Chapter 12 Zara
Arson pulls up in the SUV just as we exit the building. Both men glance around, but neither seems tense. I’m guessing they haven’t seen any of the Bushrangers, so I relax and listen to Tony’s ramblings about the upcoming show.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” he says. “I can picture it, can you?”
I smile at him. “I can. It still feels like a dream. That will change once the show starts. Then it will be wild. Especially since we only have four models. That’s not going to be enough.”
“I talked to one of them,” Tony says. “She said they are looking for additional models. They’re hoping to get another four. Eight will still be tight, but doable.”
“That’s good.”
When we arrive back at the hotel, I’m relieved to see there are no bikes parked out front. Maybe the Bushrangers gave up or realized they missed us.
“Stay in the SUV, let me check out the lobby,” Piston says before exiting the SUV. He returns a few minutes later and opens the rear door so we can exit.
“I’ll park and meet you inside,” Arson tells Piston.
The hotel lobby smells like lemon polish and fresh coffee—clean, warm, and trying very hard to be impressive without crossing into pretentious.
Cream-colored tile floors reflect the glow of modern brass chandeliers.
A wide staircase curves along the back wall, but Piston steers Tony and me toward the bank of elevators instead, one massive hand hovering at the small of my back as I might bolt.
“I’m not going to run,” I murmur.
His mouth twitches. “Didn’t say you would.”
The hotel set the meeting up in one of the hotel’s mid-sized conference rooms on the second floor.
Not a ballroom—thank God—but big enough to hold eight folding tables arranged in a U-shape.
Designers have racks behind them, garments zipped into clear bags or hanging free like colorful promises.
Buyers move from table to table, clipboards in hand, expressions sharp and assessing.
Tony squeezes my shoulder before we split up. “You’ve got this, Z.”
I nod, even though my stomach is performing acrobatics.
Piston takes up position against the back wall, arms crossed, scanning the room like a predator in a herd of very well-dressed gazelles. A few buyers glance his way, then glance again. I ignore it and focus on steaming my last sample dress.
The first buyer to approach my table is a petite woman with silver-framed glasses and a shock of natural curls. Her badge reads: Lila Moreno – Moreno Boutique, Wicker Park.
She runs her fingers over the sleeve of my cropped leather jacket, tracing the embroidered phoenix rising across the back. “This is exquisite,” she says, voice reverent. “The stitching is clean. And this lining—custom print?”
I nod. “Hand-designed.”
She smiles widely. “My clients eat up statement pieces. Strong silhouettes. They want to walk into a room and be seen.” She flips through my lookbook. “These wide-leg trousers? I’d order them in every size.”
Warmth blooms in my chest. “I can send line sheets this afternoon.”
“Please do. I’m thinking a fall trunk show.” She taps the phoenix again. “You’re going places, Zara.”
By the time she moves on, I’m floating a few inches off the ground.
The next buyer brings me back down.
Tall, sleek ponytail, lips pressed into a permanent line. Caroline Hurst – Hurst & Co., Gold Coast.
She studies my rack without touching anything. “It’s… bold.”
“I design for women who don’t want to blend in,” I reply evenly.
“Yes, well.” She finally pinches the edge of a deep red sheath dress between two fingers. “My clientele prefers understated luxury. Clean lines. Minimal embellishment. This feels… aggressive.”
Aggressive.
I swallow. “The structure is intentional. It’s meant to convey strength.”
“Strength doesn’t need to shout.” She sets the fabric down as if it disappointed her. “I don’t see this moving in my store.”
For a second, the room feels too bright. Too loud. The hum of conversations presses in on me.
I tell myself a truth. Not everyone will love my designs.
I know that. I do. But knowing it and hearing it are two different things.
“Thank you for your honesty,” I say, because professionalism is armor too.
She inclines her head and glides away.
I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding—and nearly jump out of my skin when Tony appears at my side.
“I caught that,” he says quietly.
I force a shrug. “She thinks my designs shout.”
“They do,” he says. “In the best way.” He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Zara, your pieces aren’t meant for women who hide behind beige. They’re too good for that boutique anyway.”
A reluctant smile curves my lips. “You’re biased.”
“Damn right I am. And I’m also right.”
Confidence settles back into place—not perfect, but steadier. Lila loved the line. Others will too. Fashion isn’t about pleasing everyone. It’s about finding your people.
When the session ends, Tony and I gather our materials and step out into the hallway.
Piston is waiting, massive and immovable. Beside him stands Arson, all dark hair and lazy menace, leaning against the wall.
Two women in designer heels slow as they pass, eyes dragging over both men.
“Are they with you?” one whispers—not quietly enough.
Piston pushes off the wall, Arson straightening beside him, and just like that, we’re escorted down the corridor—our own dangerous runway.
“What’s next?” Arson asks.
“Press interviews,” Tony says with a groan. “I hate talking about myself.”
I laugh. “You love talking about yourself.”
He grimaces. “Yeah, but they aren’t interested in me.
They’re all interested in my father, so the questions are all the same.
How does your father think about you going into design instead of following in his footsteps?
What did your father say when you told him you were going to design clothes instead of playing football? ”
“Football?” Arson asks him.
Tony shrugs. “My Dad used to play for the Steelers.”
“Got it. So, being a designer instead of a sports star…?” Piston queries.
“My dad doesn’t care. He’s proud of me. He knows I’ll never be interested in sports. He never pushed me to be anything but what I am.”
“Good. Fathers should always support their kids' dreams,” Arson chimes in.
“He does. He’s a great dad.”
“Where is this coffee shop?” Arson asks.
“Next door to the hotel,” I tell them.
“Let me go outside first and scope it out,” Arson offers, pushing ahead of us. He exits the hotel, leaving Tony and me with Piston.
“How did the meetings go?” he asks.
“Fine, a few of the buyers showed interest in our designs. One wasn’t very nice, but in fairness, my designs wouldn’t work in her stores.”
The late afternoon air is crisp as we step out of the hotel, the glass doors whispering shut behind us.
Piston and Arson automatically flank Tony and me, forming a wall of muscle and menace as we head down the sidewalk.
The hotel sits on a busy downtown corner—brick buildings, streetlamps just starting to glow, traffic humming past in steady waves.
The coffee shop next door is all exposed brick and tall windows, slightly fogged from the espresso machines working overtime. Edison bulbs hang from thick cords, casting everything in amber light. It smells like roasted beans and sugar.
Piston opens the door for me. Arson scans the street before following us in.
Inside, a small cluster of reporters has already claimed the long farmhouse table near the back. Laptops open. Recorders ready. Not a huge media turnout, but enough to matter.
Tony squeezes my hand briefly. “We’ll divide and conquer.”
I nod. We split—him drifting toward two reporters near the pastry case while I head to the long table.
A woman with a sleek bob and sharp eyeliner smiles at me. “Zara Sutherland? I’m Elise from Style Current.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Recorders click on.
“Your designs are bold,” she says. “Structured. Almost defiant. What motivates that aesthetic?”
I wrap my hands around the paper cup someone slides toward me, grounding myself in the warmth.
“I grew up around clothing,” I begin. “My father owns a small clothing store. Nothing glamorous—just a neighborhood shop—but he treated it like a boutique. I used to help him choose inventory. I’d sit on the counter with catalogs spread everywhere, telling him what women would feel powerful in. ”
Elise smiles. “How old were you?”
“Ten. Maybe younger.” I laugh softly. “I didn’t know I was developing a design philosophy. I just knew I hated when women came in and apologized for taking up space.”
A murmur of approval ripples around the table.
“So your pieces are about reclaiming space?” another reporter asks—a man with tortoiseshell glasses and a velvet blazer.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Armor doesn’t have to be cold. Strength doesn’t cancel out femininity.”
Across the shop, I catch sight of Tony. He’s animated, hands moving as he talks, charming one reporter, then pivoting seamlessly to another. He looks at ease—like he was born for this part of the business. For a second, it steadies me.
“And you studied abroad?” Elise prompts.
“Yes. I attended design school in Auckland.” The word alone pulls up memories—wind off the harbor, long studio nights, learning to trust my instincts.
“Moving that far from home forced me to define my voice. I couldn’t lean on my father’s store or familiar influences.
I had to decide what I wanted my work to say. ”
“And what does it say?”
Before I can answer, I notice Elise’s gaze flick past me. Her expression shifts—subtle, but there. Curiosity sharpening into something else.
The noise level in the shop dips.
I turn.
Six men stand just inside the entrance.
Leather kuttes. Club patches bold against worn denim. Heavy boots tracking in city grit. They don’t belong in this soft-lit, indie coffee haven—and they know it.
The Bushrangers.
My stomach drops.
I recognize the president immediately. Broad shoulders. Salt-and-pepper beard. Cold eyes that sweep the room and land—unerringly—on me.
Conversations falter completely now. One of the baristas freezes mid-pour.
Across the shop, Tony goes still.
Against the wall, Piston and Arson shift almost imperceptibly, their posture changing from relaxed to lethal in a heartbeat.
Elise lowers her voice. “Do you know them?”
I don’t look away from the men.
“Yes,” I say quietly.
The Bushrangers walk deeper into the café.