41. Violet
forty-one
Violet
DAY 39 AT BELLUCCI HQ… ONLY 1066 TO GO
My phone chirps to let me know that the hour has finally hit six p.m., and I tap at it furiously while a dozen cool, sophisticated faces turn to me with annoyed disdain.
I shrink behind my desk—the one I’ve only had for three weeks and is already a mess of pencils and sketches, fabrics and sewing supplies, reports and research—then cast a quick, appraising look around at the Leonardo Bellucci fashion office. Everyone’s already dismissed the forgettable American girl in the corner, which makes it an opportune time to escape.
I throw my phone and sketchbook in my satchel, shrug into my baggy beige jacket, and slink around the room toward the bank of elevators.
The space is brand new and frigid, with industrial minimalism and bad vibes. Lots of steel, glass, and concrete floors. And silence. No warmth or texture aside from one long wall down the middle of the room covered in sketches and swatches and evidence of the team’s collective creative genius. And everyone here is a genius. I was made aware of that on my very first day, along with the fact that I’m an influencer hire—a shameful label for someone who got lucky without necessarily needing any talent.
I was also told I’d have to prove myself before anyone took me seriously, and while I’m not afraid of hard work, I didn’t imagine proving myself would include running out every other hour to fetch coffee and cigarettes and otherwise being ignored or talked about in a language I can’t understand.
So much about this job feels familiar and not in a good way. There may be no Courtney Reynolds here and my contract might say I’m a junior designer, but in every way that counts, I’m not much more than a glorified intern—and invisible again.
I smack the elevator button and frown at the digital display, willing it to move faster. A quick glance over my shoulder confirms the whispering I can hear is coming from a knot of people debating something on the design boards, not judging me and my exit, but I still hunch my shoulders and hit the button three more times.
The anxious introvert in me is relieved nobody cares enough to notice me. The woman with her own studio standing empty on a beautiful street in San Francisco is devastated she’s here at all.
When I’m finally free on the pavement outside Bellucci headquarters, I retrieve my phone, dial Dad’s number, and set off toward my apartment.
The weather is mild, my temporary rental isn’t far, and I call Dad every day at this time in a new version of our old ritual.
“Hey, Blossom,” Dad says. “How was your day?”
The sound of his voice loosens something in my chest. He sounds happy—genuinely happy, not some act he’s putting on to ease my concerns—and it fills me with both solace and loss. It’s a horrible combination when I’m trying to fight what feels like an impending breakdown.
“It was great,” I lie. “We had a big important meeting this morning to discuss next year’s collections, and I’m working closely with a lead designer on his bridal couture line.”
All not-quite-lies that are believable enough to be true. I took notes in that meeting, and I fetched that lead designer his lunch.
“I’m so proud of you for taking this chance. For having the courage to do something scary and for putting yourself first. You’ll be running that place in no time.”
I concentrate on the ground in front of me as I walk among the end-of-day foot traffic. The sun has almost set and I’m sure if I look up, the architecture and the color and the life in this city would be inspiring, but I can’t find it in me to lift my chin.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“So, where are you going for dinner tonight? I’ve been reading all about the food in Milan. You must be spoiled for choices.”
“Um, yeah. It’s fantastic. So much to choose from.”
I pause out front of the quiet little delicatessen near my apartment. When I finish talking to Dad, I’ll go inside for more of the bread, olives, and prosciutto I’ve been living on since I got here. Nobody at Bellucci headquarters has offered to show me around or take me to dinner, and I’m too shy to suggest it myself. I’m also too anxious to go to a restaurant alone and attempt to order food in my non-existent Italian.
“But what about you? How are things at Silver Leaf?”
My stomach twists as I deliberately skirt the topic of Chord. I want to know how he is, but I don’t want to ask. I want to talk only about him, but I’ll fall apart if I have to say his name. I want to ask if he’s happy, but it’ll break my heart if he is.
I’ve been following the Fury’s performance this season, so I know things aren’t going well for him professionally, and it’s a constant stone in my stomach. But I’ve had to limit my time on the internet to avoid commentary about our relationship.
I hate that people think I used Chord to get this job. I hate that others say I was never good enough for him in the first place. I hate that anyone thinks I didn’t earn this opportunity, that I’m no better than Chord’s ex-girlfriend, that he deserves better than me.
I hate that every night, I’m forced to sift through my own social media accounts and delete the vitriol. I hate that when I was doom-scrolling instead of sleeping late last week, I discovered that the website Chord commissioned for my studio in San Francisco is still live on the internet.
When I used my login information, there were six requests for my custom couture in my inbox, and I sobbed into a tub of chocolate ice cream as I declined them all.
I hate sleeping alone every night and waking up by myself every morning. I hate that I can’t find anywhere that sells Pretzel M&M’s. I hate that maybe all of this means I made the wrong decision coming to Milan.
“Things are great,” Dad replies, and I think fast to remember my question. “Business as usual for the most part, although Chord was here this morning to check in on the horses.”
“That’s—” I swallow the lump in my throat. “Oh, Dad. I have to go. There’s a cute little trattoria here with a fantastic pasta menu, so I’m going to stop for dinner. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”
“Of course. Go. Enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it.”
I stuff down the heartache and homesickness as I stow my phone in my satchel and step inside the la gastronomia . In a few short minutes, I’m back on the street with a paper bag of solitude, sadness, and sauvignon blanc.
The place I’m living is only another block away, but when I get to the front door, I freeze on the doorstep, glaring at the key in my hand like it’s the reason for my problems. Inside this building is the Violet James who lives alone in a foreign country with nothing but her stupid dreams to keep her warm. And I’m too sad right now to spend another night with only her for company.
I’m so mad at myself for being in this situation. Everyone who knows me is so sure this is the right thing. The people I love are proud of me for being here. And it’s only been a month!
No matter how badly I want to go home, I’d look like an idiot if I threw it all in so quickly. But then… didn’t I accept this job just as fast? With no consideration for what was in my heart and every action dictated by the things I was supposed to want? Or more importantly, used to want.
People walk past behind me, and maybe they glance over and wonder if something’s wrong, but I ignore the noise and the press of their eyes. I can’t make myself walk inside this building. I can’t pretend that everything about this place doesn’t feel temporary and wrong.
It’s hard to believe that by achieving something I wanted for so long, I lost everything I gained at Silver Leaf. Confidence. A career. Friends. Family. Love. I moved halfway around the world to live out a fantasy, only to end up right back where I started. In a job I hate and an empty bed dreaming constantly about a life on the other side of the world.
Someone passes behind me in a rush of air, bathing me in a fragrance I know so well. Whoever it is wears Chord’s cologne, and the scent triggers a tidal wave of emotion.
Love. Need. Hope. Regret.
I sniffle as a memory of butterflies and sunlight takes flight in my chest, and it’s been so long since I felt that kind of warmth that I close my eyes and lean my forehead on the door like I used to lean on Chord’s steady, solid chest.
I focus on the sunlight. I focus on the butterflies. I focus on the promise of joy.
Milan was supposed to feel like this . I was supposed to step off that plane and into the Bellucci offices, and every moment of my life was going to feel the way it did this summer. But it’s not like that at all. My stomach is always in knots. Food tastes bland and uninteresting. I have no interest in exploring the city, and my daily walks to and from work have blended into a hazy nothingness. I haven’t listened to my music or opened my own sketchbook since I got here. I haven’t thought about Mom’s wedding gown in weeks.
The butterflies and sunlight start to dwindle away, and I reach for them the only way I know how. I think about Chord and Silver Leaf, and euphoria explodes in my veins.
A choked laugh surprises me through sudden tears as the answer to my problems floats on the back of this feeling.
I wanted so badly to do the right thing that I never gave myself permission to do the thing that felt right. And what feels right is designing my own line. I want people to wear my name. I’ve missed the opportunity to do exactly that for the privilege of pouring coffee and taking notes for people who don’t see me, let alone respect me.
Why on Earth did I choose to be invisible again when I’d only just started feeling comfortable in the spotlight? There are smarter and more rewarding ways to prove my talent than by sacrificing my confidence and happiness on the altar of the world’s most prestigious fashion label.
And I’m not really back where I started… am I? There was at least one person in the Bellucci offices who thought I was good enough to hire, and if I’m good enough to design for Leonardo Bellucci, then I’m more than good enough to go it alone.
All the things I miss so fiercely are exactly where I left them back in California. And the only person I’m letting down by staying here is myself.
Hot, stubborn fire burns in my throat.
Chord wants me to be selfish? Fine. I’ll be selfish. I’ll do what I want and stop caring about what anyone else thinks. And what I want is to not be here anymore. I want to hear his voice and touch his skin and feel his mouth on mine. I want to curl myself into the cage of his arms and never be free again. I want to be tethered to Chord for the rest of my life and chase new dreams with him by my side. I want to go home.
I squeeze my eyelids closed as a single tear escapes.
I want to go home.
“Eyes up, Wallflower.”
My pulse leaps with shock and hope, my breath comes short and fast, and I close my eyes tighter because the voice behind me cannot be real. But my heart knows it’s him before I turn to see the proof, and I sob with relief against the wooden door, tears flowing as all the pain leeches out of me.
I sense him move closer, the scent of him enveloping me before anything else, and then his warm, tender fingers find my chin, and he gently turns me to face him.
“Eyes up,” he says again, slipping his hand around my neck and cradling my head as he turns my face up to his. “And keep them up.”
I open my eyes, and there he is. Here. Mine .
Chord leans in, hovering over my mouth, blue eyes drinking me in as he traces every line of my face like he’s been waiting for this moment the way I have. The warm caress of his lips on mine is excruciatingly perfect, and the taste of his tongue mingles with the salt of my tears. It’s soft. Sweet. Sacred.
I latch onto his shirt and hold on tight to prove he’s not a hallucination. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to tell you I love you, Violet, and that I was wrong. This letting you go thing isn’t going to work.” His thumbs caress my cheekbones as he sinks into my gaze. “I don’t want that to get in the way of all the opportunities and experiences you’re supposed to have in this life, but I miss you, Wallflower. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t think straight enough to get the fucking puck in the net, and I can’t win. Not in hockey. Not in life. Not at all. Not without you.”
“Chord—”
“I don’t care how we do it, but we’ll find a way to make this work.” His fingertips twist harder in my hair, and his glassy eyes burn into mine. “I’ll take you home right now if that’s what you want. I’ll go back to California if this is something you need to do alone, but I’m going to fly back and forth every chance I get so I can be with you. I’ll get you a jet whenever you’re homesick. I’ll call every day just to hear your voice, and I’ll dream about you every night until you’re back in my bed.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I clutch his wrists as his lips move against my skin. “The only thing I won’t do is let you go. I’m sorry if this makes me the selfish asshole everyone thinks I am, but I can’t live without you. I don’t know how.”
“Chord, I—”
He cuts me off with another kiss, twisting us until my back is pinned against the door, his mouth so insistent I give up on talking and give myself over to him.
“Please,” he whispers, nose in my hair and mouth at my ear. “Find a place for me in your dreams, and I won’t rest until every one of them comes true.”
“Chord.” I twine my fingers in the edges of his hair, breathe him in, and release all my inhibitions with a trembling sigh. My thoughts slow, and my worries float away, and I finally surrender to what feels right. This . This feels right.
“I left California because I was too busy doing what I thought I should do instead of what I wanted to do. My life in Milan and the dream it represents—it doesn’t fit anymore. It’s too small, and I don’t want it. I want something bigger and brighter and infinitely better. I want to create dresses with my name on them. I want to stand in the spotlight with you. I want to be there when you win the championship Cup and be the woman beside you every hour, every day, every year after that. I want you to trust me and believe me when I tell you: you are my dream. You and me together, whatever the future has in store. You make me happy, Chord, and I just want to be happy.”
He smiles that bright boyish grin that lights up his cobalt eyes and makes my body pulse with wild, needy heat. “Do you mean it?”
“I mean it.” I tighten my grip on his hair to prove how serious I am. “Let me be the selfish one this time. Let me do what I want. I want to get on that plane and go home with you now. Tonight. Forever. Please?”
Chord closes his eyes and exhales with a sigh, brushes a barely there kiss across my lips, then the tip of my nose, then rests his forehead on mine with a crooked, satisfied smile.
“When will you learn, Wallflower? You never have to beg me for anything.”