Isabelle
"Hold still."
"I am holding still."
"You're breathing too much."
"Isa, I have to breathe."
"Not that deeply. You're throwing off my measurements."
Naomi stood on the pedestal like a living statue, draped in champagne silk that caught the afternoon light and turned it to liquid gold. I circled her with predatory focus, pins clenched between my teeth, my eyes cataloging every microscopic imperfection.
She made a sound of exasperation but held herself still. Three months I'd spent on this gown—the centerpiece of my Milan collection—and the draping still wasn't right. A centimeter too much gather at the waist, bunching where it should flow. The hem pooling instead of whispering against the floor.
It was driving me insane.
Across the room, three other models waited on a velvet settee, scrolling through phones, sipping mineral water. Lucia, my wardrobe assistant, moved between garment racks, steaming tomorrow's pieces. Meg sat in the corner with her tablet, fielding the calls I didn't have time to take.
"The Milan contractor wants final approval on the display cases," Meg announced without looking up.
"Tell them the originals were fine."
"They said the new ones have better lighting."
"I designed the lighting specifically for the original cases.
If they change them, the entire visual concept falls apart.
" I pulled a pin from my mouth, adjusted Naomi's waistline with fingers that had gone slightly numb.
"Tell them if they modify one more element without my explicit written consent, I'll fly there myself and make them regret it. "
"Noted."
Milan. Twelve days away. My second boutique. My first outside of London.
I'd been thinking about it constantly—waking at three AM to scribble notes, sketching layouts during meetings, obsessing until Naomi threatened to confiscate my pencils. This wasn't just expansion. This was a statement. Milan was the heart of fashion, where careers were made or quietly buried.
Another little boutique, I thought, and almost smiled.
I heard my father's voice again. The way he'd looked at me across the dinner table when I'd presented my business plan at nineteen, fresh out of school, burning with ambition. I had charts. Projections. A five-year strategy I'd perfected through sleepless nights.
"She wants to start a little boutique," he'd said to my mother. Not to me. Never directly to me. "Isn't that sweet?"
Sweet. Like I was a child playing dress-up.
It shouldn't have surprised me. I'd spent my entire adolescence trying to be included in conversations about the family hotels, sitting in on meetings, studying the business from every angle.
Each time, the same dismissal. "Don't worry your pretty little head about all this, darling. It's frightfully dull."
Well. This pretty little head had built a brand from nothing. Had dressed celebrities and royalty. Had been featured in every major fashion publication on three continents. And in twelve days, I'd open another little boutique in one of the most competitive markets in the world.
I wondered what he'd say about that. If he could say anything at all.
"You're grinding your teeth," Naomi observed.
"No, I'm not."
"You are. You get this look when you're thinking about your father." She didn't move from her position, but her eyes tracked me. "What are you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
I pinned the last adjustment and stepped back. "Done. You can breathe now."
Naomi exhaled dramatically, rolling her shoulders. "Finally. I was starting to see spots."
"Drama queen."
"Perfection takes sacrifice." She examined herself in the mirror, turning slowly. The silk moved exactly as I'd intended—liquid, graceful, alive. "It's beautiful, Isa."
"It's adequate."
"It's extraordinary and you know it." She caught my eye in the reflection. "Stop deflecting compliments. It's unbecoming."
Before I could respond, Meg's voice cut through.
"Miss Dubois? There's someone here for you."
I glanced at the clock. My afternoon was supposed to be clear. "Who is it?"
Meg hesitated. That slight pause told me everything.
"A Mr. Davies. He says he has a surprise."
Naomi's head turned sharply. Her eyes found mine, narrow and assessing. I hadn't told her Femi was coming. Mostly because I hadn't known myself.
"Send him in," I heard myself say.
Femi appeared in the doorway moments later, and every woman in the room stopped what she was doing. Navy suit, no tie, looking like he'd stepped out of my most inconvenient fantasies. In his hands, a silver box tied with black ribbon.
"Good afternoon, ladies." His smile swept the room, landing on me last and staying there. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
"You are, actually." I set down my pins, brushed my hands on my trousers. "We're in the middle of a fitting."
"Terribly sorry. I'll be brief." His gaze shifted to Naomi, who was watching him like a hawk. "I don't believe we've met. Femi Davies."
"I know who you are." Naomi's voice was flat, unimpressed.
"Ah." His smile didn't waver. "Then you have me at a disadvantage."
"Naomi Mutesi." She stepped down from the pedestal, champagne silk rustling around her. She picked up a robe and wrapped it around herself, taking her time, letting the silence stretch. "So, you're him. The great Femi Davies. You're taller than I expected."
"Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation." Her eyes moved over him with professional assessment. "I'll give you two a moment. I need to change, anyway." She disappeared into the back room. I could feel her skepticism lingering like smoke.
"She's protective," Femi observed.
"She has cause to be."
"Because of me."
I didn't answer. We both knew. He crossed the room and set the silver box on my worktable, between fabric swatches and my sketching pencils.
I crossed my arms. "What are you doing here, Femi? I have work."
"I come bearing gifts." He held up the box. "And a proposition."
"I don't have time for propositions."
"This one involves dinner."
"Femi, I can't just—"
"The fitting is almost done, isn't it?" He glanced toward where Naomi had disappeared. "How much longer do you need her?"
Naomi emerged in street clothes. I could see the battle on her face—loyalty versus the fact that I desperately needed a break.
"Twenty minutes," she said finally. "Maybe thirty."
"Perfect." Femi settled into a chair like he owned the place. "I'll wait, then."
"You can't just—"
"Open your gift first," he interrupted, his voice going softer. "Please, Issy? I saw it and thought of you. That's allowed, isn’t it?"
The other models were watching with barely concealed interest. Even Lucia had paused her work. I was going to kill him. Slowly. With pins.
"You can't keep bringing me things."
"I can, actually. Watch me." He held out the box. "Open it. If you hate it, I'll take it back. No questions asked."
I shouldn't. I knew I shouldn't. But my fingers were already pulling at the ribbon. Inside the silver paper was a leather case. Cartier. My breath caught.
The bracelet was delicate. Gold links, each one set with a diamond so small it was almost invisible, catching light like scattered stars. Simple. Elegant. Exactly what I would have chosen for myself.
"Femi..."
"It reminded me of you." He moved closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne. "Beautiful. Understated. Worth more than most people realize at first glance."
My throat tightened. Damn him.
"May I?"
I held out my wrist before I could think better of it. His fingers were warm against my skin as he fastened the clasp. The gold settled against my pulse point like it had always been there.
"Perfect," he murmured. "Just as I thought."
I stared at the bracelet. At his hands, still cradling mine. At the way the diamonds caught the afternoon light. Something dangerous was happening in my chest. Something soft and wanting that I'd spent eight years trying to kill.
"Have dinner with me," he said. "There's a new place in Kensington. French. Only twelve seats. I had to call in three favors to get a reservation."
"Tonight?"
"Unless you have other plans."
I should have said no. I should have said I was busy, that Milan was consuming me, that I didn't have time for restaurants and bracelets and the way he was looking at me.
"Fine," I heard myself say. He grinned, kissed my cheek, and strolled out of the room.
Naomi approached slowly, her expression unreadable. She looked at the bracelet, then at my face, then back at the bracelet.
"He's trying very hard," she said finally.
"I know."
"Is it working?"
I looked down at the diamonds glittering on my wrist. I thought about the restaurant with no sign. The forehead kiss. The daily texts that never demanded anything, just offered.
"I don't know," I admitted. "Maybe."
Naomi nodded slowly. "Just be careful, Isa. Grand gestures are easy. It's the small stuff that matters."
The helicopter was real. Of course, it was. Femi didn't do anything by halves.
We lifted off from a private helipad in Battersea as the sun began its descent. London spread beneath us, a glittering tapestry of light and shadow. I watched the city shrink until it was just a smudge of gold against the darkening sky.
"Worth it?" Femi asked, leaning close to be heard over the rotors.
"I'm reserving judgment."
"Liar. You love it."
I did love it. I hated that he knew me so well.
The restaurant was a converted farmhouse in the middle of rolling green hills. We landed in a field, actual sheep scattering at our arrival, and walked through a garden that smelled like lavender and rosemary to a door that looked like it hadn't been opened in a century.
Inside was another world. Stone walls, candlelight, a fire crackling in an enormous hearth. We were the only diners. Femi had booked the entire place.
"This is absurd," I said, settling into a chair that probably cost more than my first car.
"It’s just another Saturday." He poured wine—something French, old, excellent. "You deserve absurd, Isabelle. You work harder than anyone I know."
"I enjoy plenty of rewards."
"Name one. Something that isn't work-related."
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
"That's what I thought." He raised his glass. "To absurdity. And to you."
The wine was extraordinary. So was the food—seven courses of things I couldn't pronounce but tasted like heaven. Between bites, we talked. Really talked. About work, family, and futures that we were building.
"I'm going to Milan after New York," I told him over dessert. "For the boutique opening."
"I heard. Xavier mentioned it." He paused. "How long will you be gone?"
"Two weeks. Maybe longer. There's a lot to do."
"I'll come visit."
"Femi—"
"Not the whole time. I know you need to focus." He took my hand. "But I'd like to see you. Take you to dinner. Show you my favorite spots in the city."
"You have favorite spots in Milan?"
"I have favorite spots everywhere." He grinned. "Say yes, please."
"I'll think about it."
He lifted my hand, pressed a kiss to my knuckles. "I'll take whatever you're willing to give me, Issy. For as long as you're willing to give it."
The helicopter brought us back to London. He drove me home, walked me to my door. The streetlight caught the angles of his face, and I found myself not wanting the evening to end.
"I had a wonderful time," I said.
"So did I." He stepped closer. His hand came up to my face, thumb brushing my cheek. "Isabelle..."
He kissed me.
His mouth was warm, certain. His hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, tilting my head so he could deepen the kiss. I grabbed his lapels to steady myself. He tasted like wine and chocolate and something that was just him, something I'd never forgotten.
When we finally broke apart, I was breathing harder than I wanted to admit.
"I thought we were taking things slow," I managed.
He laughed. "This is slow for me. Otherwise, I would have proposed by now."
My heart stuttered. He said it lightly, but his eyes were serious.
"Femi—"
"Too much?" He pulled back slightly, searching my face. "I'm sorry. I told myself I wouldn't say things like that. Not yet."
"It's not too much." The words surprised me. "It's just... a lot."
"I know." He pressed his forehead to mine. "I know I'm a lot. I've always been a lot when it comes to you. I'm trying to be better about it."
He kissed me again. Softer this time. A promise.
"Thursday," he said when he finally stepped back.
I watched him walk to his car. Watched until the taillights disappeared around the corner.
Inside, I found Naomi in the kitchen, eating leftover pasta straight from the container.
"Hey." She looked at me. "How'd it go? I didn't even expect you back tonight after he kidnapped you."
I stole her fork and took a bite. "We're taking things slow."
"Slow." She raised an eyebrow. "Is that why you look like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like someone just kissed you very thoroughly."
I handed back the fork. "Maybe."
Naomi snorted. We passed the fork back and forth in comfortable silence. “Just don't let him sweep you off your feet so fast you forget to check where you're landing."
"That's very philosophical for midnight pasta."
"I contain multitudes." She tossed the container in the sink. "I'm going to bed. Try not to stay up all night replaying the kiss."
I grinned at her. "Goodnight, Naomi."
"Goodnight." She paused at the doorway. "For the record, I've never seen you like this. It's weird. But maybe good weird."
She disappeared upstairs before I could respond.
I sat alone in the kitchen for a long time, touching the bracelet on my wrist, thinking about proposals and the way he'd laughed against my lips like I was something precious.