Tailored for You

Serena

You have to be kidding me.

I clenched my jaw hard enough to hurt, but it did nothing to rein in my mounting anger.

That time couldn’t be right, could it? As discreetly as I could, I glanced at the clock on the oven. Then the one on my new fancy fridge.

They all said the same thing. I closed my eyes and tipped my head back.

A rock settled in my stomach.

He wasn’t coming.

After all the promises and plans he made, he couldn’t bother to show. Or call, as a bare minimum, and come up with a flimsy excuse as to why he wasn’t.

I banged the back of my head against the wall softly. I should’ve pushed more, forced him to prove he was more than talk this time.

Fine. If he wasn’t going to call me, I was going to call him.

Stepping out of the kitchen and into my design studio, I tapped his name, and the phone rang until I got his voicemail. I hung up and dialed again. And again.

On the fourth try, he finally answered.

“What?” His tone was annoyed, like picking up the mother of his child’s call was every bit as inconvenient as being married to me.

“You were supposed to be here five hours ago.” I barely held back my snarl.

“No,” Charles said, his words slurred. “It isn’t my weekend. I don’t have her for two more weeks.” Even with the slur, he managed to keep his tone annoyed and condescending.

“It’s your weekend. Like it was your weekend last week and you didn’t show up.

” I rubbed a thumb between my eyebrows. “You make her all these promises, and you never follow through. I put this on your calendar, confirmed with both your mother and your assistant, helped create an itinerary so you could remember to do all the activities you promised her, and emailed it to you. All you had to do was show up.”

This was so typical, and it was all my fault for letting it happen. He had one job: to show up, and he couldn’t even manage that. He never had. When we were together, it was easy to let his tardiness, forgetfulness, and unreliability slide by.

I should’ve seen those missed appointments and the excuses as foreshadowing for the husband and father he would be, but I was scared. Pregnant and scared, then postpartum and stressed, doing everything by myself, while he was off doing whoever and whatever he wanted.

Charles not showing up was par for the course in our relationship, but it wasn’t about me.

It was another day he wasn’t around or another promise he was reneging on to me.

It was our daughter that he was letting down.

How dare he get her hopes up, talk about some magical weekend together, and forget to show up?

He had staff, secretaries, and personal assistants who did everything for him, yet he somehow managed to disappoint Harper every chance he got.

“Just tell her that I got caught up at work or something. It’s the truth anyway. I came down yesterday to entertain some investors. She’ll understand,” he said, so passively that it made me want to throw my phone.

Co-parenting with Charles—if I could even call it that—was a struggle.

He showed up when he wanted to, never kept to our agreed schedule, and did things like this: make promises to our little girl, not follow through, and leave me to deal with the fallout.

How many tears had I wiped away because he didn’t show up?

How many stories did I have to tell because Daddy was late?

The only person Charles was hurting was Harper. I couldn’t stand it.

I took out a little red marker, found the calendar on my mess of a table that I used as a desk, and drew a line through the weekend. There were other red dashes, each one noting when Charles had missed his scheduled visitation.

Going back to court was something I wanted to avoid, if I could.

Court was draining, physically, emotionally, and financially. He had a team of lawyers on retainer that would pick apart my life and everything I did for Harper. I’d been there before, and I didn’t ever want to go back.

For Harper, though, I would. I would do anything to keep her safe and in a place where she knew she was always wanted and loved.

I glanced through the archway that led into our apartment and saw Harper lining up her baby dolls to feed them. I took a step closer to the window and lowered my voice, not willing to chance Harper overhearing me.

“No, she won’t. She’s four. All she knows is that she was supposed to swim in a pool, ride a pony, and spend the weekend with her dad, whom she hasn’t spent more than a few hours with in the last three months.

” I wish I didn’t keep track of how many hours he spent taking care of our daughter, but I couldn’t help myself.

A female squeal, a big splash, and a bunch of cheering.

I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him. He wasn’t doing anything for work. He worked for his dad’s investment firm and was the definition of a nepo baby, having been given his job by his dad despite lacking qualifications.

“Charles, what’s taking you so long?” The voice was whiny, and I knew exactly who it belonged to. Apple Livingstone.

There was a muffled sound, as if Charles had put his hand over the mic rather than pressing mute.

Charles cleared his throat, and I knew I didn’t care, nor did I want to hear whatever bad lie he was trying to concoct.

“Sounds like a great business meeting. Have a great weekend.” I hung up the phone and muttered, “Dick,”

I walked over to the mannequin. Fabric was pinned across it, slowly coming together into something I was excited about. Rubbing the fabric between my fingers, I wondered why I’d been so foolish to think I’d have a quiet weekend working on a few of my pieces.

At least I didn’t make any other plans for the weekend.

I pushed away at the bitterness that came whenever I spoke to Charles for longer than five seconds and walked back into our apartment.

The entire floor was mine. A flex wall split the floor in half.

When someone walked through the door, they found my studio, where I ran my tailoring and design business.

Once I walked through the door on the other side of the room, I was in my small two-bedroom apartment with the smallest possible kitchen-and-living-room combo.

Harper and I didn’t need much, and with what we had, we’d made a home.

It was a bit of a mess, but full of color and joy. The walls were lined with pictures of us throughout the years. It was a stark contrast to the way I grew up and the continued promise I’d made to Harper when she was a little bean in my stomach to give her a happy home.

I walked over and crouched next to her at the small craft table she had.

I tapped her nose with a finger and said, “Boop.”

Harper wrinkled her nose and sang, “Mommy.” I tried not to wince when her voice rose to a screech.

“I want to watch a movie. Want to watch with me?” I asked. Harper nodded so hard she nearly knocked herself off her chair. “Okay. Think about what you want to watch, and I’ll make the popcorn.”

“Monkeys!” she yelled as she skipped the three feet to the couch and turned on the TV. I headed to the kitchen, relieved she seemed to have forgotten she had plans, and made popcorn.

In no time, we were cuddling and watching King Kong.

And not once did Harper ask about her dad.

My wrists were stiff from hours of needlework; my shoulders ached from hunching over for hours, but it was worth it. The dress was almost done. I only needed to finish the straps and have the final fitting.

Then I would move to the next mannequin, then to the one after that. It was almost like I’d created an assembly line.

The sketch of the dress was on the corkboard, smack in the middle, with fabric swatches and other designs pinned on either side, making it easy for me to move from one piece to the next.

Bolts of fabric lined the far side of the room, organized in a gradient, with a table beside it so I could lay out different pieces to help me visualize them. It was also the area with the most natural light.

Right next to it sat the small changing room and full-length mirrors. These got the best lighting in the studio and were always the most organized corners of the space.

Where I was working, chaos reigned, with cut pieces on the ground. Tables around me were covered in scribbles of half-thought-out designs, stray threads, and fabric scraps. My makeshift cutting table sat behind me.

The creative chaos helped me think. Something about letting go of the need to be perfect and neat, giving myself space to be messy, opened me up.

It was quiet, at least for New York standards. The hum of the city fell into the background, barely noticeable.

I stepped away, admiring my work. Maybe if I tuck the seam...

A throat cleared behind me.

I jumped, spinning around, and threw my hands up in front of my face, screeching in fright.

Enzo Lombardi stood in the doorway in an impeccably tailored pinstriped suit, his presence filling the room.

My hands immediately went to my pants, smoothing out the wrinkles. Then, to my hair, which I knew was wild and frizzy and held up by a pen.

My stomach did a somersault, and I had to force myself not to giggle like a schoolgirl.

I swallowed, lowered my hands, and brushed off my embarrassing reaction.

I gave him my best customer service smile and walked over. “Hey. Is it two already?”

Play it cool, calm, and collected. He’s just another client.

“I’m early.” His voice was deep and rough, like he had just woken up. Or at least, that’s what I imagined him sounding like when he just woke up.

I needed to focus and keep my mind on the task at hand. I had work to do and couldn’t be distracted by Enzo.

“Oh, good. I hate when I lose track of time.” I went to the hangers, pulled out three suits, and walked over to him.

I handed them over and headed to the counter to have him pay.

“You don’t want me to try them on? I have time.”

Did I want him to try on each suit? Yes, but that was purely for selfish reasons.

Enzo was big, topping six foot three, built like a heavyweight boxer, with hair cut short on the sides but long on the top.

He had tattoos everywhere. A big Italian devil was across his throat; his arms each had their own themes.

There were more, but over the year-and-a-half I’d been tailoring suits for him, I hadn’t gotten a good look at them, even though I knew exactly how tight he liked his shirts and how thick his thighs were.

We had a mutual appreciation for fine clothing, me making them and him wearing them.

He came to me because I was the best. I had a waitlist longer than both of my arms.

We’d first connected because he came on behalf of a man I’d blacklisted at the request of someone I considered family. They were rival mafia families, and I wasn’t going to get on anyone’s shit list for ‘disrespecting the boss’ or something I didn’t fully understand.

Plus, my friend Adrienne Vinci, now Adrienne Parisi, was the first person to hire me to create her wardrobe after she met me in Bergdorf's as a shopping assistant.

Once my friend gave me the green light to work with both Enzo and his boss, they kept me constantly busy.

I didn’t need him to try anything on because I knew his measurements—knew how each fabric lay on him, which ones needed more room, and which ones were fine as is.

I loved going over every fine point, making sure each pleat lay perfectly. For some reason, I was most inspired to create after working with him.

“No, I think we’ve worked together enough that I don’t need to try on every suit every time,” I said, giving him a small smile. “Here are the damages.” I handed him the receipt.

His fingers closed around the paper, brushing mine. The contact was brief, but it lingered in a way that made me oddly aware of it—of the warmth of his hand, of how large it was compared to mine. Tattoos contrasting against pale skin.

I pulled my hand back and shifted on my feet, annoyed with myself for noticing at all. I dropped my gaze to the cash he handed over, focusing on counting it.

It was too much money, and I told him so.

“This is what they would charge me in Italy for the kind of work you do. You need to raise your prices.” He narrowed his eyes at me, like he was going to intimidate me for talking back, but pulled back at the last minute.

I’d worked with enough men like him to know that I couldn’t withdraw when he was challenging me.

“I like my prices the way they are.” I wasn’t sure how many clients I might lose if I raised them. The idea of one regular client leaving because it cost them more made me panic, and I was seconds away from mentally calculating what that would do to my finances.

Enzo turned around, walked to a table near the door that had a white bag I hadn’t noticed, and brought it back to me.

“Eat it. It’s from Martina. She’s afraid you’re withering away.” Enzo took his time scanning me from head to toe.

I checked myself in the window’s reflection, noting just how frazzled I looked, but in no way was I withering away. I was fine.

I slipped a hand into my pocket but couldn't muster a snappy comeback by the time he turned on his heels and walked out the door.

I bet I’d think of something clever to say in the shower tonight.

“Stupid,” I muttered to myself. This crush I had on Enzo had to die a fast, brutal death.

Over a year, I still hadn't figured out how to squash the flutter in my stomach every time he was around.

He was a client. He paid me to shop for him and tailor his clothes. That was the nature of our relationship, regardless of whether we had some of the same friends and our worlds touched tangentially.

None of that mattered. Especially because I’d already walked down that road before, and it ended in nothing but pain.

I walked over to my design table and did what I always seemed to do after an encounter with Enzo. Draw.

This time, I couldn’t stop thinking about his chest and what the tattoo was. The picture flew out of me, my creativity flowing. For the hundredth time, I wondered why I felt so inspired after being around him, but I didn’t question it.

Everyone had to have their muse, right?

Who cared if mine was a Made Man so big he could break me in two and couldn’t stay on the right side of the law if he tried?