Chapter 14
Viv
Laurent Atelier’s first showcase was in four days, and half my collection was locked up in a warehouse strike in Oakland. My supplier stopped answering emails. The models would have nothing to wear. Marissa tried to downplay it, but I could see the panic twitching at the corner of her mouth.
“I can call around, see if someone has a backup set,” she said, typing furiously on her phone.
“No one carries that much silk in stock,” I said. “Not unless we want to show up in polyester.”
She winced. “You could postpone—”
“No,” I said. “If we delay, we lose our slot and the next opening is spring.”
I stared at the phone, willing it to buzz with good news, but nothing happened.
At six that evening, Adrian texted: Heard about the strike. Do you want me to call anyone?
I almost typed back: No, I’ll figure it out. But instead I waited.
He sent a second text: I know someone who runs the port. They might owe me a favor.
I hesitated, then replied: Please don’t do anything unless I ask.
He waited a full hour before responding: Okay. I’m here if you need it.
The next morning, nothing had changed. The showroom looked like a disaster zone. Marissa and the interns took turns refreshing the shipping status, as if staring at the blinking screen would break the blockade.
At noon, I gave in and texted: If your offer still stands, can you make the call? I need everything by Thursday.
He replied instantly: Of course. Will keep you posted.
That was it. No grandstanding, no showing up at my door with a solution and a grin. By evening, I had a new tracking number and confirmation the shipment would be delivered overnight.
The next day, the fabric arrived, intact and perfect. No one at the atelier knew how it happened, only that it did.
When I texted Adrian to thank him, he wrote back: Happy to help. You did all the work.
For the first time in years, I felt like he meant it.
The show went on, every look pressed and perfect. Marissa cried backstage. The collection sold out in pre-orders. The gallery crowd went wild for the last dress—a sapphire slip with a cut so clean it made one of the models gasp.
I stood on the makeshift runway, blinking under the lights, and saw Adrian at the back, hands in his pockets, not even trying to be noticed.
I smiled at him, real and full, and he smiled back, just for me.
He left before the applause ended, and I let him go.
But I couldn’t stop thinking: maybe we could build something new, after all.