The Business Of Being Her
Country: Aurivelle
City: Auremont
Alvara
The sound of the atelier door downstairs brought me back.
I looked at the time.
Eight forty seven.
The day was beginning.
I set my tea down.
Opened the design board.
And leaned forward.
Seren arrived at eight fifty.
"Good morning, Ms. Dane."
"Morning."
"Tuesday schedule … nine AM brand strategy review for collection two. Ten thirty production timeline update with Lena. Twelve fifteen your virtual meeting with Mr. Hawthorne. Two PM PR briefing for the Lumière Magazine feature. Four thirty … the waitlist client preview call."
I looked up.
"The Lumière feature moved to today?"
"The editor requested an earlier slot," Seren said. "I checked your calendar. The two PM window works."
"Fine," I said.
"Also," she said. "The second collection pre-order enquiries have reached two hundred and seventeen since yesterday morning."
I held her gaze for a moment.
"Two hundred and seventeen," I repeated.
"Yes," she said.
I nodded once.
"Tell Lena we need the second collection timeline on my desk by the end of day."
"Already sent the message," Seren said.
I looked at her.
She looked back.
Completely composed.
"What would I do without you?" I said.
"Eat less and sleep less," she said simply.
Then she walked out.
The nine o'clock brand strategy review was the most energised meeting I had attended since the launch.
The sellout had changed the conversation entirely.
Not just internally … across the industry.
The brand strategist had come prepared with data I hadn't asked for but needed immediately … search volume for Alvara Atelier, social media mentions, press coverage from the past two weeks.
The numbers were not small.
"You're trending in three countries," she said.
"Which three?" I asked.
"Aurivelle. Eldoria. and France."
France.
I held that for a moment.
"The interview reached further than the publication's usual distribution," she continued. "The photograph specifically. It was shared by several major fashion accounts internationally."
"The second collection needs to be bigger," I said. "Not in volume. In a statement."
"Agreed," she said.
"Twelve pieces. Not eight."
"That accelerates the production timeline significantly."
"I know," I said. "Make it work."
She nodded.
We spent the next hour building the framework.
The second collection.
Bigger.
Bolder.
More specific in its language.
Still Alvara Atelier.
More completely.
The ten thirty with Lena was exactly what I expected.
She walked in already talking.
"I have thoughts about the second collection," she said.
"Tell me," I said.
And she did.
For forty five minutes.
The creative energy between us had found its rhythm in a way that still surprised me, two people with strong opinions in a room, and somehow the collision produced better things than either of us would have reached alone.
By the time she left I had three pages of notes and the clearest vision of the second collection I had yet.
At twelve fifteen my screen lit up.
Virtual call.
Grayson.
I answered on the second ring.
He was at his desk … somewhere in the Hawthorne Group headquarters, I assumed, though the background was always the same controlled neutral.
"Good afternoon," he said.
"You're early," I said.
"I'm on time," he said. "You were expecting late."
"I was expecting exactly on time," I said.
"Then I'm exactly on time," he said.
I pressed my lips together.
"How is the collection two timeline?" he asked.
"Accelerating," I said. "Twelve pieces. The brand strategy review this morning was productive."
"The pre-order numbers," he said.
"Seren told you.?"
"Seren reports to you," he said. "I have other sources."
"You have spies in my atelier," I said.
"I have information channels," he said.
"Those are the same thing."
"They are not," he said.
I looked at him through the screen.
He looked back.
That steady, composed look that had become the most familiar thing about him.
"Two hundred and seventeen pre-order enquiries," he said. "In thirty six hours."
"Yes," I said.
"Alvara."
"I know," I said.
"Do you understand what that means for the positioning of the second…"
"I know what it means," I said. "I've already directed the brand strategy team to adjust the approach."
A pause.
"Of course you have," he said.
"Did you call to tell me things I already know?" I asked.
"I called to tell you that the Lumière feature is going to be read by people in Paris," he said.
I looked at him.
"The editor shared the preliminary concept with three European counterparts," he continued. "There is already interest in a syndicated version."
I held his gaze through the screen.
Paris.
Europe.
"How do you know this?" I asked.
"I told you," he said. "Information channels."
"Grayson."
"The Hawthorne media arm has relationships," he said simply. "I pay attention to what moves through them."
I sat back in my chair.
"You're telling me this now," I said.
"I'm telling you this as your manager," he said.
"As just Grayson," I said.
Something moved through his expression.
"As just Grayson," he confirmed.
A pause.
"The industry is watching you," he said quietly. "Not just Aurivelle. What you do with the second collection will determine how far that watching reaches."
I held his gaze.
"I know," I said.
"I know you know," he said.
A brief silence.
"Did you eat this morning?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Properly?"
"Grayson…"
"Because I checked with Seren and she said…"
"You checked with Seren about my breakfast," I said.
"I check in with Seren periodically," he said.
"About my meals," I said.
"Among other things," he said.
"That is…"
"Managerial oversight," he said.
"That is completely beyond the agreed scope," I said.
"The scope is flexible," he said.
"The scope is not flexible," I said. "We established that."
"I'm renegotiating," he said.
"You can't renegotiate without…"
"Your presence," he said. "Which I have. You're right here."
I stared at him through the screen.
He looked back.
Completely composed.
Completely unbothered.
The corner of his mouth doing that thing.
"I ate breakfast," I said finally.
"Good," he said.
"Properly," I added.
"Even better," he said.
I shook my head.
He watched me do it.
"Alvara," he said.
"Yes?"
"The second collection is going to be extraordinary," he said.
Simply.
Certainly.
The way he always said things he meant.
Something settled in my chest.
"Yes," I said quietly.
"I'll be there for the preview," he said.
"I know," I said.
"Good," he said.
"Goodnight, Grayson," I said.
"It's noon," he said.
"I'm ending the call," I said.
"It's twelve twenty two," he said.
"Goodbye," I said.
"Goodbye, Alvara," he said.
And even through a screen … even in the middle of the day in the middle of a work week …
The way he said my name did what it always did.
I ended the call.
I looked at the screen for a moment after it went dark.
Then opened the design board.
The two o'clock PR briefing was the most exciting meeting of the day.
The PR lead walked in with the kind of energy that meant she had been waiting to have this conversation.
"The Lumière feature," she said. "They want to do something different."
"Different how?" I asked.
"Not just an interview," she said. "A day in the life. Photographic. Narrative. They want to follow you through a full day at the atelier … the creative process, the team, the space."
I considered it.
"When?"
"They've proposed the 5th of November," she said. "That gives you time to prepare the second collection of preliminary sketches, which gives them something to photograph in the process."
"Will the boutique floor be open?"
"Yes. They want to capture the full picture."
I nodded slowly.
"On one condition," I said.
"Of course," she said.
"The creative floor photographs are approved by me before publication," I said. "Nothing from the design process goes to print without my sign-off."
"Already in the terms," she said.
I looked at her.
She smiled.
"Seren drafted the conditions before I got here," she said.
I made a mental note to give Seren a raise.
"Confirm it," I said. "The 5th."
The four thirty waitlist client preview call was the last meeting of the day.
Fourteen clients on the call.
Each one on the waitlist for pieces from the debut collection.
I spoke to them directly … not through the brand strategist, not through the PR team.
Directly.
Because they had waited.
And they deserved to hear from the person whose name was on the building.
I told them about the second collection.
Not the details.
Just … the direction.
The philosophy.
What it would feel like.
By the time the call ended twelve of the fourteen had confirmed priority pre-orders.
Seren appeared at the door when the last screen went dark.
"Twelve confirmations," she said.
"I know," I said.
"That's … significant," she said.
"Yes," I said.
She looked at me for a moment.
"You spoke to them like people," she said.
"They are people," I said.
"A lot of designers don't," she said simply.
I looked at her.
"I know what it feels like to be invisible in rooms," I said quietly. "I don't intend to make anyone feel that way in mine."
Seren held my gaze.
Something moved through her expression.
Deep and quiet.
"No," she said softly. "I don't think you do."
I was reviewing the day's design notes at half past five when I heard it.
The elevator.
I looked up through the glass.
The creative floor was mostly empty Lena had left an hour ago, the assistants at five.
Just the overnight security presence.
The elevator doors opened.
And Grayson walked out.
I looked at him through the glass for a moment.
He looked up.
Found me immediately.
The way he always did.
He walked to the office door.
Pushed it open.
"You said the call ended at four thirty," he said.
"It did," I said.
"It's five thirty five," he said.
"I had notes to review," I said.
He walked in.
He looked at the desk.
The design board.
The open notebooks.
The white roses … freshly replaced this morning, white and perfect.
Then he set something on the desk.
A paper bag.
From the French café.
I looked at it.
Then at him.
It's almost six," he said simply.
"You came here to bring me food again," I said.
"I came here to see how the day went," he said. "The food is secondary."
"It's never secondary," I said.
"It's always secondary," he said.
I looked at him for a long moment.
This man.
Who showed up at my atelier unannounced with food from my favourite café.
Who called my assistant to check if I had eaten.
Who sat in my seating area scrolling through his phone while I ate and called it nothing.
Who said my name like it was worth saying carefully every single time.
"How did the day go?" he asked.
I looked at him.
Then I told him.
All of it.
He listened.
Without interrupting.
Without redirecting.
Just … listening.
When I finished he was quiet for a moment.
"Twelve out of fourteen," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"You spoke to them directly," he said.
"Yes."
"Not through the team."
"No."
He looked at me.
"That's why it was twelve," he said simply.
I held his gaze.
"Eat," he said.
I opened the bag.
The croque monsieur.
The small side salad.
The vanilla latte with an extra shot …still warm.
I looked at him.
"You timed this," I said.
"I called the café from the car," he said.
"You called ahead from the car so the latte would still be warm when you arrived," I said.
"Yes," he said.
Simply.
Without any awareness that this was remarkable.
I looked at the latte.
Then at him.
"Grayson," I said quietly.
"Yes?"
I held his gaze.
"Thank you," I said.
Not for the food.
He understood that.
Something moved through his expression.
That deep, certain thing that lived underneath the composed surface.
Always," he said.
And he meant that too.
We both knew it.
He stayed for twenty minutes while I ate.
We talked about nothing important.
The industry gossip he had heard that week … something involving two competing houses and a fabric supplier -- was apparently the most dramatic thing to happen in Aurivelle fashion in months.
"Goodnight, Alvara," he said quietly when I was finally done eating.
"Goodnight," I managed.
He walked out.
Down through the empty creative floor.
Into the elevator.
Gone.
I sat at my desk.
One month of this.
Whatever this was.
Building so quietly.
So consistently.
So entirely without my permission.
I pressed my hand flat against the desk.
Exhaled slowly.
Then I picked up my phone.
Called Evander.
"I'm ready," I said.
"Two minutes," he said.
I gathered my things.
I looked at the atelier one last time.
Everything I had built.
Everything that was still being built.
And walked out.
In the car on the way home I looked out the window.
Isabella is thriving next door in every sense.
The city moved past.
One month.
I exhaled.
And smiled.
Quietly.
To myself.
Like someone who knew exactly where she was.
And exactly where she was going.
Completely unafraid of both.