by Danielle Monsch, Cate Rowan, Jennifer Lewis, Jeannie Lin, Nadia Lee, Dee Carney
“Cruel and unusual punishment,” Renna agreed.
With a wince, Elle pushed one throbbing foot into a shoe. Almost stumbling while the sensation of a million pins pricking her at once engulfed her toes, she took a deep breath before repeating the process. “My kingdom for a pair of flats.”
“Don’t let them hear you. I’m telling you… warpath.” Renna went back to filing. “I’d offer to take the drinks in for you, but I’d like to live to see thirty.”
So would she. Taking her friend’s advice, she grabbed the rapidly cooling drinks and made her way to the corner suite Drusilla and Ana reigned from. Along the way, she kept her eyes forward, avoiding distracting anyone in the fish bowl from their designs or other works in progress. The last person found distracted by hallway antics was still collecting unemployment checks.
Pushing open the door, an ominous—but familiar—silence swamped her. Drusilla glared at her from a corner chaise, crossed legs bouncing with obvious agitation. The scowl on her face deepened. “About time.”
“Sorry,” Elle mumbled. She crossed the room, avoiding Ana’s pinched expression, and knowing better than to spare a glance toward the models standing in a row. Only once the women began sipping their coffee did she dare to take her life into her own hands.
The annual New Year runway show was less than two weeks away. Each model, four women and two men, wore something from the new collection, still in its final stages. Each design, eye-catching and exquisite, to be chosen by Ana and Drusilla. Pre-Mrs. Tremaine, a career-making decision everyone both longed for yet feared because of the intense responsibility.
Elle chanced a quick glance at each coiffed person as she slowly backed away from the room, a hundred fantasies of her own designs and fancies flashing into mind. While all of the outfits were exceptional, she could imagine a dozen ways to make modifications. She honed this talent in her mind because one day it would come in handy. Probably the same day she landed a real job at another firm.
“Are we keeping you, Elle?”
Damn. She whirled, gaze glancing off Ana’s as she made a hasty forward-facing retreat. “Just leaving,” she said hastily. Echoes of Renna’s warnings bounced around her racing mind.
“Don’t let us push you out the door, dear,” Drusilla said. “Obviously something in this room has your attention.”
Elle paused, those words sinking in. The delicate cadence of her tone almost too good to be true.
Right?
“Yes, Elle,” Ana said, her own tone drippy sweet, “what do you think about the collection?”
“I—I…” Did they really care? What had changed? Better to keep her reply safe. Neutral. “I like it.”
Drusilla smiled. “See there, Ana? I told you it’s good.”
Ana’s eyes narrowed, though. “I think Elle has more to add, don’t you? Tell us. If you could make changes to the collection, would you?”
Her heart hammered, indecision prodding her. Since Mary left, Elle lost most of her hope of ever being discovered or of anyone ever asking for her opinion or to see her sketchbook. She had hundreds of ideas ready for the very first opportunity…
“Well, um, maybe you could add one of those marble pearl necklaces to that one,” Elle said, pointing to a mauve off-the-shoulder. “And probably a different pair of shoes, something that goes with the marble?”
The twins exchanged a glance. “Go on,” Ana said.
“Well, I guess the shoes should be sling-backs, I think Rossi. They have that gray swirl through the toe. The model—you’re Cindy, right?—should sweep her hair up and glittery eye makeup would go so well. And I think Greg has designed a scarf that would rock all of it so hard.” The more she spoke, the more the ideas grew, the more excited Elle became. The women and the models were watching, their collective expressions enraptured. It had to be a good sign.
“What else?” Drusilla leaned forward, her eyes flashing. “Take Monique’s black gown over there and go wild. I want to see what you can do with it.”
She bit her lip, casting a nervous glance toward the models. Most of them appeared bored, expressions blank. Glazed eyes. No doubt they’d been standing around for hours, shifting into changes of clothing for several hours, unimpressed by it all. Despite the stereotype pervasive to their kind, Elle found many of them highly intelligent, but simply taking advantage of a beauty gifted to them by Mother Nature.
She figured she was looking for some kind of nonverbal encouragement because while part of her wanted to believe the Tremaine twins had her best interests at heart, a shy, much smaller presence suggested that not all was what it appeared to be.
But what if they actually wanted her to succeed and she was blowing her one and only opportunity? They were businesswomen after all. If Elle did well, so did they.
Pushing aside her reservations, she went to the display of accessories. Her gaze went first to the various shades of red. The classic combination of black and red would be a home run for anyone. Classic and classy.
And boring.
Elle plucked a turquoise layered statement necklace from the display table, the stones cool to the touch and with the gold weaved in between each one, was probably worth more than she made in a month. The color though, it popped. “I bet we could commission a gold cuff to match this,” she said. A mental note to see if it could be done in only a couple of weeks.
“Oh,” Elle continued as she spotted a spool of thread in a similar tone. She withdrew a needle, took a few seconds to thread it. “Hold still.”
Minutes later, a rudimentary design had been stitched into the hemline of the dress. She stood, her muscles stiff from squatting in the same place for so long. But she tilted her head to the side, ignoring the burn of fatigued muscles, surveying her work. It wasn’t bad and would give the team an idea of what she was going for. They’d turn it into perfection.
“That’s kinda cool,” someone said. One of the models.
“Something else gold might give it some balance. It’s missing that,” Elle muttered.
The dress needed more drape, so when the woman wearing it strutted down the walkway, the flashes of turquoise drawing the eye. “Could we add a train to this? Or maybe instead of a train, she could wear a veil.”
“A veil?”
“Like the kind at a funeral. Long and dramatic.” She smiled as she pictured it. The entire ensemble would be gorgeous and memorable.
“And what do we have here?”
The smile melted away from Elle’s face. She shoved it back into place quickly, hoping no one noticed. Thank God her back had been to Mrs. Tremaine, who’d chosen now to make her appearance known. How long had she been watching the modifications?
Elle faced her, saying nothing. Her gaze darted to the twins who studied her now with Cheshire cat smiles. The concern, the encouragement, the happiness…erased from their faces.
The room dropped ten degrees while Elle stood waiting for the sentence for her heinous crime of daring to be creative, to be bold, and to step outside her boundaries was sentenced from on high.
“Was this the Jacobson princess gown?” Mrs. Tremaine’s voice sliced through the air with a crisp elocution perfected through generations of breeding and boarding schools.
Oh God. Drusilla had called it “Monique’s gown” and stupid, stupid her, Elle had assumed the model’s name was Monique. Not the designer.
A Monique Jacobson gown would be valued at no less than fifty thousand dollars. Not one penny less.
She eyed the crooked teal-colored stitching. Her handiwork. Now destroying a gown she couldn’t afford with two year’s salary.
Mrs. Tremaine glided to the model to drag a single pointy finger over the turquoise necklace. Somehow the slender woman managed not to flinch. She held her breath while Mrs. Tremaine unclasped the necklace, however, the stillness of her corseted breasts betrayed her fear. “Answer me,” Mrs. Tremaine said over her shoulder.
Elle couldn’t tell if the question had been directed at her, but sh
e knew the sound of a death knoll if ever she heard one. Best to get this over with. “I believe, so, yes.” Somehow she managed to say it without a tremor in her voice. “Drusilla and Ana suggested that—”
“Did they now?” Mrs. Tremaine was a classic beauty. Chiseled cheekbones, elegant nose, sharp jawline. Wide blue eyes and full lips made her an enviable woman. Until those features hardened, the way they did now. Cruelty and unflinching discipline in a single look. “They suggested that you destroy a masterpiece?”
“Well, no, but—”
“She insisted she knew how to make it better,” Ana said.
“She was so insistent, we were practically afraid to stop her once she started,” Drusilla added.
Mouth dropping open, Elle looked to the models to back her up. They knew! She’d done no such thing nor did she behave in any type of untoward behavior. Had it not been for the twins’ intrusion, she would have delivered their coffees and gone back to her bat cave of an office.
“I should have your job for this,” Mrs. Tremaine hissed.
Ana tsked. “The gown is ruined, I suppose.”
“We could try and salvage it and hope no one notices.” Drusilla, the peanut gallery, threw gasoline on the proverbial fire.
All the while, Elle’s mouth had gone dry. Her throat clogged with all the words she wanted to fling back at the accusing women, but the tiniest hope she might come out of this with her job kept her in check. Blood roared through her ears, and she had to press her fingernail into the fat part of her palm, the pain a needed distraction.
The twins exchanged a look—similar to the one when she’d first arrived—and pushed away from their chairs. They snatched scissors and a seam ripper, arming themselves as if going to battle.
When they began to pluck at the teal threads, she bit her lip, willing the pounding of her heart to return back to normal. With every tuck and snip though, her traitorous heart pumped so hard, as if trying to kick its way out of her chest.
It shouldn’t hurt this much to watch them destroy the little bit of creation she’d managed in the past few minutes, but some part of her felt as if they tore at the very essence of her career.
“If you ever do something like this again,” Mrs. Tremaine said while the twins worked with feverish intensity, “I will have you on the streets so fast your head will spin. Be grateful for the job you have and don’t ever attempt to be something more than you’re not while I’m here. Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Elle whispered.
“Get out of my sight.”
She’d been dismissed not a minute too soon. The moment she left the room, hot tears flooded her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. For the first time in a year, she was thankful the halls were clear of nosy coworkers who’d want to know what was the matter. If she had to speak of her humiliation right now, she’d fall apart.
Instead of running to Renna, a dear friend, but who’d call her all sorts of fool for falling for the trick in the first place, she pushed open the fire door and stumbled her way into the stairwell.
And into a muscled chest.
“Whoa, you okay?”
Through bleary eyes, she looked up, not seeing the man she’d almost bowled over. No longer caring that she’d been caught red cheeked and runny nosed. Feeling miserable though, she nodded.
“You’re Elle, right?”
He knew her name. Awesome. Her humiliation was complete.
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I have to go.”
He made some sound of protest, his thumb stroking over her wrist and leaving behind a trail of heat, but Elle didn’t look back. She stumbled her way up two flights of stairs, glad he didn’t follow, and in the corner by herself, wept with a broken heart.
Chapter Three
‡
Eight years later, and a lot had changed, most especially Elle…
Elle crossed her legs, ensuring her Louboutins didn’t come in contact with each other or the mahogany desk. The position wasn’t the most comfortable, despite her assistant’s assurance that the ergonomic chair had been raved as top of the line by reviewers everywhere. It kept her back straight, her breasts high, her stomach pulled in. And God knew she could use all the help she could get some days. Especially on the ones she would have paid an obscene amount of money for a single bite of a Snickers.
Elle tilted her chin in the air.
Beauty hurt. Isn’t that what they said? She would sit here and work on the final changes to the proposal and make sure her shoes didn’t get marked because of her carelessness. The last thing she needed to do was meet the people from Xane Designs in scuffed shoes. Then again, if the Xane people managed to peer past the here-I-am Gucci hugging her every curve to look at her feet, Elle almost deserved their scorn. With its one bare shoulder design, the girls were nearly on center stage yet, the dress was demure enough to be appropriate for the party. A cape cascaded down one arm, a subtle hint at the power she knew she possessed.
They wanted their product to be show cased in the upcoming show, side-by-side with T. Holmes. It would be a mutually beneficial arrangement, but they wanted the lion’s share of the profits. That was unacceptable. Elle’s job would be to make sure they knew on which side their bread was buttered. She’d schmooze their head people and sweet talk them into a lesser cut. They’d never know what hit them.
Just a few more changes to her presentation and one final read-through. That’s all she had to do before heading out to the party already in full swing. A little rubbing shoulders with the people from upper management with some holiday charm, and by the end of the hour, head home for an early night. After all this work, she’d earned a full six hours of sleep.
“Ms. Flint, will you be joining us soon?”
Her head snapped up at the sound of her boss’s voice. She hadn’t heard the dapper man enter. “Almost done, Thomas. Just hitting save now.”
Without invitation, he settled himself into the chair opposite her. He looked as at home there as he did behind the monstrosity of an oak desk occupying his suite. “I worry about you sometimes,” he said without preamble. “I consider each one of the employees here a part of a large extended family. But those of you at the top, those who are near and dear to my heart, I take particular interest in.”
Elle donned a polite smile. “Of course we’re family,” she deigned. Words easy to say. Some who knew her would find them fake. Forced. Her emotional depth often called into question. Those people with their astute assessments weren’t too far from the mark.
While she appreciated every single person who made her job easier—hell, who made the company operate—none of them were family. They were bodies. Functional units. There to do a job and then go home.
Mrs. Tremaine, Ana, and Drusilla made that patently clear during their reign of terror. While she didn’t report to any of them any longer—a small mercy she’d produced blood, sweat, and tears for—they’d left a permanent mark. She’d learned the hard way that if she wanted to succeed at T. Holmes, she’d have to look out for herself at all times.
It made for a swift rise to the top, one not even Mrs. Tremaine, Ana, nor Drusilla could scuttle.
“I don’t think you really believe that,” Thomas said.
Didn’t matter how true, that hurt. There was a knock on her chest, an indication that maybe some part of her recognized that she shouldn’t be so coldhearted. “I—”
“It doesn’t make you a bad person. Just who you are. Still, I would consider it a personal favor tonight if you came out there and mingled with the others. Do something completely out of your element, even. Perhaps let them believe you’re a part of this family. While you’re at it, maybe consider whether this mask of detachment you wear is really what’s best for you.”
Swallowing her pride still stinging from the gentle admonishment, Elle nodded. She pushed away from the chair and let the Louboutins lead the way. Maybe their diamond embellishments would distract anyone from noticing the blush heating up her fa
ce and neck. Thank God, Thomas said nothing further, his quick steps eating up the silence.
When they stepped off the elevator and into the lobby, her mouth parted in a broad, genuine smile. Whatever she’d been expecting, this wasn’t it. This was…
Revelry.
Garland had been draped in green, and gold loops of sparkle where ceiling met wall. Little flashing lights glittering with rhythmic pulses were strung from the ceiling in sweeping cascades at strategic points. An ice sculpture—an angel with outspread wings—stood six feet tall in the center of the room. Flanking it on all sides were tables draped in silver and gold with splashes of red. The tables, however, were ignored by those either at the dozen or so food stations where exotic sushi and other gourmet appetizers could be consumed. The line to the bar moved quickly but seemed almost legendary in its length. She didn’t realize the company had quite so many people who liked to imbibe expensive wines and liquors. At the room’s center, a makeshift dance floor, currently sat devoid of bodies. Somewhere off to the side, the band she knew the company hired every year, played on.
“This is impressive,” Thomas said at her back. “Now, go enjoy it. Get wild on our dime. And I do mean enjoy. I know I’m going to.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
She’d have to look up which team had been slated for the decor. They’d done a damned good job. It took a lot these days to get Elle to raise an eyebrow in appreciation. They’d earned a two-eyebrow salute.
Her gaze swept over the crowd, intent on finding any of the key players from Xane Designs. Bodies huddled together as if the room wasn’t conditioned to a perfect temperature, allowing for short cocktail dresses yet forgiving of suits and ties. Lauren, the department admin, wore something bright red and too lowcut for a woman in her sixties. JT, a technical whiz, looked uncomfortable in a wrinkled off-the-rack suit. Weaving in between JC Penney and Sears’ best, haute couture puddled like little dots, sprinkled here and there in the room. Her peers. The people responsible for some of the best fashions seen in Paris, Milan, and New York.