Chapter Constance
Constance
The call came two excruciating days later.
It was Omar, Dorian’s security guy, casually informing me that he would be picking me up in thirty minutes.
I don’t want to know what it says about me that I didn’t ask for more details.
My head was never screwed on straight when it came to Dorian Fisher.
I craved the attention so much, it emptied me of everything I was.
In the space of an hour, I went from ripping cardboard boxes open with my bare hands on the floor of Marielle’s broom closet to Dorian Fisher’s extravagant Cannes suite.
I’d had just enough time to swing by my hotel to change into a black mesh fitted dress.
It was slightly sheer and hugged me tight.
Not really appropriate for a work meeting.
Go ahead, judge me all you like, but I looked great in it.
For a man like Dorian Fisher, you would have wanted to look good, too.
Dorian’s suite featured a curved living room opening onto a sprawling terrace. The palette was cream and earth tones, all about that quiet luxury. When I arrived, he was sitting on one of the two long couches, reading what looked like a script. If he knew I was there, he didn’t let it show.
I stood by, not knowing what to do with myself, as I awaited instructions.
Omar had disappeared already. A young man—an assistant, probably—was at the dining table, speaking on the phone in a low voice.
The doorbell rang and the assistant went to answer the door.
It was a representative from Tom Ford, who’d brought with him a rolling rack on which were hung outfit options for tonight’s premiere.
As a producer, Dorian was involved in more than one film featured at Cannes this year.
As a movie icon, he had an open invitation to attend any premiere he felt like gracing with his presence.
Dorian got up then and greeted us both in the same warm, professional manner. He didn’t introduce us to each other, and even though I was crumbling on the inside, I felt like I had to take charge. Maybe it was a test. I would not fail this time. I would keep it all together.
“Hi, I’m Constance. I’m a stylist.”
It had the benefit of being both neutral and the truth.
“Fred,” the man said. “With Tom Ford.”
Fred was French and in his early thirties. He wore his hair in a buzz cut, and his arrogance like a badge of honor.
We got to work, which mostly involved listening to Fred talk about the pieces he’d brought with him.
“Tom thinks this is very Dorian,” Fred said as he pulled out a ruby-red satin suit from the rack.
“This is special,” I said, with a forced smile. “But after the cerulean ensemble yesterday, it feels like we’re just going for bold colors. If we’re thinking about the slideshow, it’s going to look like a basic rainbow. I’d love to see more range.”
I wasn’t Dorian’s stylist yet. Not officially.
This was the perfect time to show off my knowledge.
Stylists always thought about the slideshows that would come up in the media: Dorian Fisher’s Ten Best Cannes Looks.
We wanted that to be an interesting collection of outfits, not just a display of bright colors.
And of course Tom Ford were going to send their own person to the fitting. They had a brand image to uphold. But Dorian wanted me there. He wanted my opinion. Why else would I have been summoned here?
So I continued. “Let’s see the next look.”
Fred didn’t even look at me. He slipped the ruby jacket off its hanger as if I hadn’t spoken, but Dorian held a hand halfway up, stopping him. Fred swallowed hard but kept his composure as he moved on to the next suit, which was light gray.
“I’m loving this one too,” Fred said, pointedly not looking at me.
Instinctively, I edged closer but resisted the urge to feel the woolen fabric between my fingers.
“The detailing is stunning,” I said in awe.
“Of course,” Fred said, the “s” serpentlike. “It’s Tom Ford.”
He was being haughty, but I couldn’t fault him for the pride, the unequivocal statement. We stood in awkward silence as we waited for Dorian to go put on the suit and come back out.
When he did, Fred lit up. “Fabulous. Absolutely fabulous.”
In two long strides, he was by Dorian’s side, smoothing the fabric on his shoulders, adjusting each side of the jacket, his hands all over him. I wanted to shove him back, to stop him from picking at what was mine.
So I did, sort of. I came over and kneeled in front of Dorian, adjusting the hem of the pants.
I looked up, checking everything else.
“We’ll need the waist taken in by an inch,” I said to Fred. “We want a nice slim fit.”
Fred stepped back to take a better look at Dorian.
“The looser fit feels right. It’s what we’re doing these days.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he continued. “If you styled men—”
I didn’t want to get into a fight with anyone from Tom Ford, and definitely not in front of Dorian. But I couldn’t let him get away with this.
“I do style men,” I said.
Fred shot me a look, like how dare I speak to him like this.
“I’m a professional stylist,” I continued. “I style men and women.”
“I meant important men,” Fred said, waving the air like I was a fly that had just landed in his soup.
“I’m Tyler Charles’s stylist,” I said sharply.
That made Fred shut up. He turned to Dorian, whose lips were turned down. He was not getting involved in this.
“A slimmer waist seems good to me,” Dorian said neutrally.
Fred straightened up, jaw clenched, a string pulled so taut it might snap.
“We’ll have these ready in an hour.”
“Thank you both for your time,” Dorian said.
He went to take the suit off and never came back out. Instead, his assistant materialized out of nowhere to hand the suit to Fred. The assistant, who never introduced himself, accompanied us both to the door. I kept fixating on the thick carpet, incapable of processing my feelings. Was this it?
Since Dorian had come to find me on that terrace, I’d eaten very little and slept even less, waiting for this moment.
Downstairs, the lobby was bustling with festival people.
Photographers, makeup artists, and stylists came and went, as the evening’s festivities across town would be underway in just a few hours.
I pictured the celebrities getting ready on every floor.
Diamonds ceremoniously presented in velvet boxes, like offerings from a foreign king.
Harrowing conversations about shoes and hairdos, as if lives depended on these decisions.
I walked to the exit as slowly as possible, any excuse to be a part of this for a few more seconds.
“Ms. Griffin,” someone called out behind me.
I turned around. It was Dorian’s assistant.
“If you have a moment, please.”
Minutes later, I was back in Dorian’s suite. Alone, this time. The assistant had led me to the door, then disappeared back toward the elevator. Dorian emerged from his bedroom.
“You’re a strong woman,” he said. “So fierce.”
So this was how it felt to win. We’d gone with the outfit I liked best, the fit I’d suggested. And now I was coming to collect my prize. That’s how I felt, anyway.
“Who styles important men,” Dorian added with a smile.
A serious smile. Only he could pull that off.
“He was…” I waved at the air, determined not to devolve into venting about that unpleasant interaction. I could handle men like Fred from Tom Ford.
Dorian came over to me and stared deep into my eyes. I wasn’t sure how much longer my legs would keep me straight.
“He was threatened by you,” he said.
No response came to mind, because Dorian was running a hand across my cheek. The moment I’d dreamed of for months, fantasized about for most of my waking hours… We were there.
I held my breath as he leaned over. I expected him to drag it out, to make me wait so I would want it even more, like he had a few months ago.
But there was none of that. He just kissed me, softly parting my lips with his tongue.
His breath was minty and warm. Dorian leaned back, checking my reaction, waiting for me to nod, to tell him to keep going.
I had no idea how my legs were still carrying me, how I managed to maintain an upright position.
His arms were around my waist now, his lips traveling down my neck. I died a million glorious deaths. Next, his hands rode up my legs, slowing pulling my dress up.
I. Could. Not. Breathe.
It was deliciously slow and heart-poundingly fast at the same time. Clothes in a puddle on the floor. My bare back brushing against the carpet somewhere between the couch and the door to the bedroom. Dorian Fisher on top of me, inside of me. Pieces of my brain scattered around like confetti.
The unbearable ecstasy.
Afterward, we lay on the floor naked. Both of us naked.
Dorian had seen me like this many times before, in the dozens of videos I’d sent him.
Of me, undressed. Doing things for him. Things he asked me to do.
Needed me to do, even. That’s how he spoke about it, back then. That’s how I heard it anyway.
And now here we were together. I hadn’t imagined it. He’d always wanted me.
Dorian’s breath steadied, and I forced mine to quiet down. He turned to his side, facing me. Studying me.
“Such a strong woman.” His voice was husky. Rough. A total turn-on. “Who styles important men. Men, not just one.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“How many important men are in your life?”
It wasn’t jealousy in his tone. Even then I knew that. But it didn’t sound so playful, either. I reached for my dress, but Dorian grabbed my arm, stopping me. Then, he guided it over my chest, touching me with my own self.
“How many,” he whispered now.
“You,” I said, breathless. “You.” My mind wasn’t all there.
“Hmm,” Dorian said.
Guided by him, my hand was now traveling south.
“Who?” he added.
“You.”
“Hmm.”
There was a hint of something sour in that Hmm. Disappointment, or a threat maybe.
“I need you,” Dorian added. “No one can do for me what you do. What you did.”
We had never talked about it. Aside from our drink on the terrace, I hadn’t seen him since he and Carly found me naked and splayed in his hotel suite all these months ago. Where I had not been invited. Where I should never have been. I had no excuse. Dorian hadn’t forced me to do it. It was all me.
“Do you do this for other men?”
I didn’t answer right away, the memory clouding my mind even more than what he was doing to me with my hand. He stopped moving. I’d done something wrong.
“Only you,” I whispered, desperate for him to start again.
I turned to my side, moved over to kiss him.
He shook his head.
“Tell me that no one else will have you.”
“There…is…no…one…else.”
He rubbed my bottom lip with his thumb.
“What are you going to do?”
“This,” I said emphatically.
“Hmm.”
There it was again.
“Only this. Only you.”
He kissed me then, and I imploded with relief.
“Who are you choosing?” he asked, serious again.
“You,” I said, between moans. “I choose you. Always you.”
He groaned as he used his leg to part mine.
“I need to hear it again.”
“You,” I said breathless. “You, you, you.”
Look, I’ve run out of things to lose. But let me have this for a moment. If you ignored the fact that working as Dorian Fisher’s stylist and sleeping with him was extremely poor judgment on my part, then you could see that it was the best thing that could ever happen to me.
I mean, seriously, what would you have done?