12. Lucille
— ? —
Lucille
I don’t let myself think about the shoes.
In the days after the gala, I catch myself reaching for the memory, the feel of his hands on my ankle, the way he looked up at me from his knees, the devastating sincerity in his voice when he said he’d always cared.
I catch myself, and I pull back, the way you pull your hand from a flame that’s already burned you once.
I can’t afford to soften. I can’t afford to let Hugo Kensington become the axis around which my world turns again.
So I pour everything into work instead.
Adler Design becomes my obsession. I spend fourteen-hour days in my studio, sketching and draping and sewing until my fingers ache and my eyes blur.
I reach out to boutique owners, fabric suppliers, anyone who might help me build a real foundation.
I update my portfolio. I refine my brand identity.
I practice my pitch until the words feel natural instead of desperate.
The flower still appears every morning, but I’ve stopped counting the days. I’ve stopped waiting for it to stop.
If Hugo wants to spend his mornings leaving flowers at my door, that’s his choice. It doesn’t have to mean anything to me.
I’m building a life that’s mine. A brand that doesn’t depend on his attention or his absence, his presence or his promises. A legacy with my name on it, the name I was born with, that will exist whether my marriage survives or not.
Alice watches this transformation with cautious approval.
“You’re different,” she says one evening, perched on my studio couch with takeout containers spread between us. “More focused. More… yourself.”
“I’m just working.”
“No, it’s more than that.” She studies me over her lo mein. “You’re not waiting anymore. You used to have this quality, like you were always half-listening for his footsteps. Now you’re just… here.”
She’s right. I don’t know when it happened, somewhere between the gala and now, somewhere in the blur of fabric and sketches and phone calls, but the constant, low-level anxiety that used to hum beneath my skin has quieted.
I’m not waiting for Hugo to save me.
I’m not waiting for anyone.
***
The industry mixer is exactly the kind of event I used to avoid.
Too many people, too much small talk, too high a chance of running into someone who wants to discuss my husband’s career instead of my own.
But my old contact at Vogue connected me with the organizer, and the guest list includes three boutique buyers I’ve been trying to reach for months.
This is the kind of room where a new label lives or dies, where a single conversation can lead to a wholesale order, a feature, a foot in the door.
I can’t afford to hide anymore.
I dress carefully: a structured blazer of my own design over a silk camisole, high-waisted trousers that make my legs look endless, statement earrings that catch the light. Professional but memorable. Designer, not wife.
The venue is a rooftop bar in West Hollywood, all string lights and craft cocktails and people who look like they belong in magazine spreads.
I arrive alone, which feels significant.
For two years, I’ve entered rooms like this on Hugo’s arm, introduced as his wife before anything else.
Tonight, I’m just Lucille Adler. Creator of Adler Design. Here on my own merit.
It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating.
The first hour goes well. I work the room systematically, introducing myself to the buyers on my list, distributing business cards, making the kind of genuine connections that no amount of cold emailing can replicate.
One buyer, a woman named Sandra who runs a chain of high-end boutiques in Northern California, actually asks to see my portfolio.
“I like what you’re doing,” she says, scrolling through the photos on my phone. “The silhouettes are classic, but there’s a modern edge in the construction. Where are you manufacturing?”
“Small-batch, local production. I’m partnered with a women-owned factory in Downtown LA.”
“Ethical and beautiful. That’s a hard combination to find.” Sandra pulls a card from her clutch. “Send me your lookbook. I’m always looking for emerging designers with a strong point of view.”
I take the card with hands that want to tremble and don’t let them.
“Thank you. I’ll have it to you by end of week.”
Sandra moves on, and I allow myself one moment of pure, private triumph. This is real. This is happening. I’m building a career that matters, a future separate from Hugo and the wreckage of my marriage.
Then I turn around, and my father is standing three feet away.
Albert Adler looks out of place in this room.
He’s dressed appropriately, expensive suit, tasteful tie, but there’s a stiffness to his posture that betrays his discomfort. This isn’t his world. His world is boardrooms and country clubs and the particular kind of gathering where everyone’s net worth is known before they walk through the door.
He shouldn’t be here. There’s no reason for him to be here.
Which means he came looking for me.
“Lucille.” His voice carries that familiar mix of authority and warmth that I used to find comforting. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know. I haven’t been answering.”
“I noticed.” He attempts a smile. “Your mother used to do the same thing when she was angry with me. Freeze me out until I figured out what I’d done wrong.”
“Don’t.” The word comes out with more edge than I intend. “Don’t bring her into this.”
His smile falters. “I just meant…”
“I know what you meant. You meant to remind me that I’m being difficult. That I should smooth things over and pretend everything is fine, the way Mom always did.” I meet his eyes. “But I’m not Mom. And things aren’t fine.”
Around us, the party continues, laughter and clinking glasses and the low hum of conversation. No one is paying attention to us. No one knows that the ground is about to shift.
“Lucille, whatever’s happened with your marriage, I’m sure it can be worked out. The Kensingtons are good people. Hugo is a good man. If you’d just…”
“If I’d just what? Keep pretending? Keep performing the role of dutiful wife while my husband forgets I exist?” I let out a hollow laugh. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve always wanted. A daughter who stays in her place and doesn’t make waves.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” I take a step closer, lowering my voice so we’re not overheard.
“You sold me, Dad. You sold me to the Kensingtons like I was a piece of property. You called it a marriage, called it an opportunity, but it was a transaction. A merger. Your daughter in exchange for whatever alliance you wanted with Wilfred.”
His face goes pale. “That’s not… I never…”
“You never what? Never thought about what it would do to me? Never considered that your daughter might want to choose her own husband? Never wondered if I was happy?” I shake my head. “Or did you just not care, as long as the Adler name was attached to the Kensington fortune?”
“I wanted security for you. I wanted you to be taken care of.”
“You wanted to be connected to their money. Don’t pretend this was about me.
” My voice is unexpectedly steady. I expected to shake.
I expected to crumble. Instead, I feel solid, rooted in a truth I’ve been avoiding for years.
“I spent two years being no one’s priority, Dad.
Not Hugo’s, not yours. I was an afterthought in my own marriage, and I learned that from you.
You taught me that was the price of being useful. ”
“Lucille…”
“I’m done being useful.” I take a step back. “I’m done being a transaction. I’m building my own life now, with my own name, and you don’t get to be part of it until you can look me in the eye and admit what you did.”
He opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.
This is the first time in my life Albert Adler has nothing to say.
I turn and walk away, leaving him standing in the middle of a party that doesn’t belong to him, and I don’t look back.
The bar is a refuge.
I order a Cabernet and drink half of it in one long swallow, letting the warmth spread through my chest. My hands are shaking now, the adrenaline of confronting my father finally catching up with me, but it’s not fear. It’s closer to liberation.
I said it. I finally said all the things I’ve been swallowing for years.
And the world didn’t end.
“Well, well. Lucille Kensington. I was hoping I’d run into you.”
The voice cuts through my moment of peace like a knife.
I turn, and Ginny Davies is standing beside me at the bar, a champagne flute in her hand and a smile on her face that doesn’t reach her eyes.
She looks beautiful, because of course she does.
Red hair swept up in an artful twist, a dress that probably cost more than my monthly rent, makeup that makes her look effortlessly natural despite clearly taking an hour to apply.
She’s arranged herself to be photographed, to be admired, to be the center of attention.
And now she’s arranged herself next to me.
“Ginny.” I keep my voice neutral. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Oh, I go to everything these days. Can’t afford not to, with all the momentum from the video.” Her smile widens. “Have you seen the streaming numbers? Through the roof. Hugo and I really created a hit.”
“Did you.”
“We did. There’s a creative connection between us that just… translates, you know? The fans feel it. The critics feel it.” She leans closer, conspiratorial. “Even Hugo feels it, even if he’s too loyal to admit it.”
I should walk away. I should take my wine and my business cards and find someone else to talk to, someone who isn’t actively trying to crawl under my skin.
But a perverse need keeps me rooted to this spot. A need to see exactly how far she’ll push.
“Is that what you’re calling it?” I ask. “Creative connection?”
“What else would I call it?” Ginny’s eyes are wide, innocent. “We make music together. That’s all. If people read more into it, that’s not really my fault, is it?”