2. Chapter 2
Michaela
O n my resume, I could probably include balancing coffee orders as one of my special skills. I’d gotten it down to a science—Kaitlyn’s caramel macchiato in the crook of my elbow, Jonovan’s tall peppermint non-fat latte with whip wedged between Gina’s quad mocha, aka four shots of espresso, and Ripley’s vanilla sweet cream cold brew with three pumps of hazelnut and a sprinkle of cinnamon. That didn’t include the orders wedged in my other arm.
Drink carrier? No. My coworkers preferred to see me laden down like a mule. But I did it with grace. Mostly. I’d also become adept at incorporating coffee stains into my daily attire.
“Hey, Kaitlyn,” I smiled the best I could as she weaseled her coffee out of the crook of my arm, “have you seen Violette?”
“She’s in with Rochelle, sweetie.” She smiled, but it faded almost immediately.
We weren’t actually friends. Work acquaintances, at best. But Violette Hushley, the Violette Hushley of HUSH Inc., had noticed me sketching at my desk last week and loved what I was working on. The moment she asked if she could borrow my portfolio for the weekend, I felt a surge of validation. After years of invisibility, someone finally noticed me.
All weekend, my mind kept straying to the possibilities of the future. I wasn’t na?ve enough to think she’d want to give me the reins, but even if Violette only wanted to collaborate, that would open enormous doors in the fashion industry for someone like me.
I set Jonovan’s coffee on his deserted desk and placed the last delivery on Ripley’s workstation, all the while keeping my eyes locked on Rochelle McCoy’s office. She ran Reverie , one of the leading fashion magazines in the country. Rochelle’s undeniable dedication to the fashion industry drove her to the forefront, attracting the attention of top designers like Violette, who eagerly shared sneak peeks of their upcoming lines, recognizing the potential influence on her upcoming season.
Laughter bubbled out as the door cracked open. By the looks of it, Violette’s launch was promising. A couple models strode free, but Violette hovered in the doorway.
“I know. It came to me like a lightning bolt.” She laughed her perfectly musical laugh but must have felt my lingering gaze because she turned and smiled. “Michaela. How lovely to see you.”
“Hi, Violette. I mean, Ms. Hushley. Did you have a good meeting?” I didn’t want to ask about my portfolio right away. She had a lot on her plate. She didn’t need me nagging her.
“It was marvelous. I expect good things.” With the flick of her hand, she ordered the door shut, despite the racks of clothing and models still inside. “I’m afraid I can’t chat today. Too busy.”
“That’s fine.” Despite making room for her exit, she remained preoccupied, rummaging through her bag. “I was actually wondering if you looked at my drawings.”
She clicked her tongue like she was thinking about it. “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t find words for a moment. “I’m sorry I bothered you… I thought they were…”
One of her black-gloved hands removed my familiar portfolio from her bag and extended it to me. “Derivative. But keep trying. One day, I’m sure.”
I nodded, fighting back the emotion that came with disappointment. Gracious losers live to fight another day. I took the portfolio and mumbled another apology before I left for my cubicle. I thought she would like at least one design. Maybe two, but to not like any… I…
The door to Rochelle’s office opened again and a model stepped outside to speak with Violette. They exchanged a few words and then the model vanished back inside. I couldn’t help but stare. Not because of anything that transpired, but because I knew the dress the model was wearing.
I designed the dress she was wearing.
When Violette opened the door, I craned my neck to see better.
Horror clenched my gut. The red dress with the flirty fringe. A blue sheath with ombre shading. A yellow baby-doll dress that reminded me of spring buttercups.
“Those are my designs,” I whispered under my breath. With my portfolio in hand, I moved toward Rochelle’s office as if in a trance. I had no plan. In fact, hardly anything bounced around my head. Except for a singular focus.
Those were my dresses and I deserved credit.
Like a woman possessed, or more accurately a youngish adult bent on throwing away everything she’d worked for, I knocked twice on Rochelle’s door and shoved it open.
“Michaela!” Rochelle glared at me for my intrusion. “This is a closed meeting. Someone had better be hemorrhaging—“
I wasn’t listening. Seven. I counted seven of my sketches brought to life in gowns.
“Those are my designs.” I pointed at the model closest to me wearing the buttercup dress. “They’re in my portfolio.” My horrified stare turned to Violette. “You stole my designs.”
Rochelle’s face turned beet red. “Michaela, I won’t have you making baseless accusations—“
“I can prove it.” Cracking open my portfolio, I turned the pages, looking for my buttercup sketch, but when I came to the correct section, the pocket sat empty. I looked up at Violette, more ill than ever. “It’s not here.”
Violette’s laughter made my skin crawl. “Likely story. Rochelle, can we get back to it?”
“No,” I said firmly, determined not to be ignored. “You stole it.”
I flipped through the pages, horrified at the gaps she’d left. Eight, nine, ten. I couldn’t breathe. She’d stolen my best work. Throat tight with unspent emotion, I stared at Violette. “How could you? I trusted you.”
My accusation aroused Rochelle’s suspicion. “Michaela, are you sure you’re not mistaken?”
“I gave her my portfolio to look over during the weekend because she liked some of my designs, but clearly,” I motioned to the models, “she stole them, and she plans to do it again.”
Violette set her hand to her chest. “Rochelle, have you ever known me to be lacking in ideas? I think not. Only time.” She pointed at the model closest to me. “And how on earth could I create a gown like this in seventy-two hours, let alone everything else?” She stepped closer to Rochelle and dropped her volume. “I looked at her portfolio, but if you must know, I found her to be regurgitating my work. I didn’t want to embarrass the mail girl—“
“Liar!” Over the last year, every spare moment of my free time had gone into creating unique designs I was proud of. “You’re lying so that I look crazy—“
“That’s enough.” Rochelle cut me off. “Michaela, this behavior is unacceptable. You can either apologize to Ms. Hushley or you can resign.”
“Are you kidding me?” This couldn’t be real. “She steals from me and you think I should apologize? Of all the pea-brained, backroom dealing, idiotic—“
“That’s it.” Rochelle’s voice thundered over mine. “You’re fired. Pack up. Security will escort you out.”
The silence in the room seeped in around me like hot tar. What had I done? Apologies lingered on the tip of my tongue, eager to be spoken, but nothing could fill the vacuum that remained. Defeated, the air eased out without protest, and I turned and left.
She didn’t even bother to gloat. Violette didn’t bat an eye as they escorted me out like a criminal. She could teach lessons in gaslighting, because by the end, she had me questioning whether I’d ever designed anything in my life.
But I had. And those ideas were mine.
That was a huge part of my draw toward pageants in my teen years. I loved designing and sewing my own dresses. At first, I did it because I simply couldn’t afford the gowns in the professional shops, but after a while, I found a passion for it. My love of fashion had prompted me to chase a job at Reverie . Working at a fashion magazine meant making contacts and learning from the masters in the industry. One day, once I saved up enough cash, I wanted to start my own line of clothes.
But that dream crumpled at my feet as soon as I lost my job.
I stopped in the nearby park to try to find my bearings. Without my job, what did I have left? I wouldn’t last long without a second job. Professional princess-ing didn’t pay as well as I wished it would. Holidays were coming. Mom kept bugging me to come home. Maybe I would surprise her and show up with everything I owned.
Even as I thought about it, I discarded the idea. Moving home would mean I’d failed. No more dreams of my designs walking the runway. No more plans for a cute boutique in San Francisco or New York. Instead, a monotonous life in a small town in the middle of nothing. Marry some guy I went to high school with, have two point five kids, and install the picket fence to go with it. The only thing up in the air was whether we’d have a cat or a dog.
My phone buzzed in my purse. A part of me wondered if Mom had felt my psychic distress call. I dug around until I found my cell, but the international number definitely didn’t belong to Mom.
“It’s probably Fitz,” I whispered as I stared at the screen and debated answering. On one side, I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but on the other, I knew no one could cheer me up like he could. If he was putting in the time and effort to call, I could set my own troubles aside for a little while.
I answered the call and put the phone to my ear. “Coco Incorporated. Coco speaking.”
His snicker filled the line. “What? No jingle? Where’s the catchy tagline?”
“Your wish is our,” I winced at my lack of creativity, “coco-mand.”
“That’s more like it.” Fitz snickered again. “Speaking of commands, or rather, royal decrees, have you given any thought to what I asked?”
I stared up into the branches of the tree above me, struggling with my own emotions. “Fitz, I know it must be stressful picking a new relationship, and it probably feels like the weight of a country is on your shoulders, but I promise, you don’t need me for this.”
“Trust me when I say I do and that weight is terribly heavy.” His voice deepened, reminding me he wasn’t the boy I’d known years ago any longer. “I need you, Coco. Please.”
“Look, Fitz, we’ve played this game for years where you pretend you’re a prince and I’m a princess, but I just lost my job and I really need a friend right now. Okay?”
“Fantastic.” His celebratory tone was not exactly the reaction I was looking for. “Then nothing is holding you there any longer. I’ll send your airline tickets right away.”
“I’m being serious, Fitz. I might have to move home and all you want to talk about is this silly—“
“Michaela.” All frivolity vanished from his tone, replaced with serious instruction. “Do me a favor. Google my name on your phone, yes?”
My instincts told me to argue, but after my day, I didn’t have it in me. “Fine. Hold on.”
I activated the speakerphone and launched the search engine on my phone. As I entered his name, I couldn’t help but wonder if he had planted a few hits as a joke. After pressing enter, I impatiently waited for the page to load.
But the results were not what I expected. Not a few hits, but pages and pages of results for one of my oldest friends. I clicked on the image tab and drew in a sharp breath.
The guy on the screen was hot. No question about that. Dark eyes, tan skin, clothes that looked worth a fortune, and he’d mastered that messy look that looked effortless. That thick mop of hair looked ripe for messing up by the fistful. I stared, perhaps a little too long, but no one in their right mind would blame me. Whoever he was, he’d mastered that impish look, equal parts mischief and sultry appeal. Like he was still chill enough to climb trees, but man enough to—
I read his name, and my mouth hung open in shock.
“You’re a prince.” I stumbled backward into the tree’s trunk. “Crown Prince of Nolcovia.” My brain refused to believe it. “No way. This can’t be you.”
My Fitz had ears that stuck out and hands too large and awkward for his size. In my memory, he was all gangly limbs and lopsided smiles, a squidgy wisp of a boy whose body never seemed to fill out his clothes completely.
This guy in the picture was… none of those things. The eyes… his eyes reminded me of him. But Fitz couldn’t be hot. Fitz was goofy, odd, and endearing, but not hot. Fitz once challenged me to see who would fit the most Cheese Doodles in their mouth without chewing and had won.
He couldn’t run a country.
“Coco!” His voice called from my phone. “Hey, Coco!”
My eyes shifted back to my phone and the picture of the fully grown and matured Fitz. “Hello?” I struggled to conceal what I felt, but there wasn’t a mountain big enough to hide the stunned tone of my voice.
“Are you okay?” His deep tenor sounded over the phone line. “I know the realization is likely a shock, but I have been trying to tell you for over a decade.”
“Well, excuse me if it’s hard to imagine someone being royalty after you’ve seen grape soda come out of their nose.”
“Hey now,” he couldn’t help his laughter, “if memory serves, that was your fault. You made me laugh so hard—“
“I had to do it.” Memories bombarded me, no less funny than they were fifteen years ago. “How else was I going to get the M&M’s out of your nose? It was a scientific endeavor.”
“It was horrifying, and it burned.” His rolling laughter made it hard to want to apologize. “I was sneezing purple and bits of candy shell for a week.”
“And you want my help?” I meant for it to be a joke, but it landed heavier than I expected. As his voice sobered, I knew he felt it as well.
“Desperately,” Fitz answered. “You’ve always been my compass. I can’t do this without you.”
Chills crept over my skin as the truth settled over me. “You’re a prince.” It wasn’t a question anymore. My childhood best friend was actually royalty. “And you need me?” That one was definitely a question because, out of all the people in the world, why on earth would he need me?
“So much, yes. But I understand this is difficult. You have a life and,” he obviously forgot my job had imploded that morning, “the holiday is coming up. Your mother will want to see you and I can’t promise you’d be back. You have me over a barrel, Coco. Whatever you want, it’s yours.” He paused. “But only if you’ll come.”
Time stopped for a moment. As much as everything around me screamed, years had gone by and nothing was as it was, I couldn’t shake the recognition I felt when he spoke. Prince or not, he was still one of my oldest friends, and didn’t I pride myself on integrity, on doing what was right because it was right, not because it was easy or benefited me? After everything we’d been through together, didn’t I owe him this?
“Okay,” I agreed. “I’m in. Let’s do it.”