20. Alexis
Alexis
I adjust my sunglasses, squinting against the bright mid-day sun as I step out of the car. The neighborhood is quieter than I expected. Still part of the city, but far enough off downtown that it has a bit more space, more of a local feel.
I’m here to see an old warehouse I found online, a potential home for my project. The building itself looks worn, but there’s something about it that speaks to me. An indefinable, industrial charm.
I glance at the address on my phone and then back at the building across the street. It sits between a couple of low-rise buildings. There’s a coffee shop on the corner, and a used bookstore a few doors down.
Yeah. This is the one.
“Alexis Beaumont?”
The voice belongs to a woman in her late thirties, standing on the sidewalk a few yards away from me. She’s dressed casually in a light denim jacket, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail, and there’s a clipboard pressed to her chest.
“That’s me,” I reply, offering a quick smile. “You must be the agent.”
“Yeah, I’m Amy.” She extends her hand. “I’ll be showing you the place today. You found the location okay?”
I accept the handshake. “Yeah, no problem. It’s a great neighborhood. Close enough that you could get the bus from downtown. I like that.” I want the workshop to be as easy to access as possible, and public transit is the key.
Amy nods. “Shall we head in?”
“Sure.” I follow her as she crosses the street briskly, and catch a whiff of fresh coffee from the café on the corner.
“The building’s been mostly empty for the last few months,” Amy says as she unlocks the door. “Some local artists have rented it out for pop-up exhibitions, but that’s about it. It’s a blank slate.”
We step inside. The air in here is cool, carrying the faint scent of old wood and dust. The concrete floors are uneven in places, and there are cobwebs hanging from the far-off girders in the ceiling, but it’s the perfect size.
Sunlight filters in through tall windows along one wall, illuminating the motes of dust that float in the stillness.
I pace in a slow circle, starting to picture the setup. Tables along one wall with permanent sewing machines. Curtains to divide fabric storage from the work area.
“Yeah,” I say after a long moment. “This is really nice.” I glance at Amy, who smiles at me. “I’ll have to get a few things finalized before I can commit, but I love it.”
“Of course,” Amy says. “You have my card. Just give me a call whenever you’re ready to move forward.”
“I will,” I say. “Thanks for all your help.”
Amy smiles and turns to leave. The sound of the door clicking shut echoes through the empty warehouse.
For a few moments, I linger in the space, taking it all in.
I pace over to one of the wooden beams and run my fingers over its rough surface, imagining what this warehouse will look like transformed.
This is more than just a building. It’s freedom. A chance to create something entirely my own, separate from my family’s expectations and the loaded conditions of their approval. For once, I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something just for me.
And it’s exhilarating.
Over the past few weeks, as I’ve been working on this project, I’ve found inspiration easy to come by.
I’ve been sketching like crazy, daydreaming, ideas for both fashion designs and the workshop space popping into my head near-constantly.
It’s like a spark has been lit inside me, one I didn’t even realize had gone out.
For so long, I’ve been tethered to what everyone else wanted.
Now, I can finally think about what I want, with none of the anxiety that usually accompanies those kinds of thoughts.
My phone trills in my pocket, breaking the silence in the empty warehouse. I pull it out and glance at the screen to read the text that just popped up.
GAbrIEL: Hey, how’s the warehouse?
I can’t help but grin. Lately, we’ve been communicating so easily, texting back and forth often.
I like it a lot more than the stilted, overly-professional calls I used to place to his office whenever I needed to talk to him.
His secretary has been a bit standoffish and rude toward me, and calling the office felt daunting, knowing I was going to face her hostility. I don’t think she likes me much.
Now, though, I have a direct line to Gabriel. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the reason behind the change.
Gabriel has only touched me once more since the night he went down on me, the night he made me come until I could barely breathe—still the most incredible orgasms of my life.
He didn’t fuck me the second time, either.
He used his hand, teased my nipples with his teeth and his tongue, and whispered things that made shivers run up my spine.
It was unbelievable. My body is so responsive to his touch, like I’m a finely-tuned instrument and he’s a maestro.
And now that that line has been crossed, it’s easier to be around him.
Some of the tension has been let out of our relationship.
The air no longer feels thick and charged when we’re together.
My fingers fly across my phone’s screen as I type out a response.
ME: It’s great! I think this is the one!
GAbrIEL: That’s awesome. You feel like grabbing lunch to celebrate?
ME: Sounds good. Where do you want to go?
GAbrIEL: Meet me at Liora. I have a reservation.
I know the place well. Liora is an LA institution, a restaurant on the top floor of a skyscraper in Century City with a great view of the Pacific. I’ve been there several times before. It’s fairly close to Vérité’s offices, so it’s a staple for my family.
ME: Sure. On my way.
I call a car. The driver arrives quickly, and I slide into the back seat. The familiar sights of Los Angeles pass by as we head toward Century City.
Liora. The restaurant holds a certain weight in my mind, tied to memories of carefully orchestrated lunches and dinners with my parents.
Vérité’s meetings with prospective clients often ended here, and even as a child, I’d felt the suffocating pressure to perform.
To sit straight, smile politely, and reflect the curated image of perfection they demanded.
A silent participant, but a participant all the same.
For once, though, this isn’t about Vérité or the family name. It’s just lunch with Gabriel. Nothing more, nothing less.
I repeat the words like a mantra as I step into the lobby. It’s just lunch at a nice restaurant. You’re fine.
The building’s lobby is just as I remember. Marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, tall glass windows letting in muted light, and an elegant, minimalist design that whispers wealth without shouting it.
I head for the elevators, the click of my low heels echoing in the cavernous space. A group of sharply dressed professionals lingers near the doors, their conversation low and clipped. I slip into the waiting throng, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact.
When the elevator chimes and the doors trundle open, I shuffle in with the others. The ascent is smooth and silent, but my heart pounds louder with every floor we pass. Sweat gathers on my palms, my fingers curling into fists at my sides.
Relax, I tell myself. This isn’t a performance. You’re supposed to enjoy it.
The elevator chimes again, and the doors slide open. The group inside disperses, and I follow. As I step out of the elevator, I glance to the side and see him.
My father.
He stands just a few paces away, tall and sharp in his tailored charcoal suit, his face carved into the familiar lines of disdain. His eyes lock on mine.
“Oh,” I say, startled. He must be here for a business lunch with someone.
I’m expecting him to smile genially, as he normally does when we’re in public. Instead, his brow furrows, a brief scowl flitting across his face. He starts toward me, and I resist the urge to turn and flee back into the open elevator.
He’s pissed about something. I don’t know what, but it’s written all over his face.
When he reaches me, he grabs me tightly by the forearm and pulls me away from the host’s stand, out of earshot of the well-dressed people who are waiting for their tables.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growls.
“I—I—I was just meeting G-Gabriel for lunch,” I tell him, my stammer coming out in full force. My cheeks burn.
He leans in, his lip curling in anger. When he speaks again, his voice is low, harsh. “No. What the hell do you think you’re doing with this charity bullshit?”
I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Wh-what?”
“Your ‘project,’” he says, lifting his free hand to form mocking air quotes around the word. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? That you could sneak around behind my back like some disobedient child?”
“N-no. I thought you—”
“You’re demeaning our brand,” he snaps. “Vérité is high fucking fashion. We don’t do this sort of thing, and you know it. Our designs belong on the runway in Milan, not some warehouse on a side street.”
I flinch. I try to even out my breathing, to calm the rapid thrum of my heart. “It’s not about V-Vérité,” I manage, although my voice is barely above a whisper. “This is… m-my own thing.”
“Your own thing?” He sneers. “There is no ‘your own thing.’ Everything you do reflects on this family. I thought you knew that.”
“I—I—”
“And to top it all off, you stab your own father in the back. Tried to go around me, did you? Get your new husband on board so that I can’t say no?”
My eyes widen. Oh god. Gabriel must have said something. He must’ve mentioned the project. My lungs seize, and for a heartbeat, I can’t find air.
“It wasn’t like that,” I protest, but he’s having none of it.
“You stepped over the line.” His gaze sweeps up and down, resting on my face. He doesn’t make eye contact, though. His nose wrinkles. “And you’re clearly not taking much pride in your appearance.”
For a second, I’m confused. Then it hits me.
I’m not wearing foundation to cover up my freckles.
I haven’t worn it in a while, actually, since Gabriel told me that the freckles suit me.
It’s been a major boost to my confidence.
I still struggle with insecurity about them on some days, but whenever I do, that conversation replays in my head.
Gabriel’s compliment sits in a specific part of my mind like a shield against the old voices that used to tear me down, my father’s included.
But right now, under his cold, scrutinizing gaze, that shield feels paper-thin.
My mouth falls open, and my hand rises to cover my nose as if it has instincts of its own, as if by hiding that small part of me, I can make myself invisible, smaller, safer.
I hate that I’m doing it. I hate that even after everything, even after Gabriel’s kind words and the little confidence I’ve built, I still default to this. I still try to disappear at the first criticism from my father.
“You are a representative of the Beaumont family. Just because you’re married doesn’t let you off the hook. Get your shit together, Alexis. Do better.”
The lump forms in my throat so fast I can barely swallow. Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. I can’t cry. Not here. Not where he can see.
Crying is contemptible too. A weakness. A weapon he’s used against me more times than I can count. So I lock my jaw tight and force the tears back, even though my vision blurs for a second and my throat burns from the effort.
My father doesn’t wait for my excuses or my apologies. He releases my arm with such force that I have to stagger back a step to keep my balance. Without a backward glance, he storms off toward the elevator.
I stand frozen for a long moment, my body buzzing with leftover adrenaline. The phantom sting of his grip lingers on my arm. It takes every ounce of willpower to swallow down the tears, to steady my breathing.
When I finally approach the host’s stand, my cheeks are hot, my skin flushed red with embarrassment. I know it shows. Should’ve worn foundation, whispers the familiar, cutting voice in my head that sounds like my father’s. Then no one would be able to tell.
The host looks up and greets me with a smile, apparently oblivious to how upset I am. “Good afternoon. Do you have a reservation?”
“Y-yes,” I manage, my voice wavering slightly. I clear my throat and try again. “I’m meeting Gabriel Thorne. He should already be here.”
The host checks his list and nods. “Of course, right this way.”
I follow him into the restaurant, my gaze trained on the hardwood floor. Beyond the windows that ring the room, I know, is a spectacular view of the ocean and the surrounding cityscape. I can’t bring myself to look at it. If I look up, I’m certain everyone will see how rattled I am, how distraught.
He hates your project. He hates it. I could hardly believe the vitriol in my father’s voice. I’ve certainly seen him that angry before, but it’s been a long time.
And then I see Gabriel. He’s seated at a table near the window, looking out over the skyline. When we reach the table, he turns his head toward me, his gaze warming. He gets to his feet to greet me.
I can’t stop myself from flinching. The sudden movement startles me. I’m on edge after the encounter with my father, my nerves shot. Gabriel’s expression shifts immediately. His brow furrows in concern, but he doesn’t say anything while the host is still lingering nearby.
Gabriel pulls out the chair for me, and I sit down heavily. The host pours me a glass of ice water, then leaves the two of us alone. It didn’t seem like he noticed anything was off, but it definitely hasn’t escaped Gabriel’s sharp gaze.
“What’s wrong?” he says quietly. “You seem… upset.”
I open my mouth to reply, but can’t find my voice. It takes me a moment to stammer, “N-nothing.”
Gabriel’s frown deepens. “Hey. You can talk to me, you know.”
I swallow, nodding. My gaze travels past him, finally landing on the wraparound windows, although I don’t really see the view beyond.
“Alexis,” he probes gently. “Did something happen?” His gaze flits down to my hands, resting on the edge of the table. Immediately, his jaw goes rigid.
Surprised, I glance down. There are red marks on my arm from where my father grabbed me. His grip must’ve been even tighter than I’d thought. I grimace, running my hand over the outline of his fingers. That looks like it’ll bruise.
There’s fury on Gabriel’s face. “Who did that to you?”
He’s intent on this, unrelenting. He’s not going to let it go. There’s no way I can just brush it off.
“It was my father,” I whisper reluctantly. “I ran into him on the way in.”