Chapter 1 – Eleanor
The caffeine buzz wasn’t working anymore. My hands shook as I held the steaming mug, the fourth one since dawn, but my brain felt like it was wrapped in cotton. Two days. Two fucking days without sleep, without a shower, without anything resembling a normal human existence.
But normal was for people who didn’t have everything riding on one collection.
The fashion studio stretched out before me like a battlefield after the war.
Fabric samples covered every surface, pinned to boards, draped over mannequins, scattered across tables in organized chaos that only made sense to me.
The late afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across the Manhattan skyline beyond.
The city looked golden and perfect from up here.
Down there, people were living their regular lives, going home to dinner and Netflix.
Up here, I was slowly losing my fucking mind.
“Eleanor, honey, you look like death warmed over.” Zara’s voice cut through the fog in my head.
She stood in the doorway of my office, all five foot six of her radiating the kind of energy that could power a small city.
Her honey-blonde hair was pulled back in that perfect high ponytail that never seemed to move, even when she was gesticulating wildly about PR disasters and social media metrics.
“Thanks for the pep talk,” I muttered, not looking up from the sketch I’d been staring at for the past twenty minutes. The lines blurred together, black ink swimming on white paper. “Really feeling the love.”
“I’m serious. When’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure sugar?”
I tried to remember. Yesterday? The day before? Time had become this weird, fluid thing that didn’t follow normal rules. “I had half a bagel this morning.”
“That was yesterday morning, and it was a croissant.” Zara walked into my office, her heels clicking against the polished concrete floor.
She was wearing one of those blazers that cost more than most people’s rent, tailored to perfection and paired with leather pants that looked like they’d been painted on.
Everything about Zara screamed success, from her perfectly applied red lipstick to the designer bag slung over her shoulder.
I loved her. I also wanted to strangle her most days.
“Whatever. Food is for people who have time.” I finally looked up at her, and I could see my reflection in her concerned green eyes.
Jesus, I really did look like death. My chestnut hair had escaped from its ponytail hours ago, hanging in messy waves around my face.
The freckles across my nose stood out stark against my pale skin, and my hazel eyes had dark circles that concealer couldn’t hide anymore.
“Food is for people who want to stay alive long enough to see their fashion show actually happen.” Zara pulled up a chair and sat down across from me, crossing her legs with practiced elegance. “Which, by the way, is in three days. Three fucking days, Eleanor.”
“I know how to count.”
“Do you? Because you’ve been living in this office like some kind of fashion hermit, and I’m starting to wonder if you’ve lost track of basic human functions.”
I rubbed my temples, feeling the familiar throb of a headache building behind my eyes. The stress was eating me alive from the inside out, but I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t slow down. Not when everything I’d worked for was riding on this one moment.
“Just tell me about the seating arrangements,” I said, reaching for my coffee again. It had gone cold, but I drank it anyway. Caffeine was caffeine.
Zara sighed and pulled out her tablet, swiping through what looked like a complex seating chart. “Okay, front row. We’ve got Anna Wintour confirmed, which is huge. Suzy Menkes, obviously. The entire Vogue team, Harper’s Bazaar, Elle. The influencers are trickier.”
She started rattling off names, and I tried to focus, but the words seemed to bounce off my skull without sticking.
Influencers with millions of followers who could make or break a career with a single Instagram post. Fashion editors who could launch you into the stratosphere or bury you so deep you’d never dig yourself out.
“Are you listening to me?” Zara’s voice cut through my mental fog.
“Yeah, sorry. Just thinking.” I forced myself to focus on her face, on the slight crease between her perfectly sculpted eyebrows that meant she was worried. “Continue.”
“Eleanor, I need you to understand something.” Her voice was softer now, less PR professional and more best friend. “This show is either going to crown you as fashion royalty, or it’s going to destroy everything you’ve built. There’s no middle ground here.”
I knew that. God, did I know that. The fashion industry didn’t believe in participation trophies or second chances. You either won everything, or you lost it all, and the wolves were always circling, waiting for you to stumble.
“I can handle the pressure,” I said, but even I could hear how hollow the words sounded.
“Can you? Because right now, you look like you’re about to collapse, and if you pass out during your own show, all the positive PR in the world won’t save you.”
My phone buzzed on the desk, the screen lighting up with an incoming call. Mom. Of course. I stared at the screen, watching it ring, knowing exactly what would happen if I ignored it.
“You going to answer that?” Zara asked.
“If I don’t, she’ll drive down here and drag me out of this office by my hair.” I swiped to accept the call. “Hi, Mom.”
“Eleanor Grace Beaumont, where the hell are you?” Ruth’s voice came through the speaker crystal clear, that particular tone that meant I was in trouble. It was the same voice she’d used when I was sixteen and decided to skip AP Calculus to hang out at the mall.
“I’m at the studio, Mom. Working.”
“It’s seven o’clock on a Thursday night. Normal people are home eating dinner with their families.”
“We’re not exactly a normal family.” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I immediately regretted the sharpness in my voice. Zara raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.
There was a pause on the other end, and when Mom spoke again, her voice was gentler. “Honey, when’s the last time you came home? Had a real meal? Slept in an actual bed?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Really.” I wasn’t fine. I was the opposite of fine. But admitting that felt like admitting defeat, and I wasn’t ready to wave the white flag yet.
“You’re not fine. You’re exhausted and stressed and probably living on nothing but coffee and stubbornness.” She knew me too well. “I’m worried about you.”
At least someone was. Dad probably hadn’t even noticed I’d been gone.
He was too busy with his construction empire, building his legacy one concrete foundation at a time.
I could disappear for a month, and he wouldn’t bat an eye, as long as his morning paper was still delivered and his coffee remained hot.
“The show is in three days,” I said. “After that, I’ll sleep for a week. I promise.”
“Eleanor—”
“Mom, I have to go. Zara’s giving me the death stare, which means we have work to do.”
That was only partly true. Zara was giving me a look, but it was more that of a concerned friend than a demanding business partner.
“Just…take care of yourself, okay? You’re all I’ve got.”
The line went dead, and I stared at the phone for a moment. Mom was the only one who worried about me, the only one who cared if I ate or slept or remembered to be human. Dad loved me in his own distant way, I think, but love and attention were different things entirely in the Beaumont household.
“Your mom?” Zara asked.
“Yeah. She thinks I’m going to collapse from exhaustion.”
“She might be right.”
I set the phone down and rubbed my face with both hands, feeling the grit of two days without proper sleep. “Just finish the list, Zara. Please. We can psychoanalyze my self-destructive tendencies later.”
Zara sighed but went back to her tablet. “Fine. But after this, you’re eating something that isn’t sugar, and then you’re getting at least four hours of sleep. I don’t care if I have to tie you to a bed.”
“Kinky.”
“Shut up.” But she was smiling, that bright flash of perfectly white teeth that made photographers swoon. Zara had the kind of face that could sell anything, which was probably why she was so good at her job.
She started reading names again, and I tried to listen, I really did.
But my head was pounding, and the words seemed to blend together into white noise.
Fashion bloggers with pretentious names and followings that could make or break careers.
Magazine editors who held the power of life and death in the fashion world.
Celebrities who wore your designs because it was trendy, not because they understood the artistry behind every stitch.
“Eleanor?”
“Hmm?”
“You’re not listening again.”
“Sorry. My brain feels like it’s made of cotton balls.” I pushed back from my desk and stood up, my legs unsteady for a moment. “I need some air. Just give me five minutes, okay?”
Zara looked like she wanted to argue, but she nodded instead. “Five minutes. Then we finish this list, you eat something, and we figure out how to make sure you don’t face-plant on the runway.”
I walked out of my office and through the studio, past the mannequins wearing my creations, past the tables covered in fabric and sketches, and all the beautiful chaos that had consumed my life for the past six months.
The elevator was at the far end of the floor, next to the emergency exit that led to the stairwell.
Fresh air. That was all I needed. A few minutes to clear my head, to remember why I was doing this, to find the strength to make it through the next three days.
I pushed open the door to the stairwell, expecting to find the usual silence and echo of concrete steps. Instead, I heard footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. Moving up toward me.
That was weird. Nobody used the stairwells in this building unless the elevators were broken, and I’d just seen people getting on and off the main elevator bank.
I stepped into the stairwell, looking down to see who was coming up. The footsteps stopped.
“Hello?” My voice echoed off the concrete walls, bouncing back at me like a question without an answer.
Nothing.
Then the footsteps started again, faster now, and I realized with a cold certainty that settled in my stomach like a stone that something was very, very wrong.
I turned to go back into the building, back to Zara and safety and the familiar chaos of my studio, but the door had closed behind me. I grabbed the handle and pulled.
Locked.
The footsteps were getting closer, echoing up the stairwell like a countdown to something terrible. My heart started beating faster, that familiar rhythm of panic that I recognized from childhood nightmares and adult anxiety attacks.
I pounded on the door, hoping someone would hear me, hoping Zara would wonder where I’d gone and come looking. But the studio was soundproofed, designed to keep the noise of sewing machines and cutting tables from disturbing the other businesses in the building.
“Help!” I called out, but my voice just bounced back at me, hollow and useless.
When I turned around, I saw a figure lurking behind me. I froze, my heart pounding as they drew closer. “Please,” I whispered, backing away as much as possible. “I don’t have much money, but you can have whatever—”
“This isn’t about money.”
Though I tried to run, I didn’t make it far.
A hand. Rough. Fast. It came out of nowhere, clamping over my face. A cloth pressed hard against my mouth and nose. Chemical. Sharp. Sweet. The smell hit like a blow, forcing its way into my lungs before I could turn my head.
I jerked back, twisting, thrashing. My elbow slammed into something solid, my heel scraping the concrete as I kicked out.
A muffled grunt, but the grip didn’t loosen.
I tried to scream, to bite, to do anything that might make noise, but my breath came shallow and weak.
My body was screaming for air while my brain felt like it was sinking underwater, the sound of my own pulse thundering in my ears.
The stairwell blurred at the edges, light smearing into shadow. My knees buckled. My fingers clawed at the hand holding me, nails scraping skin, but my strength slipped away, draining fast.
And then, nothing.
Pitch black.