Isabelle #3
"It's practical.” I shrugged. “More diverse designers means more interesting fashion. Everyone benefits. The whole industry gets better."
"Practical and admirable. A rare combination." He tilted his head, studying me. "You know, when we met in New York, I thought you were... how do I say this? Very polished. Very controlled. The kind of person who has everything figured out."
"I don't have anything figured out." The words came out more honest than I’d intended.
"I'm beginning to see that." His smile was soft, understanding. "I like this version better. The one who eats olives at ten in the morning and rants about ivory shades and cares deeply about things that matter."
Something warm bloomed in my chest. Something dangerous and complicated that I didn't have time to examine. "I should let you get back to your crisis. But Bella, I was thinking—"
"Isabelle."
The voice came from behind me. I turned, olive halfway to my mouth.
Femi stood at the edge of the gallery space, looking devastatingly handsome in a charcoal coat that probably cost more than my first collection. His eyes found mine immediately, then flicked to Matteo with the briefest assessment before returning.
"I thought you weren't coming," I said, lowering the olive slowly.
"I wasn't planning to." He crossed the space between us, each step deliberate. "But then I thought—how could I not? You're launching something brilliant tonight. I wanted to see it."
"Femi, I'm working. I don't have time to—"
"I know, I know." He reached me, and his hand found the small of my back without hesitation. Warm, yet possessive. "I won't get in the way, I promise. I just wanted to wish you luck. Tell you I'm proud of you. And perhaps take you home afterward, if you'll let me."
I was acutely aware of Matteo behind me. Still. Quiet. Watching this exchange with those observant eyes that missed nothing.
"I..." I turned back to him. "Thank you for the wine, Matteo. And the food. You were right—I needed it."
"Of course." His expression was pleasant, neutral. Whatever he'd been about to say had evaporated, replaced by professional courtesy. "Good luck with your show, Bella. I'm sure it will be magnificent."
Bella. Not Isabelle.
Femi's hand pressed slightly firmer against my back.
"We should let you get back to work, yeah?" Femi said smoothly. "Matteo, isn't it? The wine is excellent. Well done."
"Thank you." Matteo's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Enjoy the evening."
Femi guided me away, back toward the staging area where my team was waiting. I glanced over my shoulder once. Matteo had returned to his bottles, examining labels with more intensity than strictly necessary.
"Who was that?" Femi asked, voice carefully light.
"The wine supplier."
"You seemed friendly."
"He gave me olives. That's hardly a scandal."
"Hmm."
I stopped walking abruptly, and turned to face him. "Femi. I told you not to come tonight."
"You did."
"And yet, here you are."
"Here I am." He reached up, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. "I couldn't stay away, Issy. Sue me."
I should have been annoyed. Part of me was annoyed. But another part—the treacherous part that remembered what it felt like to be loved by Femi Davies—was pleased. He'd come. Despite what I said. He'd come because he wanted to support me.
"You can stay," I said finally. "But don't distract me. I have work to do."
"I'll be invisible. You won't even know I'm here."
"Somehow, I doubt that."
He grinned. "Probably wise."
The show went well.
Better than well—it went brilliantly. The pieces photographed beautifully, the lighting cooperated, and Naomi closed the runway looking like a goddess in an emerald dress that complemented her skin so beautifully it made people gasp.
Donations exceeded our goal by forty percent. People were writing checks before the models had even finished their final walk.
Afterward, in the chaos of congratulations and champagne and air kisses, Femi found me.
"You were incredible," he said, materializing at my elbow like he'd been watching, waiting for his moment.
"I didn't do anything. The clothes did the work."
"You made the clothes. Take the compliment, Isabelle," Femi said, his voice was firm, brooking no argument.
I let myself lean into him, just for a moment. Just long enough to catch my breath. Exhaustion was catching up with me. The adrenaline crash after a successful launch, the comedown after running on pure nerves for hours.
"Take me home?" I asked.
"With pleasure."
His car was waiting outside. The night was cool, stars obscured by London's perpetual glow. I slid into the backseat and he followed, and for once I didn't mind the closeness.
We drove in comfortable silence through the streets of London. His hand found mine across the leather seat, and I let him hold it.
When we pulled up to my house, he walked me to the door and I was suddenly nervous in a way I hadn't been all evening.
"Thank you," I said. "For coming. Even though I told you not to."
"Thank you for letting me stay." He stepped closer, and I braced for the kiss.
Instead, he leaned in and pressed his lips to my forehead. Soft. Gentle. Almost chaste. The kiss you'd give a child, or someone precious you were afraid of breaking.
"Goodnight, Isabelle."
I blinked, confused. "That's it?"
"That's it." He stepped back, hands in his pockets. "I told you. I'm doing things properly this time. No rushing."
"Femi Davies, patient and proper.” I shook my head in disbelief. “The world really has changed."
"Only where you're concerned." His smile was soft in the dim light. "Sleep well. You've earned it."
He turned and walked back to his car. I stood on my doorstep, watching until the taillights disappeared around the corner.
My phone buzzed in my bag. I pulled it out, already knowing who it would be.
Tonight was perfect. Thank you for letting me be part of it. —F
I stared at the message for a long moment, standing on my doorstep in the cool night air. The forehead kiss. The patience. The complete lack of pressure or expectations.
This really was a different Femi. Or maybe it was the same Femi, finally showing me sides he'd kept hidden before.
I didn't know which option scared me more.