29. Amara
AMARA
Six months later, and I still can't believe this is real.
The executive conference room at Black Lake occupies the fifty-second floor with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. The view that reminds you money can buy almost anything, including the illusion that you're floating above the chaos below.
Except today, the chaos is orchestrated.
I stand near the window with Cassian beside me, both of us watching the live feed on the massive screen dominating one wall.
The Black Lake x Sapphire Studios collaboration launches in three minutes.
Dresses, shirts, t-shirts, all carrying patterns I designed, translated by Lucian's team into wearable art.
The hype has been building for weeks. Fashion bloggers analyzing preview images, magazines running features, celebrities posting cryptic hints about what they've already secured. Lucian's marketing team executed a campaign so precise it borders on surgical.
Now we wait to see if people actually want to buy the clothes.
"You're doing the thing," Cassian murmurs.
"What thing?"
"The nail-biting thing you always do when you're nervous."
I drop my hand from my mouth. "I'm not nervous."
"Liar."
Katheryn's on her phone across the room, pacing. Lucian sits at the head of the conference table with several board members, tablets open, expressions neutral but eyes locked on the screen.
The countdown hits two minutes.
Cassian's hand finds mine. His palm is slightly damp, which means he's nervous too, even though he's pretending otherwise. I squeeze once. He squeezes back.
The screen switches to the Black Lake website.
The homepage displays our collection front and center—models wearing pieces that blur the line between fashion and art.
The lead image shows a dress covered in fractured geometric patterns, bold oranges bleeding into midnight blacks. One of my paintings, transformed.
Thirty seconds.
Lucian leans forward slightly. Katheryn stops pacing.
Ten seconds.
The countdown hits zero.
For five seconds, nothing happens. The website just sits there, static and perfect.
Then the numbers start moving.
Orders flood in so fast the counter becomes a blur. Hundreds in the first thirty seconds. A thousand by minute two. The inventory tracker beside it drops in real-time—sizes selling out, restocks triggered automatically, customer demand exceeding every projection.
"Holy shit," Katheryn breathes.
Lucian's mouth curves into something approaching a smile. "We're going to need to accelerate production."
By minute five, half the collection is sold out. The website crashes briefly under traffic volume, comes back online, immediately gets slammed again. Social media feeds populate with people posting their purchases, modeling pieces they already received through early access programs.
Cassian pulls me against his side. "You did this."
"We did this."
"No." His voice drops lower. "This is your vision, your art, your talent making people want to own something beautiful. I just wrote checks and stood nearby looking supportive."
"You did more than that."
"Maybe. But this?" He gestures at the screen where numbers continue climbing. "This is all you."
Katheryn crosses the room, champagne materialized from somewhere. She pours glasses for everyone, hands one to me with eyes that shine suspiciously wet.
"To Amara Campbell," she says, raising her glass. "Who proved that art and commerce can coexist without compromising either."
"To partnership," Lucian adds, standing with his own glass. "And to taking risks that pay off spectacularly."
We drink. The champagne tastes expensive and celebratory.
Meanwhile, my phone explodes with notifications.
Texts from my mother, from friends, from artists I admire congratulating me.
Maria sends a string of emojis that don't make sense but convey enthusiasm.
Even my lawyer texts to say she just bought three pieces.
The board members congregate around Lucian, discussing production capacity and market expansion. Katheryn's back on her phone, probably fielding calls from retailers who want in on whatever this is.
Cassian tugs me away from the window toward a quieter corner. We sink into leather chairs positioned for private conversations.
"How do you feel?" he asks.
I consider the question seriously. "Like I might throw up or cry or both."
"Sounds about right."
"I keep waiting for something to go wrong. For people to realize they don't actually want my work on their clothes, for the sales to crash, for this whole thing to be revealed as a massive mistake or some sort of fraud."
"Not happening. Look at those numbers." He nods toward the screen where the order count continues climbing past five thousand. "People want this because it's good. Because you're good."
My throat tightens. "I couldn't have done it without you."
"You absolutely could have. You'd built an entire career before I showed up again. I just got lucky enough to witness it."
"Stop being humble. It's weird."
He laughs, that sound I've come to associate with safety. "Fair enough. I'm taking full credit for being extremely supportive."
"That's better."
Lucian approaches, tablet in hand. "Amara, the design team wants to discuss expanding the collection. Initial projections had us launching quarterly releases, but based on today's response, they're suggesting monthly drops. Smaller collections, higher exclusivity, sustained momentum."
I glance at Cassian. He shrugs slightly. Your call.
"Monthly works," I say. "As long as we maintain quality control and I approve every design."
"Non-negotiable," Lucian confirms. "Your creative authority is absolute. We provide infrastructure, you provide vision." He pauses. "Also, Vogue wants to do a profile. They called Katheryn ten minutes ago."
The room tilts slightly. "Vogue?"
"Apparently they're fascinated by the artist-turned-fashion-designer narrative. Katheryn's negotiating terms now."
He walks away before I can process that information. Cassian's grinning at me with obvious amusement.
"Vogue," he repeats. "My girlfriend's getting profiled in Vogue."
"I might actually throw up now."
"You'll be fine. You're extraordinary at talking about your work without sounding pretentious."
"That's a low bar."
"And yet many artists fail to clear it."
More people filter into the conference room, drawn by success they can smell from down the hall. Congratulations blur together. Someone from marketing wants to discuss brand ambassadors. A board member asks about international expansion.
I find myself swept into conversations about things I never thought I'd discuss—production timelines, profit margins, licensing agreements. Katheryn rescues me twice, steering me away from people who don't understand that artists aren't accountants.
By noon, the collection has generated three million in revenue. By two, it's at five million and climbing. The initial inventory sells out completely. Restocks trigger. The website stabilizes under the traffic load.
Lucian calls everyone to attention. "This is unprecedented. We projected strong initial sales, but nothing like this magnitude. Effective immediately, we're doubling production capacity and expanding the collaboration's timeline. Amara, Katheryn, my office tomorrow morning to discuss next steps."
Katheryn nods. I manage something resembling agreement while my brain tries catching up.
The room empties slowly. Board members returning to their offices, staff heading back to their departments, reality reasserting itself after the chaos.
Eventually it's just me, Cassian, Katheryn, and Lucian remaining. The screen still displays sales numbers that refuse to stop climbing.
"Well," Katheryn says into the quiet. "That went better than expected."
"Understatement," I manage.
Just as we're about to make our way out, Lucian stops us at the door. "Amara." He's standing with his hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. "Thank you. For trusting Black Lake with your vision. And for making my son happier than I've seen him in years."
The words hit unexpectedly. Lucian Griffin doesn't do emotional declarations, but this comes close.
"Thank you for giving me the chance."
He nods once, returns to studying the sales data.
Cassian and I leave Black Lake headquarters, step into Manhattan afternoon sunshine. The city moves around us with its usual disarray—taxis honking, construction somewhere close, tourists blocking sidewalks to take photos.
"This is real," I say quietly. "All of it. The collaboration, the sales, everything we've built."
"Very real."
"I keep expecting to wake up."
"You're awake. This is your life now. Successful artist, fashion collaborator, mother to the world's most enthusiastic five-year-old." He stops, turns to face me on the crowded sidewalk. "And hopefully, if you're willing, someone I get to spend the rest of my life with."
The words register slowly. Then he's pulling something from his pocket, a small velvet box that makes my breath hitch.
"Cassian—"
"I know we said we'd take things slow. Build trust, establish routine, make sure June was comfortable with everything." He opens the box. A ring sits inside, simple and perfect. "But I'm tired of slow. I want you, permanently. I want us to be a family officially, not just in practice."
People flow around us. Someone mutters about tourists blocking the sidewalk. I don't care.
"You're proposing. Right now. On a random Manhattan sidewalk after the biggest professional day of my life."
"Seemed like good timing."
"You're insane."
"Is that a yes?"
I stare at the ring, at Cassian's face, at the future stretching out ahead of us that suddenly feels possible instead of terrifying.
"Yes," I say. "Obviously yes."
He slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly, catches sunlight, transforms into something that sparkles against my brown skin.
Then he's kissing me while people move past us, while the city keeps spinning, while everything we've survived and built and fought for crystallizes into this single moment.
When we break apart, he's grinning with the satisfaction of someone who just got exactly what he wanted.
"June's going to lose her mind," I say.
"Absolutely. She's been asking when I'm going to marry you for weeks."
"She has?"
"Constantly. Apparently her friend Emma's parents just got married and now June thinks everyone should get married immediately."
"Well. Guess we're meeting her expectations then."
"Come on," he says, linking my hand with his. "Let's go see our daughter."