2. Natalie
NATALIE
On the way back to the office, I keep replaying the meeting.
More specifically, why Carter was there at all.
Carter’s sponsorships are carefully curated.
Art exhibitions, Formula One, the occasional museum retrospective.
They sponsor events that reinforce their position at the top.
They don’t co-sponsor mid-tier industry galas.
They certainly don’t sit on planning committees.
I can’t help but think it has something to do with us.
Vue’s transformation isn’t subtle. Our campaigns are tighter.
Engagement is up. We’ve had more press in the past few months than the past three years combined.
People are paying attention again. Which is why Carter showing up at the gala committee meeting feels intentional.
Like a message. They have to see what’s happening.
Or maybe I’m being paranoid. There are a dozen reasons they might want to sponsor the gala that have nothing to do with Vue. Maybe this is what happens when you spend months rebuilding a brand. You start thinking everything is about you.
I shake my head. Vue is rising, but we’re not a threat to Carter. Not yet, anyway.
The cab pulls up in front of our building, and as I step out, I pause. Even now, it still gets me. That split-second flicker of disbelief that this is where I work. Vue’s office is in a downtown art deco. Polished brass, carved stone, the kind of building someone clearly fought to protect.
I’ve always liked places with history. Not in a nostalgic way. Just...there’s something grounding about them. You touch the walls and you know that other people stood here before you. You don’t get that in those new glass-and-steel boxes.
I head for Cosmo’s office but take the long way around the bullpen as if the extra few seconds will help me calm down. I just don’t get it. Why didn’t he tell me? What possible reason could he have?
I remind myself that Cosmo isn’t like me. He doesn’t spiral, doesn’t second-guess. Half the time, I wonder if he thinks at all.
I stop there. I’m being harsh and unfair. I force a breath. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for why he kept me in the dark.
I knock on his door and he calls me in.
His office looks like something from a design magazine. It’s sterile and minimalist apart from some strange little sculptures scattered across the shelves. I don’t know what they’re supposed to be, and I doubt he does either.
The glass desk gleams, not a fingerprint in sight. Behind him, floor-to-ceiling windows frame the skyline, sunlight catching on his bald head.
He’s wearing a navy cardigan, crisp white shirt and no tie. His thick black glasses perched low.
He glances up when I step inside and gives me a small smile.
“Natalie,” he says warmly, but when he registers my expression, the smile slips a fraction. “Oh dear. What’s happened?”
“Henry Carter was at the gala meeting,” I say, keeping my tone even. More observation than accusation.
Cosmo pauses just long enough to take a slow sip of his cappuccino.
“Ah. Yes. About that. Isabelle sprung it on me. She framed it like a gift. Carter putting in extra money, more reach for the hospital. How could I say no without looking like I’m putting ego before sick kids?”
That stops me. He’s right. I’ve been in strategy mode so long I couldn’t even separate it from a charity event. The realization makes my stomach twist. But still—
“Why didn’t you warn me?”
“It came together quickly. You were already on your way. I figured you’d handle it.” His tone is all easy confidence, like it costs him nothing to hand me the mess.
“Yeah.” My smile feels forced. I don’t tell him Henry walked in and tore my plan apart without breaking a sweat. Failure isn’t an option here. Besides, nothing’s locked in yet. There’s still room to steer this back.
“I’ll handle it.”
Back in my office, I sink into my chair.
My desk is buried under fabric swatches, mockups, notes, and three competing versions of next season’s website update.
A few empty coffee cups slump in the bin under the window.
A post-it with something half-legible clings to my monitor like it’s afraid to let go. It’s not messy, just busy.
Seven people wanted this job. They’re still here.
Still circling. Waiting for me to trip. I don’t forget that.
I can’t. I didn’t land here by luck. I fought for over a decade to get this shot.
Late nights, missing birthdays, grinding out campaigns that no one remembers but me.
I’m not wasting this opportunity and I’m not losing my plans to the likes of Henry Carter.
I clear my mind. Today, I need to run the marketing weekly, approve final selects from the pre-fall shoot, and sign off on prototypes for the accessories line before they hit production. And then there’s the celebrity gifting list. The one I’ve been curating for months. It needs a full rethink now.
I run a hand thought my hair. The gala was supposed to help pull big names back into Vue, to lure them away from brands like Carter. But with Henry in the room, that just got a lot harder.
My assistant, Rebecca, shows up at the door holding two coffees.
“You’re a lifesaver,” I say.
“How did the meeting go?” Rebecca slips inside and shuts the door behind her.
She’s young and blonde, the kind of pretty that makes people assume she’s an airhead. She isn’t. Her eyes are sharp, always taking things in.
I tell her about Carter, leaving out the part where Henry rattled me more than I want to admit. I trust Rebecca but trust doesn’t mean showing weakness. Not even with her.
Fashion might look glamorous on the outside, but underneath it’s brutal. Everyone’s climbing, everyone’s watching. One slip and you’re done. Sharing my self-doubt? That’s a one-way ticket to being replaced.
“What’s he like?” Rebecca asks.
“What?”
“Oh, come on. It’s Henry Carter. He’s the hottest one.”
Oh God. Not her too.
The Carter brothers are practically Alton Hills royalty. All four of them are tall, handsome, with trust funds the size of small nations. They walk into a room and the air changes. Conversations stop. Women angle toward them. Men want to be them or at least be seen with them.
The whole town treats them like gods. I never saw the fuss. Back in school, when everyone was ranking which Carter they wanted to marry, I was busy doing…literally anything else.
“He’s just a man in a nice suit. Not the second coming.”
That’s when I catch the glint of a thin diamond tennis bracelet on Rebecca’s wrist. That’s new.
“Speaking of awful men…please tell me that’s not from Lucas Owens.”
“I didn’t ask him to,” she says, almost apologetic.
Of course she didn’t. That’s his thing. Lucas Owens is a department store buyer who wears too much cologne, can’t keep his hands to himself, and smiles like he’s practiced it in the mirror.
The bracelet isn’t a sweet gesture. It’s his play.
“The man probably orders them in bulk. Rebecca, I’m serious. He’s bad news.”
“I know,” she says, but she doesn’t sound like she means it.
I get it. I was twenty-three once too. Now I’m thirty-three, and I’ve seen plenty of men like Lucas circle this industry.
Back then, I fell for the smooth talk and rehearsed charm.
It ended the way it always does. With me heartbroken and him already onto the next girl. I don’t want that for Rebecca.
“Promise me you’ll stay away from him?”
“Of course.”
“It’s just that men like him are experts at making you feel like you’re the only woman in the world.
And there’s the work thing, too. He’s a buyer, technically a client.
” That part’s a stretch, but Rebecca cares about doing her job right.
Really, I just don’t want Lucas to break her the way others broke me.
She nods and pulls her sleeve down to hide the bracelet.
“Oh yeah, I found a sample in your size for Saturday night,” Rebecca says. “Last year’s summer collection. The silk one that was too short on the model.”
The dress pops into my mind instantly. It’s perfect.
“Good find,” I say. “Did you find something for yourself?”
“What?” Her voice is casual, but the smile creeping across her face gives her away. Rebecca lives for events—the champagne, the glamour, the celebrities. Assistants don’t exactly top the invite list, so I bring her as my plus-one when I can.
“If you’re busy…” I tease.
“I thought you might have a date for this one,” she says.
I arch a brow. Rebecca’s worked for me four years, she’s never once seen me on a date. Not that I haven’t been on one. Six, to be exact. All forgettable, all better left unmentioned.
“I don’t have time for dates.”
She looks like she wants to argue, but thinks better of it.
“Guess I’d better find a dress, then,” she says with a grin. And softer, as she slips out: “Don’t stay too late.”
I’ll stay late. I always do.
The spring campaign folder sits open on my desk.
It will be the first collection that’s completely mine.
I’m taking a risk. After pushing and pushing, Cosmo’s finally agreed to move our show to the streets.
Our sleek clothes against a backdrop of the city.
It’s designed to make people stop scrolling. We’re going to livestream it, too.
In an industry where exclusivity is the gospel, I’m inviting the entire world in. Not to cheapen Vue, but to prove that luxury doesn’t have to be locked away. Vue isn’t for everyone but it’s for anyone bold enough to want it.
I stare at the mood boards pinned to my wall. After years of late nights, of choosing work over sleep, over friends, over anything resembling a life. If this fails, what’s left?
I shove the thought aside.
It won’t fail. I won’t let it.