Anything For Starling
Country: France
City: Paris
Alvara
Breakfast arrived at seven thirty.
A soft knock. Then the quiet glide of a trolley wheeled in by someone who moved with the practiced grace of a hotel that understood luxury properly … silent, precise, effortless.
I stood by the window while everything was arranged.
Fresh croissants, layered and golden.
A fruit platter, seasonal and exact.
Smoked salmon blinis with crème fra?che.
Soft scrambled eggs finished with chives.
Fresh orange juice. Coffee. A small ceramic jar of apricot jam.
When the attendant left, the suite fell still again.
I sat at the table by the window.
Paris stretched outside in muted November tones … grey sky, pale gold stone, rooftops damp from early mist.
I poured coffee.
And let myself feel it.
I was having breakfast in Paris.
I smiled to myself.
Then I ate.
Seren knocked at eight fifteen.
I was already dressed.
She stepped inside, looked at me once, and gave a small approving nod.
The midnight navy column gown fit like intention itself … structured, floor-length, minimal. Nothing unnecessary.
Long sculptural gold earrings.
Diamond curved bar necklace.
Diamond bezel watch.
Hair in a French twist.
Red lip.
“Perfect,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. “Brief me.”
She opened her tablet.
“First engagement … ten AM. Maison Vellière runway show. Front row, centre section. Press heavy. You and Ms. Soren will be photographed entering.”
I nodded.
“Second … two PM. Private preview at Atelier Renaud. Attendance is strictly by Invitation only. Twelve guests. Three global buyers are attending, along with the creative director of a major European house.”
“Names?”
She listed them.
I memorised each one.
“Third … five PM. Grand Palais industry reception. Editors, buyers, houses, private networking.”
I hesitated only briefly.
“Have you heard from Mr. Hawthorne?”
Seren’s tone became careful.
“His arrival was delayed. He's expected this afternoon, though the timing is uncertain.”
I looked away.
“Understood.”
She continued.
“The Lumière feature drops at noon Paris time.”
That made me pause.
I had nearly forgotten.
“During the Atelier Renaud preview,” she said.
“Good timing.”
“I thought so too.”
She closed the tablet.
“Ready?”
I looked out at Paris one last time.
“Yes.”
The car picked us at nine thirty.
Isabella was already in the lobby.
She looked stunning.
She looked me over once and grinned.
“We look like we belong here.”
“We do belong here,” I said.
And we stepped into the car.
Maison Vellière
One of the oldest luxury houses in Paris.
Their shows were staged in a glass-roofed venue in the 1st arrondissement …a place where fashion history had happened often enough that the walls no longer seemed impressed by it.
The street outside was lined with photographers.
Cars arriving. Doors opening. Flashbulbs igniting. Editors gliding. Stylists rushing. Everyone watching everyone.
Our car stopped.
The door opened.
I stepped out.
Cameras fired immediately.
Not because of me.
Because this was Paris Fashion Week and attention was the local currency.
I walked forward steadily.
Isabella beside me. Seren just behind.
Then I heard it.
My name.
“Alvara Dane. Alvara Atelier.”
Then…
“Isabella Soren. Isabella Cortez.”
Lenses shifted.
Focused.
I kept walking.
But inside something moved sharply.
Paris knew our names.
We were seated in the front row.
Around us sat the people who decided trends, shaped narratives, made houses famous or irrelevant.
Editors. Buyers. Designers. Icons.
Isabella leaned closer.
“We’re actually in the front row.”
“Yes,” I said.
Then the lights dimmed.
And Maison Vellière began.
Thirty-two looks.
Twenty-two minutes.
Every garment moved with the confidence of a house fluent in itself.
I watched everything.
Construction. Fabric weight. Silhouettes. Pacing. Colour movement from pale gold to amber to near black.
It was masterful.
But what I felt wasn’t intimidation.
It was hunger.
Not envy.
Hunger.
The clean, dangerous kind.
The certainty that I could reach this height.
When the applause rose at the end, I joined it.
And made myself one silent promise:
Next time I sat in the front row in Paris, it would be for my own show.
Noon came during the Atelier Renaud preview.
Seren appeared quietly on my shoulder.
“The Lumière feature is live.”
I nodded.
I didn’t check my phone.
Success always found me eventually.
The preview was intimate and brilliant.
Twelve guests in a high-ceilinged Marais studio.
Collection sketches. Fabric developments. Early forms not yet public.
Process, not performance.
I listened carefully.
I was introduced to the three buyers Seren had mentioned.
Two offered cards.
The third smiled before I could reach for mine.
“I’ve already read the Lumière feature.”
I paused.
“The opening line,” she said. “Everyone is quoting it.”
She repeated it back to me:
“I didn’t build the Alvara Atelier to be noticed. I built it to be remembered.”
I inclined my head.
“Thank you.”
The Grand Palais reception at five was immense.
Glass ceilings above. Conversation everywhere. Champagne, introductions, movement.
Isabella and I crossed the room together.
Editors greeted us.
Buyers asked questions.
Names I had known for years now shook my hand.
A senior editor smiled at me.
“Alvara Atelier. I’ve been watching since the showcase.”
“Then you’ve been watching since the beginning,” I said.
She laughed.
“The best time to start.”
At some point I checked my phone.
No message from Grayson.
I slipped it away.
I kept talking.
I kept smiling.
Keep noticing.
Every room I entered, I was aware of who was in it.
He wasn’t.
By seven the crowd had thinned.
Isabella found me near the far end of the hall.
She studied my face once.
“Come on.”
We moved to a quieter corner.
She handed me sparkling water.
“He’s not here,” she said gently.
“I assume he’s busy.”
“Alvara.”
I stared into the glass.
Then finally said it.
“I missed him today.”
She said nothing.
So I continued.
“Every room. Every moment was worth seeing. I kept thinking I wanted him there.”
My voice softened.
“I wanted to tell him everything while it was happening.”
The truth rose before I could stop it.
“I love him.”
She exhaled slowly.
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“I’ve known for weeks.”
I laughed once under my breath.
“I kept calling it everything else.”
“You did.”
She reached for my hand.
“You’re allowed to want this too.”
I looked at her.
She squeezed once.
“Follow it.”
“ You have built everything you said you would build," she said. "You have proved everything you needed to prove. To the industry. To yourself." She paused.
"He's good," she said. "He shows up. He sees you. Not the brand. Not the designer. You."
I didn't answer.
Because she was right.
I nodded.
Back at the hotel by eight thirty, I showered and changed into cream silk pyjamas.
Hair down.
Face bare.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
Thought about calling him.
Decided against it.
He would reach out when he could.
I reached for the duvet.
Then…
A knock.
I frowned.
I walked to the door.
I opened it.
And there he was.
Grayson.
Dark shirt. Slightly dishevelled. Less composed than usual.
Holding flowers.
White. Pale pink. Something delicate between.
I looked at him once.
Then moved before any thought could interfere.
Straight into him.
My arms around him.
Face against his chest.
Holding on.
He exhaled like relief.
His arms came around me instantly.
One hand at my back.
The other is still holding the bouquet.
“You didn’t come,” I said to him.
My face is still on his chest.
“I know.”
“I didn’t hear from you all day.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I kept looking for you.”
His arms tightened.
“I’m here now.”
“You should have been here this morning.”
“Yes.”
“The Vellière show was extraordinary.”
“Tell me about it.”
“And Atelier Renaud…”
“Tell me everything.”
I leaned back enough to look at him.
His expression was open in a way it rarely was.
“You brought flowers again.”
“Yes.”
“Different ones.”
“White roses are for the atelier,” he said. “These are for Paris.”
I looked down at them.
Then back at him.
“Starling,” he said softly.
“Why do you call me that?”
He held my gaze.
“A starling always finds its way home,” he said. “No matter how far it flies. No matter what it survives. No matter how lost it seems.”
His voice lowered.
“That’s you.”
The corridor disappeared around us.
“Every time the world tried to tell you that you didn’t belong somewhere…” he said, “you found your way back to yourself.”
My chest tightened.
“Come inside,” I said.
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Get dressed.”
I blinked.
“I’m taking you to dinner.”
“It’s nine o’clock.”
“It’s Paris,” he said. “Nine o’clock is early.”
I stared at him.
“Twenty minutes.”
“Fifteen.”
“Twenty.”
“Seventeen.”
I shut the door in his face.
I was ready in twelve minutes.
Black halter dress. Gold layered jewellery. Strappy heels. High ponytail.
When I opened the door, he was leaning against the wall.
He looked up.
Went still.
“Seventeen minutes,” I said.
“Twelve.”
“You counted?”
“I waited.”
Then he straightened.
“Come on.”
And we went.
The restaurant overlooked all of Paris.
Glass walls. Endless lights below. The city glittering like something imagined too beautifully.
The ma?tre d’ greeted him by name.
Which meant the reservation had been made in advance.
Which meant he had planned this long before he arrived.
Which meant…
He had been thinking of me all day too.
Dinner lasted two hours.
The food was exceptional.
But I would remember the conversation.
He told me about the delayed meeting, the flight, and checking the time constantly.
“Because I knew where I was supposed to be,” he said quietly. “Beside you.”
I looked at him for a long moment.
Then I told him everything.
The Vellière show.
The front row.
The hunger it had lit inside me.
“What did you feel?” he asked.
“Like I could reach it.”
“You already have.”
“Not yet.”
“You’ll be here next season.”
I tilted my head.
“With your own show,” he said simply.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
And the way he said it…
Not encouragement.
Fact.
Later he made me laugh so hard I nearly lost composure entirely.
He watched me with quiet satisfaction.
“You laugh differently here.”
“How?”
“Like you’re not carrying anything.”
I looked at him.
“It’s easy to be here,” I said. “In this city. With…”
I stopped.
He waited.
“With good company.”
That small smile again.
“I’ll take it.”
We left at half past eleven.
The Eiffel Tower blazed behind us.
I stopped walking.
I turned to look.
Paris glowed in every direction.
Grayson stopped beside me.
We stood there in silence.
Just inside the moment.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
“For coming. For the flowers. For dinner.”
He looked at me.
The lights of Paris reflected in his eyes.
“Always,” he said.
Then more quietly…
“Anything for Starling.”
That meant more than everything else he said.
I looked at the tower one last time.
Then turned toward him.
And we walked back through Paris together.