside Cosmo harder than I mean to. He’s deep in conversation with a woman on his other side, oblivious.
I glance at the Carter table. Henry’s seated between Isla and Silvia. This is good, really. It’s proof that he’s exactly who I thought he was. It’s barely been a week and he’s already moving on. This is proof I was never anything special. It should make things easier. It doesn’t.
I take a slow breath, forcing the air to stay steady in my lungs.
I don’t get to feel upset. I don’t get to be jealous.
I’m the one who ended it, who pushed him away and pretended it didn’t matter.
Except this morning, he was still texting me with that photo of his breakfast. So what am I supposed to believe?
That somewhere between this morning and tonight, he decided to get back together with Isla?
Across the room, she leans in and says something that makes him laugh.
A hot, sudden urge to march over there and shove her flashes through me.
It’s so visceral it actually surprises me.
This isn’t me. I don’t do this. I don’t get possessive.
I don’t get worked up over men. And yet, here I am, mentally calculating the trajectory needed to send her flying over a canapé table.
Onstage, Edward clears his throat. “We’re here tonight to raise…”
I try to focus, but his voice dissolves into a low hum.
The room blurs, everything softening around the edges as my thoughts loop.
How long has he been seeing Isla? We’ve spent almost every night together for weeks.
He barely had time to sleep, let alone sneak around.
So when, exactly, was he seeing her? Before I can stop myself, I slip my phone from my clutch, slide it beneath the tablecloth, and start typing.
Natalie: Impressive turnaround. Even for you. I’m guessing there was overlap.
I hit send before I can stop myself. The humiliation hits right after. I was ready to risk everything for him, and less than a week later, he’s back with his ex. I feel stupid, but mostly, I just feel sad. Deeply, pathetically sad. Because the truth is...I like Henry.
My phone buzzes.
Henry: Look at that—you do remember how to text.
Henry: Isla was mom’s idea. It’s for press.
So they’re not back together? Is that why Silvia seemed so pleased? I shouldn’t feel so relieved at the idea that this is some PR thing but I am. My fingers hover over my phone, ready to type.
“Natalie,” Cosmo says. His voice snapping me back to attention. I shove the phone into my clutch.
“Hell of a turnout, huh? Press everywhere. Chef’s kiss.”
“Yeah. It’s a good crowd,” I manage.
He leans in, lowering his voice. “Between us? The Carter’s look stiff. Vue’s got the heat tonight.”
Cosmo loops an arm around my shoulder and starts talking names, angles and strategy.
I nod but I’m barely listening. Seeing Henry with Isla makes it harder to lie to myself.
I know I care but I’d been doing such a good job pretending I didn’t.
That I could shut it down. Ignore it. It turns out, I can’t.
I need to know what’s going on. Whether it’s all for show or if there’s something real there.
“I need the restroom,” I say, already pushing my chair back.
The main restrooms are packed, a line snaking into the hallway. I keep walking. One turn, then another. I’m not looking for a toilet. I’m looking for space.
A side corridor appears. It’s narrow, dimly lit, the kind of place no one pays attention to. A crooked Staff Only sign dangles from an open door. Through the gap, I catch a glimpse of a mop bucket and stacked chairs.
I stop just beside it, heart pounding hard in my throat. I pull my phone from my clutch and stare at the screen, like if I wait long enough, the right words might appear on their own. Do I even have the right to ask him? To demand anything?
Then footsteps approach. I freeze. The air shifts, like the moment knows what’s coming before I do.
Henry closes the distance in a few easy steps. One hand comes up, bracing against the wall beside my head. He doesn’t touch me, but suddenly there’s no space left. No air. Just him.