17. Natalie
NATALIE
It’s Wednesday, and I’m at my desk, pretending to work while actually just staring at the monitor and waiting for Cosmo. He called a last-minute meeting this morning. No context, no hint of what it’s about. Just a breezy, “I’ll swing by when I can,” followed by silence.
The longer I wait, the worse it feels. My coffee’s gone cold.
My inbox is full. I’ve opened and closed the same spreadsheet eight times.
I can’t focus. Every creak in the hallway, every distant footstep makes my pulse jump.
I keep glancing at the door like it’s going to burst open with some kind of career-ending news.
I’ve run through every possible scenario. None of them good.
Did he find out about me and Henry? Has someone said something? Did a photo leak? Did I forget to cc someone important? Did a vendor file a complaint? Did I miss a deadline? Did I breathe wrong?
Cosmo isn’t exactly known for subtlety. If something’s wrong, he’ll say it, but the longer he takes to show up, the more it feels like something’s brewing.
Like I’m about to be blindsided. Or maybe I just want something to focus on.
Anything other than the persistent buzz of my phone.
I don’t even need to check the screen to know who it is.
Henry: I miss you.
Henry: I assume you’re alive, but confirmation would be nice. Preferably via call.
Henry: Trying to be cool and not text again. Failing.
Okay, so maybe I didn’t exactly end things so much as disappear.
I tried to write the message. Honestly, I did.
At least a dozen different versions: polite but final, clear but not cold.
Every time it felt wrong. I’d hover over send, then sigh, delete it, shove my phone in the drawer and tell myself I’d do it later.
Spoiler alert: I haven’t done it yet.
I know I’m being a coward. I know he deserves an explanation but I can’t give it to him right now.
“Knock, knock.” Cosmo swings open my office door without waiting, and drops into the chair across from me. He yanks off his glasses, rubs his eyes theatrically, then puts the glasses back on as if prepping for a big reveal.
“We’re moving our show up to Thursday,” he says. “We go first this year. Before Carter. It’s time we lead the season, not follow.”
It lands so far off what I was expecting, I don’t know how to respond.
“That’s…not possible. The calendar’s locked. It’s only next week—”
“It’s already done.” His eyes sparkle. “Had to twist a few arms, grease a few palms, but it’s ours. Thursday night.”
Carter’s supposed to open Friday. We go on the Sunday.
My brain stutters. This is insane. We’ve already sent the RSVPs. The press releases are out. You can’t just move a fashion show like it’s a dinner reservation. But apparently, you can.
“Why didn’t you consult me?” The edge in my voice surprises even me.
Cosmo shrugs. “It fell together quickly.”
I lean back in my chair, trying not to let the frustration show.
But it’s there, sharp and rising. Of course he didn’t loop me in.
Of course a decision this massive happened without input from the people who’ll actually have to make it work.
The staff, the models, the designers. They’re going to be scrambling now, all because Cosmo wanted to beat Carter to the spotlight.
This is my fault. The rivalry with Carter, Cosmo’s sudden push to compete.
It started with me. I was the one who stirred it up.
A few weeks ago, I wanted Carter to sweat.
I wanted to make a statement, prove something.
But now I’m not so sure. We’re both luxury brands, but that’s where it stops.
We’re not chasing the same audience. We don’t stand for the same things.
We were never real rivals, just two names on the same calendar.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I say, slowly, carefully.
“Well, it’s done.” He stands, as if the conversation is done. Then he glances back, reckless glitter in his eyes. “Under our new direction, Carter better learn to watch their back.”
Cosmo swans out. I stay in my chair, staring at the empty doorway, my pulse climbing by the second. This is going to blow up. Carter always opens the season. It’s tradition. The headlines are going to eat this alive.
Carter won’t be happy about it. I’m not happy about it either. It feels cheap. Like we’re trying too hard.
What can I do? Nothing. The decision’s already made. We’re about to pick a fight with Silvia Carter, and I’ll be expected to stand behind it like I fully support it.
I press my hands into my face. Of all the things I could be feeling right now, I’m mostly just embarrassed. What if Henry thinks this was my idea? That I helped plan this ridiculous, petty move. What if he thinks I’m lashing out because I couldn’t separate work from whatever we were?
That’s the part that makes me feel sick. Not the fallout. Not even Silvia, although she’s terrifying. It’s the idea of him thinking I’d plan something so dumb.
I pull out my phone, fingers hovering over the screen. I want to explain, to let him know this wasn’t my doing. But I can’t tell him what’s coming. So I do nothing.
On Saturday morning, I’m at the mall with Mom.
Not the nice one uptown where someone offers you champagne while you browse stilettos.
No, we’re at the outlet center off the freeway.
The one that smells like pretzels and floor cleaner, where the mannequins look like they haven’t changed outfits in years.
I meant to cancel on Mom. When she called earlier this week, I said yes without thinking. I was halfway out the door, distracted, just trying to get off the phone. I forgot the gala was tonight.
I should be at home, getting my head straight.
It’s a big night, and I told myself I needed the day to mentally prepare.
But the truth is, I do have time for mom.
I’ve canceled on her more times than I care to admit.
Not because I don’t want to see her, I do, but life gets crowded.
One thing piles onto another, and suddenly weeks have passed and she’s still waiting for that lunch I promised.
So I’m here. Dressed down in leggings and an old hoodie, trying not to draw attention.
Mom’s in sneakers and a windbreaker, happily pushing a cart that’s already half full with buy-one-get-one sweaters and a cinnamon-scented candle.
“Do you need new jeans?” Mom asks, holding up a pair with rhinestones blazing across the back pockets.
“Absolutely not.”
“What? They’re cute.”
“They’re a crime against denim.” I slide them back onto the rack before they burn my retinas.
“They’re only $10.99,” she says, completely undeterred.
We wander past racks of polyester blouses and aggressively bedazzled tops. I feel her watching me out of the corner of her eye.
“So,” she says eventually, casual but not really. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, too fast and way too bright.
She doesn’t push. She just steers us toward a display of cardigans and pretends to browse, her fingers running over the same sleeve three times like she’s actually considering it.
There’s something wrong and she knows it.
I can feel it in the way she glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking.
I don’t want to say anything but I can’t stand the way she’s gone quiet.
It’s like I’m locking her out, like I’m letting her down.
“It’s really nothing,” I say, but the words feel thin. Even I don’t believe them. “Nothing I can’t handle,” I add, softer this time, as if lowering my voice might make it sound more convincing.
Mom doesn’t argue. She just gives me a smile. One of those too-bright ones she uses when she’s trying not to look disappointed.
“It’s fine,” she says. “I know you’ve got a lot going on now.” She says it like it’s no big deal. Like she’s not hurt. Like she’s used to it. Somehow, that makes it worse.
“I was seeing someone,” I blurt, before I can stop myself. “It didn’t work out.”
Mom doesn’t flinch. Just nods, then asks, “What went wrong?”
I open my mouth, then close it again. There’s no way to explain it without unraveling the entire mess. The secrecy, the rivalry, the risk.
“Work,” I say finally. “I’m busy. So is he.”
She tilts her head, studying me like she’s trying to see through the answer.
“You’ve worked hard, I know that. But if you’re waiting for a relationship that doesn’t cost you anything, you’ll be waiting a long time.
Careers cost. Love costs. Everything does.
The trick is figuring out what’s worth the price. ”
She plucks a pale pink with sequins shaped like stars cardigan from the rack and holds it up. Then she glances over at me.
“You know I gave up my career for your father,” she says. “Best decision I ever made.”
“That is…terrible advice, Mom.”
She laughs. “No, it isn’t. I was miserable in corporate insurance. Your father saved me from it. Everyone’s different. It’s always a risk. Work can let you down. Men can let you down. But sometimes you get lucky.”
I want to argue with her, tell her she’s wrong, that my career doesn’t let me down. But it could. One wrong move and I’m out. Done. Vue isn’t forever. Eventually I’ll leave, or they’ll want me gone, and I’ll have to start over somewhere else.
It’s like a relationship, I suppose.
I hate that she’s making sense. Not in the way she means—not in the quit-your-job-for-love kind of way—but in the way that maybe a career isn’t so different from love. Both can fall apart in a blink. Both can leave you gutted.
She slips the cardigan back on the rack, then pulls out a lilac one instead. “This color would look amazing on you,” she says, holding it up to my chest. “Go try it on.”
I take it with a nod and head for the fitting rooms, but once I’m inside, I don’t even bother with the cardigan. I just sit down on the little bench and pull out my phone.
There’s a new message from Henry.
He’s been persistent. It’s been almost a week since I last spoke to him. He knows I’m ignoring him but his messages have stayed soft, almost casual. Like if he doesn’t acknowledge the silence, maybe it won’t matter. Maybe I’ll just come back, and we’ll both pretend this pause never happened.
He’s sent a photo of a frying pan. Inside is a goopy, pale mess that was probably meant to be scrambled eggs. It’s somehow both raw and rubbery, a culinary paradox only Henry could create.
A message follows.
Henry: One day I’ll get it right.
I stare at the screen. He’s making this so much harder than it needs to be. I can’t give him what he wants. I can’t even let myself imagine it. He makes it sound so simple, like we could just be together and everything else would work itself out. It wouldn’t.
Henry doesn't get that because he didn’t have to claw his way up in this industry the way I did.
He hasn’t had to prove, over and over again, that he belongs in the room.
He doesn’t know what it’s like to be underestimated before you’ve even opened your mouth.
He must know what people would say. What they’d assume about me.
The choice isn’t fair, but it’s still a choice. Either way, I lose. If I choose my career, I lose Henry. If I choose Henry, I lose everything I’ve worked for.
There’s a knock at the dressing room door.
“How does it look?” Mom calls.
“Not great,” I say, but I’m not talking about the cardigan.
I’m doing the right thing. I know I am. So why does it feel so impossible?