35. Alexis
Alexis
Fashion For All is slated to open without the typical fanfare for a project of its type. Aside from the crew that’s been helping me film segments for FlashUp, there are no cameras present at the workshop’s first public event. There’s no press, no large crowd.
This isn’t about extravagant publicity or high-profile social media posts. It’s about the people who truly need what the workshop offers.
And I can’t wait.
This is more fulfilling than any work I’ve ever done with Vérité. It feels good to finally be in my element, doing what I’m supposed to be doing.
My parents still aren’t thrilled about Fashion For All, but since Gabriel’s confrontation with my father, he hasn’t given me a hard time about it. He seems to have backed off entirely. I haven’t seen him in ages. Not that I’m complaining.
Our first event is an open house. A few of our new designers-in-residence, all of whom are local, lesser-known artists, are going to be in the workshop space, greeting our new neighbors and anyone else interested in getting involved.
There are some design stations open, but for the most part, this is a meet-and-greet.
We advertised the event around the community, but nowhere else.
Fashion For All may have become a FlashUp sensation, but it needs to remain authentic in order to fulfill its purpose.
Letting people know about the opener on the app would’ve been a mistake.
If we’d told people about it online, we’d have more guests than we can handle.
I float around the workshop, ready to help wherever I’m needed. Stationed at the first table is one of the designers-in-residence, Marcus, who’s showcasing his collection of contemporary streetwear inspired by his Jamaican heritage.
“You got everything you need?” I ask him as I pass by.
“I think so,” he responds. There’s a gleam in his eye. Everyone here has been looking forward to this as much as I have. That’s the best part, I think, working with a team that mirrors my passion.
“Okay. If you need anything, just give me a shout. I’ll be around.”
The Thorne Enterprises camera crew follows me as I continue past his table, checking on a couple of the other designers. Once I’m sure they’re all set, I circle back to the front entrance and peer outside. There’s a small line forming outside the front door. Excitement prickles down my spine.
The camera guy from Thorne Enterprises lowers the lens, shooting me a thumbs up. “We’ll start rolling again when the doors open. Just wanted to get a few shots of your setup.”
“Sure,” I say with a shrug. I don’t often get involved in the camera crew’s work. They just do their thing. For the most part, I ignore the camera altogether.
“Oh, and just so you know,” says the cameraman, “the video you released yesterday, about the last minute renovations—”
“What about it?”
“It’s going viral,” he says. “It’s been shared across a couple of different platforms so far. It’s big on Instagram right now.”
My eyebrows lift. “Seriously?”
“Yup.” He hefts his camera onto his shoulder. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”
He paces back toward the rest of the crew, leaving me to absorb this new information on my own.
It’s exciting, of course, but I also feel a little flutter of nerves in the pit of my stomach.
I never saw myself being in the public eye like this.
It’s an unexpected pressure. Still, it feels good to be noticed because of a message I care about.
Plus, this will be good for everyone involved. Fashion For All, FlashUp, Gabriel. After the faith he put in me, the support he’s given me, I want to make sure I don’t let him down.
I turn toward the door, to the line of people waiting for us to open. The line stretches farther than I expected, a mix of faces, young, old, diverse, and vibrant.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “Let’s do this.”
The soft opening is a success beyond anything I could’ve imagined. From the moment the doors open, the space comes alive. The magic I’ve been hoping for, meticulously trying to cultivate, is palpable in the air.
Our guests move between the designers, admiring the pieces on display and taking the time to sketch out their own ideas at the provided drawing stations. I greet people nonstop, shaking hands and answering questions about the project.
A group of four kids, no older than high school age, hover near one of the design stations.
They’re unsure at first, hesitating to touch the tools and fabrics laid out for them, but after a bit of encouragement from a volunteer, they dive in.
Soon, the four of them are chattering animatedly, pinning swatches of fabric to a bare mannequin.
I smile to myself as I watch them. These are the people I wanted to reach with this project. These kids may not see themselves this way, may have never gotten the chance to think of themselves this way, but when I look at them, I know I’m looking at four artists.
The soft opening lasts around two hours, and when it’s done, I’m buzzing with excitement and pride. After the guests file out, I thank the volunteers and the camera crew, but there’s really only one person I want to see. The person who made this all possible.
It’s around four, so I know he’ll still be at the office, wrapping up his workday. I call one of his drivers to give me a ride downtown. As Los Angeles slides past the car’s windows, I lean against the glass, smiling absently as the soft opening replays in my head.
The car pulls up in front of the Thorne Enterprises building. The driver opens the door for me, and I thank him before stepping out.
The polished lobby is tranquil, its quiet broken only by the soft hum of the air conditioning and the click of my heels on the polished floor. The receptionist greets me with a warm smile.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Thorne,” she says. “Are you here to see Mr. Thorne?”
I nod, still not entirely used to the title. “Yes. Is he in?”
“He is,” she replies. “Would you like me to call up and let him know you’re here?”
“No,” I say, grinning. “I’ll surprise him.”
Her smile widens, and she nods, gesturing over to the sleek, steel doors of the elevators.
The ride up is quiet aside from the soft hum of the elevator.
At this hour, nobody’s coming or going. Everyone in the building is working, closing out the day.
I take a deep breath, glancing at my reflection in the mirror on the elevator’s back wall.
There’s a faint flush on my cheeks, a leftover glow from the success of the soft opening.
I look confident. Happy. It’s a look I’m not used to seeing on my own face.
When the elevator doors slide open, the top floor is calm, the usual hum of activity subdued in the late afternoon. Even Gabriel’s secretary isn’t at her desk, which comes as a slight relief. I don’t need her judgmental stare to fracture my good mood.
I make my way to his office door. It’s slightly ajar. I push it open, and when I step inside, my heart drops into my stomach.
Gabriel’s secretary is standing next to him, leaning over the arm of his desk chair. She’s too close for comfort, her hand resting on the back of the chair, just inches from his shoulder. Her body is angled toward him, her posture possessive, intimate.
The sight immediately makes something inside me twist.
I freeze in place, my hand still on the door. I want to flee. No, I want to dissolve, to melt into a puddle and seep into the threads of the artisanal rug that adorns the wooden floor of Gabriel’s office suite.
I take an uncertain step back, but before I can disappear behind the door, Gabriel looks up and sees me. He seems to read my expression in an instant.
“Alexis,” he says, rising to his feet. His secretary stumbles away as he stands, a disgruntled look on her face. Gabriel doesn’t acknowledge her. “Is everything okay?”
I open my mouth, then close it, not sure what to say. I can’t speak my mind in front of her.
He glances at his secretary, then jerks his chin toward the door. “Jennifer—out.”
She scowls at his dismissal, a near-instantaneous reaction. Gabriel is focused on me, so he doesn’t see the irritation flit across her face. But I do.
“Of course, sir,” she says smoothly. She strides toward the door. As she does, she shoots me a stare that’s loaded with venom. I can feel the sting of her hostility, harsher and more biting than it ever has been before.
Then she’s gone, and the door is closed behind her. I’m alone with Gabriel, who watches me with concern, his brow furrowed.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
Heat floods my cheeks. I can’t tell him. It’ll sound so stupid, so petty. I bite my lip, shaking my head.
“Come on.” He narrows his eyes. “I know there’s something. You don’t have a good poker face.”
“It’s—it’s fine.”
He frowns. “Yeah, I’m not buying that.”
I sigh. It’s silly, really, to be so worked up over something like this, but I can’t ignore the evidence right in front of me. I’m not imagining things. I know Jennifer knows what she’s doing.
“I don’t like the way your secretary looks at you,” I admit in a rush.
He frowns, visibly taken aback. Whatever he was expecting me to say, it wasn’t that. I flush, my gaze dropping to the floor.
God, I’m such an idiot. Why did I say that? I should’ve made something up, something to satisfy him without causing any issues. It’s too late now, though.
“I know you told me that you could never love me,” I whisper, my heart feeling heavy, “and I know this thing between us can’t last. But as long as I have you, I… I want you to be all mine.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he steps out from behind his desk, crossing the open space toward me.
He places a firm hand on my hip, and slowly, deliberately, he walks me backward until the backs of my knees meet the edge of one of the leather chairs.
I sink down into it, my heart racing as I look up at him.
He towers over me, large hands braced on the armrests as he leans close. “I am all yours,” he murmurs. “I don’t want anyone else.”
“Y-your secretary,” I say, forcing the words out. “She’s been cold toward me since day one. And she’s always lingering around you—flirting with you—”
He frowns, tilting his head to one side. “Jennifer? Don’t worry about her. She’s fired.”
My mouth falls open in disbelief. “What?”
“I’ll fire her. Immediately.”
“You—you would do that?” I stammer. “Just like that?”
“Of course.” His expression is completely serious, no hint anywhere that he’s joking or exaggerating. “I don’t need anyone around me who makes you feel uncomfortable.”
Silence falls between us. I stare up at him, stunned and unsure how to respond.
“But… won’t she be angry?” I ask after a long moment, my voice more uncertain than I’d like it to be. “She’s worked for you for a long time, right?”
Gabriel’s eyes darken, his jaw tightening. “It doesn’t matter. If she can’t be respectful to my wife, she has no place here. I don’t want anyone to make you doubt yourself.”
I search his face, trying to process what he’s saying, what he’s offering. The unwavering protectiveness in his expression takes my breath away.
“Why?” I whisper, barely able to get the word out.
He’s quiet for a moment, his grip on the armrests tightening. “Because I know how it feels.”
A small, surprised sound escapes my lips in response, and he gives me a rueful smile.
“I know you don’t want Travis,” he says, “but even thinking about you being engaged to another man… it’s enough to have made me jealous.
Every time we saw that jackass, I was irrationally pissed.
” He lets out a breath. “So I understand. Even if you know I don’t want anything to do with her, seeing Jennifer act that way around me… ”
“It doesn’t feel good,” I say quietly.
“Exactly. So I don’t want her around anymore.”
I let out a breath, nodding, relief coursing through me at the realization that Gabriel is so firmly on my side. “Well… thank you.” I pause, a playful smile tugging at my lips. “And when you outbid me at the charity auction—”
“Same feeling,” he admits, dipping his head until we’re almost eye to eye.
“You had nothing to worry about.”
“Neither do you.” He leans in to press his lips to my temple. “But I like seeing you get jealous like this. Because that’s how I feel about you all the time.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You really mean that?”
“Yes,” he breathes. He moves lower to kiss the side of my neck, and I shiver, tilting my head up to allow him access. “Yes, I do.”
He glances up at me, a gleam in his eyes as a wicked smirk spreads across his face.
“I’ll show you.”
He lowers himself to his knees in front of the chair.
His hands caress my inner thighs, slowly spreading my legs apart.
As he looks up at me, something passes between us, lingering in the air like an invisible thread pulling taut.
My breath hitches as his fingers skim lightly over my skin, his touch sending goosebumps scattering over me.
“Let me prove it,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, filled with intent.
My heart pounds in anticipation, every nerve in my body attuned to him. And as his hands move with deliberate care, I realize that whatever resistance I thought I had is gone.
I’ve made such a conscious effort, this entire time, to keep my heart wrapped up tight. To protect myself. To keep my hopes from rising too high.
Now, though, it’s impossible to keep those walls in place. My feelings can’t be contained. Whatever this is, whatever it’s becoming, it’s out of my control.
And I can’t stop myself from thinking that it might be real.