12. Eliza
— ? —
Eliza
The number makes the entire sample room go quiet.
I hear it secondhand, standing at the fabric rack, pretending to organize bolts I’ve already organized twice while two of the senior designers discuss the new client contract in voices just loud enough to carry.
They don’t know I’m listening, or maybe they do and they don’t care, or maybe they’re doing it on purpose because everyone in this building seems to know my business now.
Gordon Bryce. Custom wardrobe project, exclusive, long-term. A fee that could fund the internship program for years.
My hands go still on the fabric. The bolt of navy wool I’m holding suddenly feels too heavy, too solid, like it might slip through my fingers and crash to the floor.
He didn’t. He wouldn’t.
But of course he did. Of course he would.
Because Gordon doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.
Because Gordon thinks if he can’t come to my apartment, he’ll just buy his way into my job instead.
Two days ago I stood on a curb and told him to stop coming around, and he stood there telling me he couldn’t give up on me, and some part of his brain must have already been hunting for the loophole.
I know him. That’s the problem with divorcing someone you’ve loved since you were eighteen.
I know exactly how he works, and I still didn’t see this coming.
I force myself to keep moving, to keep organizing, to keep my face neutral while my blood pressure spikes and my heart pounds and my brain runs laps around variations of I’m going to kill him.
The two designers keep talking, oblivious, about the size of the fee, about how it’s going to change everything for the label, about how Gordon Bryce is apparently very particular about who works on his account, how he specifically requested certain team members, how this is going to be a big opportunity for whoever gets assigned.
I don’t need to ask who he requested.
At lunch, the intern who complimented my eye for construction sits down across from me in the break room and asks, very carefully, if I’m okay.
I tell her I’m fine. She nods and doesn’t push, and then she slides half of her chocolate bar across the table without a word, and I eat it, and neither of us says anything else about it.
It’s the nicest thing anyone’s done for me all week, and it almost undoes me more than the contract did.
By the time Charlie calls me into his office an hour later, I’ve had time to compose myself. Time to practice the calm, professional detachment I’m going to need. Time to figure out what I’m going to say and how I’m going to say it without screaming or crying or doing something I’ll regret.
“I assume you’ve heard,” he says.
“I’ve heard.”
“He specifically requested you on the team.” Charlie’s voice is careful, neutral. “As one of the assistants.”
“Of course he did.”
I stand there for a moment, my hands clasped behind my back, letting the anger settle into something I can use, cold and sharp and controlled.
“He’s using you to get to me,” I say. “You know that, right? I told him to stop coming around, so he bought his way into the one place I told him was mine. The whole thing is a manipulation.”
“I know.” Charlie leans back in his chair and studies me. “I also know that contract could do a lot of good for this company. A lot of good for your program.” He pauses, meeting my eyes. “But it’s your call. Say the word, I’ll drop him, eat the penalty, and we’ll find another client.”
I appreciate that. I appreciate that he’s giving me the choice, that he’s not assuming he knows what’s best for me, that he’s treating me like an adult who gets to make her own decisions.
Unlike some people.
I think about it for a moment. The money. The jobs. The opportunities for people who didn’t ask to get dragged into my marriage collapse. The other interns, who are here because they want to learn, who shouldn’t have to suffer because my ex-husband doesn’t understand the word no.
And I think about Gordon, sitting somewhere right now, probably in his car, probably outside my building again, waiting for me to fight him on it. Waiting for the big dramatic reaction, the confrontation, the proof that I still care enough to get upset.
I’m not going to give him that satisfaction.
“Keep him,” I say. “Charge him double. He’s loaded, it won’t hurt him, but at least it’ll benefit the company.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” I straighten my shoulders. “But I’m not his primary. I’ll assist on the project, but I’m not leading anything. And if he makes this weird, if he tries to turn work into something personal, I’m coming straight to you.”
“Fair enough.” Charlie nods slowly. “And if it gets too weird? If you change your mind?”
“Then I’ll tell you.”
“Good. That’s all I needed to hear.”
I go back to the sample room and finish organizing the fabric bolts, and I keep my head down and do my job and pretend I don’t notice the way the room watches me now, everyone suddenly polite, everyone suddenly careful. The story got here before the client did.
The first fitting is scheduled for the following week.
I spend the days leading up to it preparing myself.
Going over every detail of his project until I could recite it in my sleep, memorizing all of it so I won’t have to ask questions when he’s in the room.
I study the measurement protocols and the fitting procedures and the client communication standards, even though I could do all of it in my sleep by now.
I rehearse the version of me who is unbothered. I practice her in the mirror at home, practice her in the car in the morning, practice her in my head every time I think about him showing up at my workplace and expecting me to be grateful.
I set up his client folder myself, because I’d rather build the wall than have someone else build it around me.
Measurement charts, fabric preferences, timeline.
His name at the top in my handwriting. I fill in the fields I already know without thinking, and then I stop, because I’ve just written his jacket size from memory, and I sit there looking at it for a minute before I make myself keep going.
Eleven years leaves fingerprints everywhere. I can’t scrub them all off in a month.
Mr. Bryce. Not Gordon. Not honey or babe or any of the other names he used to call me. Mr. Bryce, like he’s any other client, like I’ve never seen him naked, like I don’t know exactly what sound he makes when he comes.
I practice not thinking about that too.
The night before the fitting, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and go over the plan again. Keep it professional. Keep it brief. Don’t give him anything to work with, any opening, any sign that I’m affected by his presence. Treat him like furniture. Treat him like he doesn’t matter at all.
The morning of the fitting, I wake up early and take extra time with my appearance.
Not for him. For me. Because I want to feel put-together and professional and in control, and because I know he’s going to be looking at me and I want him to see someone who has her shit together, someone who’s doing fine without him, someone who doesn’t need anything he has to offer.
I wear my best work outfit, dark slacks and a crisp white blouse, nothing that could be mistaken for an invitation. I do my hair and my makeup and I check myself in the mirror three times before I leave, and I tell myself I’m ready.
He shows up ten minutes early, because of course he does.
I’m at the front desk when he walks in, reviewing the schedule with one of the receptionists. I see the movement at the edge of my vision, the door opening, someone stepping through, and I know it’s him before I even look up. I can feel his presence before I look at him, the way I always could.
He sees me before I see him, and by the time I look up, he’s already crossing the lobby with that look on his face.
That desperate hopeful look I’ve seen too many times now, the one that says he thinks this is going to change something, that being here, in my space, is going to make me remember why I loved him.
“Eliza.”
“Mr. Bryce.” I keep my voice cool and professional. “You’re early. The fitting room isn’t ready yet.”
Something flickers across his face at the formality, almost a flinch, and I let myself enjoy it.
“I can wait.”
“Good. Please have a seat. Someone will come get you when we’re ready.”
I turn back to the receptionist and keep my eyes on the schedule and don’t let myself look at him again. I can feel him standing there, waiting for me to acknowledge him the way I used to, to smile at him, to say his name the way I used to say it.
I don’t.
Eventually, he takes a seat in the waiting area.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye as I finish up with the receptionist. He looks different than he did on my landing two weeks ago.
Cleaner, more put together, like he’s actually been sleeping and eating like a normal person.
He’s wearing a suit I don’t recognize, expensive and well-cut, and he’s freshly shaved and his hair is combed and he looks like the man I married, the man I used to be proud to stand next to.
But there’s still a hunger in his expression that he can’t quite hide, no matter how nice his suit is or how together he looks. He keeps glancing at me, quick furtive looks that he probably thinks I don’t notice, and every time our eyes almost meet he looks away again.
Twenty minutes pass. Twenty minutes of him sitting there, waiting, while I go about my business and pretend he’s not there.
Twenty minutes of him watching me work and me refusing to give him anything to watch.
He doesn’t touch his phone once, which from Gordon Bryce is its own speech.
The man who ate every meal of our marriage over a screen sits in a lobby chair for twenty minutes with his hands on his knees, doing nothing, and I notice, and it means something to me, and I resent both of those facts and file them away with everything else I’m not letting myself feel today.
Finally, I walk over with a robe and a clipboard.
“Here’s how this works,” I say before he can open his mouth. “You wanted in? You’re in. You’re a client. So you can see me at work, and nowhere else. No more flowers. No more landings. No more curbs.” I hold his gaze. “Work only. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it.”
“I know you will.” I hand him the robe. “Fitting room’s downstairs. Someone will be with you in a minute.”
His face falls when he understands what that means. I’m not the one doing the fitting. Not today.
“Eliza-”
“This is a professional environment, Mr. Bryce. Please conduct yourself accordingly.”
I turn and walk away before he can say anything else.
From across the sample room, I watch as one of the other assistants leads him toward the elevator.
He’s carrying the robe folded over one arm like it might bite him, and he turns back to look at me one more time before he disappears around the corner, and there’s a look on his face I don’t want to examine too closely, hope or desperation or both.
He came here to be near me, and the closest he’s going to get is my handwriting on his measurement chart.
Good. Let him sit with that.