Chapter 6 Vivienne
Vivienne
The teacher's lounge was mercifully empty, the industrial coffee maker gurgling in the corner while Lydia commandeered two mismatched mugs from the cabinet.
The afternoon light filtering through the windows cast everything in a golden haze that reminded me uncomfortably of yesterday morning in my bedroom.
"Okay," Lydia said, settling into one of the worn chairs with her coffee. "Spill. And don't try to tell me it's nothing, because I've known you for three years and I've never seen you glow like this."
I wrapped my hands around my mug, using the warmth to ground myself. "So, I met someone."
"When?"
"Saturday night."
"And you're just telling me now? Vivienne Ellis, I'm hurt." Lydia's mock indignation quickly gave way to genuine curiosity. "Where did you meet him? What's he like? Is he cute? Please tell me he's not another academic who wants to discuss the Byzantine Empire over dinner."
Despite my nerves, I laughed. "Definitely not an academic."
"Good. You need someone who can pull you out of your head occasionally." Lydia leaned forward, eyes bright with interest. "So what does he do?"
This was the part I had been dreading. How could I explain Julian without sounding completely out of my mind? Oh, he's just a world-famous fashion designer who's worth more than a decade of our school's annual budget and wants to dress me for an exclusive gallery opening.
"He's in fashion," I said carefully.
"Ooh, creative type. I like it already. How did you meet?"
I took a sip of coffee, buying time. "At a club downtown. My friend Melissa was supposed to meet me there, but she bailed, and these guys were bothering me, and he sort of... rescued me."
"Ooh, a gallant knight saving the damsel in distress!"
"Something like that." The memory of Julian's quiet authority, the way he'd made those men disappear with just a few words, sent heat flooding to my cheeks. "We ended up having dinner together."
"And?"
"And what?"
Lydia gave me a look. "Vivienne. You're practically glowing, you've been checking your phone every five minutes, and you have that dreamy expression that usually means someone got very thoroughly kissed. So don't 'and what' me."
Heat flooded my cheeks. "We... had a nice time."
"A nice time," Lydia repeated flatly. "That's what you're going with?"
"He's taking me to a gallery opening Friday night."
"Now we're getting somewhere. What kind of gallery opening?"
"Something exclusive downtown. He's..." I hesitated, then decided to trust my friend with at least part of the truth. "He's designing something for me to wear."
Lydia's eyebrows shot up. "He's what now?"
"He designs clothes. For a living. And he offered to make something for me to wear."
"Holy shit, Vivienne. That's... that's huge. You of all people should know how intimate that is! Designing something specifically for someone?" Lydia set down her coffee, studying my face intently. "This isn't just some casual thing, is it?"
"I don't know what it is," I admitted. "It all happened so fast, and he's... he's not like anyone I've ever met before."
"Good different or scary different?"
"Both." The word slipped out before I could stop it, and I realized it was true. Julian did scare me—not physically, but in the way he made me feel, the way he looked at me like I was something precious and complicated at the same time.
"Have you talked to him since then?"
"We've been texting." I pulled out my phone, scrolling through our brief but charged exchanges. "He's been asking about preferences for the design. Colors, fabrics, that sort of thing."
Lydia leaned over to peek at the screen. "His texts are very… precise."
"He's very precise." I thought about the careful way Julian moved, spoke, touched. Even in passion, there had been something controlled about him, something that suggested depths I hadn't begun to explore.
"When are you seeing him again?"
"Tonight, actually. I'm going to his studio so he can take measurements."
"Tonight?" Lydia glanced at the clock on the wall. "Viv, it's already three-thirty. What time are you supposed to be there?"
"Seven."
"That gives us time." Lydia stood abruptly, coffee forgotten. "What are you planning to wear tonight?"
"I... hadn't really thought about it. Something professional?"
"Do you have a little black dress?"
"I think so, somewhere in the back of my closet."
"Perfect. Wear that." Lydia's voice was gentle but firm. "Trust me on this. Men don't offer to design custom clothes for women they're not seriously interested in. This isn't just measurements. This is him sharing his work with you, his creative space. You want to look like you belong there."
At 6:55 p.m., I was second-guessing every choice I'd ever made as I stood outside the sleek glass building that housed Julian's studio.
The address he'd texted led me to a converted warehouse in the arts district—clean lines, industrial elegance, and a sense that creativity and money both lived here.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see glimpses of a workspace—cutting tables, dress forms, bolts of fabric in every conceivable color.
You can do this, I told myself, smoothing down the simple black dress Lydia had convinced me to wear. It’s just measurements.
But even as I thought it, I knew it wasn’t true.
The lobby was minimalist and intimidating, all white marble and modern art. A heavily muscled man in a black t-shirt that left his arms on display was leaning against a white marble reception desk as a young man in a sharp suit and slicked back hair was furiously typing away.
“And when Viper gets a moment,” the muscled man was saying, “Make sure he gives me a call. I know how he gets when he’s in his ‘creative space.’” The man’s large hands came up into air quotes for that last bit.
Muscles turned at my entrance as I walked forward clutching my purse with nerves. He gave me a onceover as I made my way towards them, his bearded face holding a smile and laughing eyes.
The receptionist continued his typing as he responded to the man, “You know he doesn’t go by Viper here. And yes, I’ll let him know.” He said with finality. His entire focus on the computer screen in front of him.
“Hate to take you away from your all-important work,” the guy standing at the counter said, “But it looks like we’ve got a visitor."
That got the typer’s attention. He looked up from his computer with a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Vivienne Ellis. I have an appointment with Julian at seven."
The change in the receptionist's expression was subtle but unmistakable. His polite mask slipped for just a moment, replaced by something that looked like curiosity mixed with surprise.
"Of course," he said, leaving his keyboard and standing smoothly. "Mr. Thorne is expecting you. I'm Roy, his assistant.”
“Wonderful to meet you Ms. Ellis.” Muscles interjected before Roy could say another word.
He stretched out a large hand and I shook it, noting the rough calluses against my palm.
“I’m Diesel, one of Julian’s oldest friends.”
“Nice to meet you, Diesel.”
“None of that now,” cut in Roy, “Please follow me this way Ms. Ellis."
Roy came out from behind the counter and threw over his shoulder, “I’ll be sure to let Julian know, and he’ll be in touch soon. I’m sure you can see yourself out Diesel.”
I felt those laughing eyes follow us as Roy led us away from the reception area and we turned down a hallway.
As we walked through the studio, I tried not to gawk at my surroundings.
It was like stepping into another world—a place where creativity and commerce merged in perfect harmony.
Sketches covered the walls, some rough and immediate, others polished and precise.
Bolt after bolt of fabric lined one wall, organized by color in a rainbow that seemed to shimmer under the carefully placed lighting.
"He's never invited anyone here before," Roy said suddenly, breaking the professional silence.
I glanced at him, surprised by the observation. "What do you mean?"
"I mean this space is sacred to him. He's very… particular about who he allows into his creative process." Roy paused at a door marked with Julian's name. "You must be pretty special, Diesel isn’t even allowed back here, and they’ve been friends for years."
Before I could process that information fully, the door opened and Julian appeared, his face lighting up when he saw me.
"Vivienne." The way he said my name, warm and pleased, made my stomach flutter. "You're right on time."
He looked different here, more relaxed somehow, wearing dark jeans and a fitted black sweater that emphasized the lean lines of his body.
And his hands, I did a double-take, thinking for a moment that he'd finally removed his gloves.
But no, these were a different color, a soft tan that almost exactly matched his skin tone.
If I hadn't been looking carefully, I might have missed them entirely.
Why skin-colored gloves? The question rose to my lips, but something in his expression, excited, almost boyish, made me hold back. I didn't want to break whatever spell had made him look at me like that.
"Thank you, Roy," Julian said, dismissing his assistant with a nod before turning his full attention to me. "Come in, please. I want to show you what I'm working on."
His office was larger than I'd expected, part workspace and part sanctuary.
A massive desk dominated one corner, covered with sketches and fabric samples.
But it was the dress forms arranged throughout the room that caught my attention—each one draped with a work in progress, some barely more than draped fabric, others nearly complete.
"These are incredible," I breathed, moving toward a gown that seemed to capture light and hold it, the midnight blue fabric shifting between black and navy as I walked around it.
"That's for the Milan show next month," Julian said, coming to stand beside me. "But it's nothing compared to what I've got in mind for you."
Something in his voice made me look up at him. There was an intensity in his expression that I hadn't seen before, a creative fire that made my pulse quicken.
"Would you like to know what I'm planning," he asked, his eyes searching my face, "Or would you prefer it to be a surprise?"
I considered the question, weighing my curiosity against the thrill of the unknown. There was something to be said for surrendering control, for trusting him completely.
"Surprise," I said finally.
Julian's smile was brilliant. "Perfect. Then let's get started."