9. Isabelle
The pin between my teeth tasted like metal and anxiety.
Slowly, I circled my model, Abby, studying the way the burgundy silk fell across her hips.
Too much gathering on the left side. The fabric was pooling instead of draping, and pooling was amateur.
Pooling was what happened when you rushed, when you stopped paying attention, when you let yourself get distracted by men and vineyards and almost-kisses—
Focus.
I knelt and adjusted the hem, repositioning three pins before standing back to assess. Better. Not perfect, but better.
"Hold still," I said, removing the pin from my mouth. "I need to fix the waist."
Abby obeyed, her dark eyes tracking me in the mirror. She was nineteen, new to the industry, still learning how to be looked at without fidgeting. By the end of fashion week, she'd either develop the stillness or wash out. Most did.
Around us, the fitting room hummed with controlled chaos.
Racks of garments lined the walls, organized by appearance order.
Three makeup artists worked in the corner, their stations cluttered with brushes and palettes and enough product to paint a small army.
The air smelled like hairspray and coffee and the particular electricity that preceded a show.
I still couldn’t believe the boutique was opening. That the boutique was actually opening.
I made a small adjustment to Abby’s neckline and stepped back. The burgundy caught the light now, shifting from wine to blood to something darker. The cut was architectural—sharp shoulders, a plunging back, a skirt that moved like water when she walked.
"Turn."
She pivoted slowly, carefully. The dress followed a half-second behind, creating that ripple effect I'd spent weeks perfecting.
"Good." I nodded once, already mentally moving to the next adjustment. "You're done. Send in Margaux."
Abby stepped carefully off the platform and disappeared toward the changing area.
I checked my phone. Two hours until doors opened.
Two hours until every fashion editor, buyer, and influencer in Milan would be staring at my work, deciding whether Isabelle Dubois was the real thing or just another pretty girl playing designer.
No pressure.
Margaux appeared in the emerald piece—the one I'd almost scrapped three times before finally getting it right. The bodice was beaded by hand, thousands of tiny crystals that caught light like scattered stars. It had taken my team in London four months to complete.
"Arms up."
She raised them. I checked the seams, the invisible closure, the way the beading lay flat against her ribs. Everything had to be flawless. Tonight wasn't just about selling clothes. It was about proving something—to the industry, to the critics, to myself.
My father's voice drifted through my mind, unbidden. A little boutique.
I thought about that moment sometimes, especially on nights like this when I was about to cross what had initially seemed like an impossible milestone. It was my origin story. The story I'd tell my children and their children after that. The moment everything changed.
At that moment, I’d truly thought it was the end of the world, or the end of me.
We were at some restaurant in Manhattan with white tablecloths and waiters who refilled water glasses before you even noticed they were empty.
I'd spent weeks preparing my pitch, practicing in mirrors, anticipating every objection.
I'd asked for a loan to open my first boutique.
Just a small one in London. Modest square footage. Nothing extravagant.
He'd laughed. Actually laughed, like I'd told a joke.
A little boutique, he'd said, shaking his head with paternal amusement. That's sweet, Isabelle. But when you're ready to do something serious, come talk to me about the hotel business.
I wanted to throw my water in his face. Instead, I'd excused myself, gone to the bathroom, and cried for exactly three minutes. Then I'd fixed my makeup and returned to the table with perfect composure.
He'd never taken me seriously. Never seen me as anything more than an ornament—beautiful, decorative, ultimately forgettable. My brothers got groomed for the business while I got groomed for an advantageous marriage to someone else’s empire.
But here was the thing about being underestimated: it made you mean. It made you hungry. Every dismissal became fuel. Every patronizing comment became a promise I made to myself.
Watch me.
He'd died before I could show him. Before the London boutique took off, before Vogue came calling, before any of it. Sometimes I wondered if that was better or worse—never having to see his face when he realized he'd been wrong about me. Never getting to say look what this little girl did.
I hadn't hated him. That was the complicated part, the thing that kept me up some nights. He'd loved me in his way, limited and conditional as it was. He just couldn't imagine a world where his daughter was capable of building something real.
"Isabelle?" Margaux was watching me in the mirror. "Is something wrong with the dress?"
I blinked, pulling myself back to the present. Refocused.
"No. It's perfect. You're done."
I moved through the remaining models with mechanical precision. Check the fit. Adjust the hem. Verify the accessories. Each dress was a piece of the puzzle, building toward the finale, building toward Naomi in the showstopper I'd been dreaming about for months.
The door opened and Xavier's head appeared.
"Special delivery," he announced, stepping inside with Kim close behind. "One extremely nervous designer's family, as requested."
I crossed the room and hugged him tight. He smelled like expensive cologne, his jacket slightly rumpled from the flight.
"You made it."
"Wouldn't miss it for anything." He pulled back, hands on my shoulders, studying my face with concern. "You look terrified."
"I'm not terrified. I'm focused."
"Same thing, Issy." He grinned, and for a moment he looked exactly like the boy who used to steal cookies from the kitchen and blame it on Sebastian. "The place looks incredible, by the way. Very fancy. Very you."
Kim stepped forward and wrapped me in a hug. Her perfume was soft, floral—the same one she always wore. "How are you feeling? Honestly?"
"Like I might throw up."
"That's completely normal. I felt the same way before my first big presentation at work." She squeezed my hands, her grip warm and anchoring. "You're going to be brilliant."
"Where are the girls?" I asked, glancing toward the door. "I thought you were bringing them."
"Back in New York with a sitter." Kim made a face. "Evie insisted she didn't need one. She's twelve, she's practically an adult, she can take care of herself and Zoe." She shook her head. "I told her I'd feel better knowing there was an actual adult present. She's still not speaking to me."
"She'll forgive you."
"Eventually. Probably." Kim pulled out her phone. "Actually, I should call them. Make sure they haven't burned the apartment down."
She stepped away, already dialing. Xavier watched her go with an expression I'd never seen on him before—soft, unguarded, completely besotted.
"You've got it bad," I said.
He didn't even try to deny it. "Completely. Utterly. Embarrassingly bad." He turned back to me. "She's it for me, Isa. I didn't know it could feel like this."
"Sickening."
"Absolutely disgusting." He grinned. "I recommend it highly."
Kim's voice drifted over from the corner, warm and patient: "Yes, sweetheart, I know you're not a baby. I just—No, Zoe, you cannot have ice cream for dinner. Because I said so. That's why."
Xavier's grin widened. "Duty calls." He kissed my cheek. "Go be brilliant. We'll be cheering from the front row."
He went to join Kim, slipping an arm around her waist as she negotiated dessert protocols with a five-year-old. They looked good together. Right. Like puzzle pieces that had finally found their match.
I turned back to the fitting room.
Naomi stood on the platform.
My breath caught.
She had taken out her braids, her natural hair loose and forming a halo around her face. The afro was magnificent—full and wild and unapologetically her. Against it, the halter dress I'd designed looked even better than I'd imagined.
A blend of green, burgundy and silver, cut on the bias, with hand-sewn crystals scattered across the bodice like constellations. The back dipped low, nearly to her waist, while the front maintained an elegant modesty. It was romantic without being precious. Sexy without being obvious.
It was the best thing I'd ever made.
"Well?" Naomi arched an eyebrow at my reflection, her lips curved in amusement. "Are you going to stand there staring, or are you going to tell me how incredible I look?"
"You look incredible."
"I know. But it's nice to hear." She turned slowly, letting the silk catch the light. "This dress is obscene, Isa. In the best way. I'm going to break hearts."
"That's the plan."
A production assistant appeared at my elbow. "Thirty minutes to doors, Ms. Dubois."
The world narrowed to a single point.
I moved through the final preparations in a trance. Checked the lineup. Verified the music cues. Made sure every model knew their marks and timing, and the precise angle at which to pause at the end of the runway.
Twenty minutes. The makeup artists made final touches.
Fifteen minutes. The models lined up backstage in order, a parade of silk and excited energy.
Ten minutes. I could hear the crowd now—the murmur of voices, the rustle of programs, the click of cameras being tested, the particular frequency of anticipation.
Five minutes.
I stood in the wings and watched the lights dim. The music swelled—something orchestral, building slowly, a heartbeat accelerating toward release.
The first model walked.
From my position backstage, I could only see fragments. The flash of burgundy as Abby hit the runway. The ripple of emerald as Margaux followed. The crowd was a blur of faces and phones, everyone capturing, everyone judging.