5. Synthetic Blends
Chapter five
Synthetic Blends
Igrabbed the heavy glass handle and pushed the door open, stepping out of the quiet corridor and into the main design studio.
The industrial loft hit us with a wall of noise.
Commercial sewing machines produced a deafening, rhythmic clatter that echoed off the exposed brick walls.
Overhead lighting panels cast a stark white glare down onto the concrete floor.
Dozens of employees rushed between the long workbenches, carrying bundles of fabric and concept binders.
The soft drag of raw silk unrolling across the cutting tables blended into the mechanical hum.
I inhaled the familiar scent of hot iron steam and fresh textile dye.
This was my territory, the company I built from a single sewing desk into a fashion empire.
Warren stepped in front of me, taking the lead as if he owned the building. He reached out and grabbed the metal frame of a tall fabric rack blocking our path.
“Hold up, let me move this rolling rack,” he said, pushing it aside with a loud grunt designed for the cameras. “The floor is slick right here.”
I stopped and waited, watching him play bodyguard for the crew.
“Are you doing alright with the noise, Junie?” Naomi asked, flanking my right side. She smoothed the lapel of my blazer, ensuring the fabric lay flat. “We can take a break if you need to sit down.”
“I am fine,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Just excited to see the new mockups.”
Naomi threw a practiced, supportive glance in my direction before looking over her shoulder at the documentary crew trailing us.
Marcus navigated the tight space with his camera hoisted high, balancing the heavy rig against his collarbone.
Sebastian followed close behind him in his plain black crewneck, his eyes scanning the room.
“Marcus, make sure you step closer,” Naomi called out over the ambient hum. “You won’t be able to hear us over these sewing machines.”
Marcus offered a thumbs-up, weaving through the maze of drafting tables to keep us centered in the frame. Employees darted out of the way, shooting curious glances at the rolling camera.
Watching Warren strut through my workspace turned my stomach.
He nodded at my lead designers and waved at the floor managers, acting like a visionary CEO inspecting his domain.
He contributed nothing to this firm, yet he swaggered around in his expensive suit, tallying up the wealth he planned to inherit upon my death.
I pressed my palms flat against the side seams of my maternity slacks, keeping my hands perfectly still. I needed my staff to see someone entirely unfazed.
Smile. Keep your shoulders relaxed. Let them think they’ve already won the crown.
I let my shoulders droop, playing the part of an exhausted, pregnant woman who desperately needed their help. We approached the central presentation area, where thick black power cords snaked across the concrete floor near the primary cutting tables.
“Careful of the loose cables on the floor, Junie,” Warren warned, stopping to point at them. “Let me clear a path for you to the main table.”
He kicked them aside with the toe of his polished leather shoe. I stepped forward and placed my hand on his tailored sleeve. The wool felt abrasive beneath my palm, but I kept my grip steady against his arm.
“Thank you, Warren,” I said, pitching my voice to sound breathless and sweet. “I swear, the bigger I get, the clumsier my feet feel.”
I smiled up at my husband, playing the role of the helpless, grateful wife to perfection.
I released Warren’s sleeve and stepped up to the edge of the central cutting table. Chloe, my lead design assistant, hurried over from the printing bay. She carried a thick stack of presentation boards and a rigid metal clipboard tucked under her arm.
“I cleared this section for you,” Chloe said, setting the stack down. “The printer just finished the high-res sheets.”
She spread the glossy mood boards across the table.
The sharp, chemical scent of fresh ink filled the air.
I reached out, resting my fingertips against the edge of a concept sketch featuring the new maternity drape.
Under normal circumstances, I would pull a chair up to this table and spend the next two hours diving into the supply chain logistics with her.
“Juniper, I have the rushed mockups for the maternity line you requested this morning,” Chloe said, tapping her pen against the metal clip of her board.
“But the suppliers are having trouble sourcing the premium organic fabrics on such short notice for the prototypes. They want us to approve a synthetic blend.”
Before I could even open my mouth, Naomi inserted herself between us.
“A synthetic blend is completely unacceptable for the drape we want,” Naomi declared, leaning over the table and bracing her hands on either side of the mood boards.
She positioned herself directly in the center of the camera frame, blocking me from Marcus’s line of sight.
She stared Chloe down, adopting a harsh, demanding tone.
“We need to push back on their reps and demand the original organic quality,” Naomi said.
I gripped the edge of the glossy paper until it creased under the pressure. Naomi had never sourced a yard of fabric in her life. She knew nothing about global textile shipping or organic blends, yet she stood there talking down to my most seasoned assistant like it was her name on the lease.
Chloe held her ground. Her pen stopped its steady tapping. She looked at Naomi’s hands resting on the presentation materials, then shifted her gaze back to me. She was a professional, waiting for the person who actually ran the company to make the call.
“I can try, Ms. Mercer, but they’re citing global shipping delays,” Chloe said, maintaining her flat, professional tone. “I need official sign-off from Mrs. Davenport before I tell them no.”
Chloe looked past Naomi, holding my gaze.
A stiff silence settled over the presentation boards.
Chloe stood still, her pen hovering over the clipboard.
Naomi maintained her challenging glare, waiting for my assistant to break first. Over Naomi’s shoulder, the small red recording light on Marcus’s camera glowed steadily, capturing the standoff.
I let my tension dissolve and stepped fully into the shot.
“It’s alright, Chloe,” I said, walking around the edge of the cutting table. “You don’t need my signature for this.”
Chloe blinked, her focus snapping from the mood boards to my face.
I reached out and linked my arm through Warren’s. I resisted the urge to pull away from his jacket, pressing my weight against his side instead. I let my posture soften, playing up the image of a devoted, overtaxed partner.
“Chloe, I actually want Warren and Naomi to take the lead on this launch,” I said, projecting my voice so Chloe could hear every syllable over the drone of the sewing machines.
“They’ve been doing such a good job at the firm lately.
And as much as I love this concept, the fact remains my priority has to be the baby right now. ”
Warren shifted his stance, puffing his chest out slightly. He reached over and patted the back of my hand.
“I trust Warren and Naomi’s insight in everything,” I added, looking back at my assistant.
Chloe’s professional composure wavered for a split second. It was a jarring request—I never surrendered creative control, especially not to people who couldn’t distinguish raw silk from a synthetic blend. But she recovered, giving a stiff nod.
Warren turned toward the camera. He offered Marcus his most charming, polished smile, milking the lens like the failed actor he was. He looked as though he had just conquered my company on film.
“Juniper, that means the world to us,” Warren said, laying on the devotion for the microphones. “We won’t let you down.”
I looked up into the eyes of the man pricing out my casket, watching him stand there so triumphant, so convinced of his own genius. I offered him a tight smile.
“I know you won’t,” I said, holding his gaze. “You never have.”
Warren released my arm and took the spotlight. He reached across the cutting table, snatching the clipboard from Chloe’s hands. The harsh snap of the clip sliced through the drone of the nearby sewing machines.
“Let’s spread these concept sheets out,” Warren said, tapping the board against the table. “We need a clear visual of the launch timeline before we make any final calls.”
Chloe yielded her space, taking a careful step back.
Naomi flanked Warren, her heels producing a hollow echo across the concrete floor.
She reached out and dragged the glossy mood boards toward her.
She ran her painted fingernails over an expensive fabric swatch, pretending to scrutinize the thread count.
“The lighting on these renders is a bit washed out,” Naomi noted, tilting a page toward the overhead panels. “We need the visuals to pop more on the website.”
I watched them parade around the drafting table. I watched them lecture my lead assistant about textiles they didn’t even understand. The arrogance of their performance fueled my disgust. I hated that they subjected my staff to this daily cruelty.
It was just one more debt they would pay.
“Make sure the font sizes on these labels are readable,” Warren added, adjusting his suit lapel. “The branding needs to be front and center.”
“I will note that,” Chloe said.
“Chloe, let’s look at the customer demographics for the new line,” Warren directed. He pointed at a printed spreadsheet, making sure his profile faced the lens. “We need to ensure the messaging aligns with the modern mother.”
Marcus stepped closer. The camera rig whirred on his shoulder, tracking Warren’s sweeping hand gestures. In the background, Sebastian leaned against a structural pillar. He watched the trap work without offering a single tell.
“The primary age bracket is twenty-five to thirty-four,” Chloe replied. She didn’t let a trace of irritation bleed into her voice. “We have the initial data packets printed right here.”
“Exactly,” Naomi interrupted, lifting her chin. She moved to block Warren, demanding her share of the frame. “And let’s get the marketing team on the line. I want to approve the ad copy before it goes out. We need to control the narrative.”
The surrounding employees kept their heads down. They continued feeding lengths of raw silk through the commercial machines, ignoring the spectacle. They were used to my husband and my best friend playing boss, and they just kept working.
I folded my hands over my pregnant stomach, making sure I looked perfectly at ease. Let them order the staff around; the camera was catching every word.
“Understood,” Chloe said, stepping away from the drafting table. “I’ll get the marketing director up here right away.”
I took a measured step back from the central cutting table, deliberately removing myself from the center of the frame. The stifling heat of the room seemed to press down from the bright ceiling panels. Chloe hesitated near the edge of the presentation boards.
“Give them the room,” I muttered to Chloe, waving her back toward the printing bay.
She gave a short nod and vanished into the rows of rolling fabric racks.
I turned away from the drafting table and located a spare metal studio chair near the perimeter of the bay.
I lowered my weight onto the seat, exhaling a slow breath.
The cool steel of the chair legs pressed against my calves, offering a brief reprieve from the hot room.
I rested both hands over my belly, interlacing my fingers.
A rhythmic thump pushed against my palm as the baby kicked.
The sudden movement gave me something real to focus on.
Marcus adjusted his camera rig and circled the drafting table.
The internal fan of his equipment emitted a quiet whir beneath the constant clatter of the commercial sewing machines.
He dialed in his lens, focusing the shot directly on Warren’s face.
My husband straightened his jacket cuffs and leaned over the mockups.
Naomi stood at his right side, posing with a manicured hand on her hip to catch the overhead lighting.
They preened for the lens, soaking up the attention with pathetic eagerness.
“That pose is great, Mr. Davenport,” Marcus called out, gesturing with his free hand. “Stand there and smile. That’s it. Perfect.”
Warren flashed a practiced grin at the lens.
He stood taller, pointing at the maternity line concept sketches as if he had drawn the designs himself.
I forced myself to sit quietly on the metal chair, enduring the suffocating temperature of the studio without giving them the satisfaction of a frown.
I watched my husband perform for the crew.
He carried himself like a man who genuinely possessed the vision and talent to run this fashion empire.
His actor’s ego sustained the illusion perfectly. Every word they fed into the lavalier microphones just added to the record. As they paced around the workspace, I sat back and let them pull the snare tighter.
I shifted my gaze past the heavy camera rig, scanning the busy studio floor.
Sebastian remained anchored near the emergency exit, blending into the background of the production crew.
His blue eyes tracked the spectacle at the cutting table, silently taking note of every word streaming into the audio receivers upstairs.
Then, his gaze cut through the crowd and met mine.
He dipped his chin in a single, subtle nod of approval.
Dance for the camera, Warren, I thought, still smiling for the lens. Show the whole world how much you love my money. It’s the last time you’ll ever get to touch it.
The sewing machines rattled, stitching together yard after yard of the new collection.
Dozens of employees focused entirely on their work, tuning out the circus unfolding in the center of the room.
I sat on the sidelines of my own company, holding my smile steady while I watched them dig their own graves on professional film.