Page 5 of Dare To Live

Her sigh is soft. “Maybe that’s a good thing. You shouldn’t be stuck there alone all the time. When did you last speak to someone other than the ghosts in your head?”

“Ellie …”

“Don’t Ellie me! Maybe I should just come to you.”

The image of her wading through the snow in her designer heels makes me laugh. We’ve reached a good place between us over the years, and I no longer view her as the money-hungry gold-digger I’d once thought. She stayed with my dad until the bitter end, clung to his hand and wept across his chest when he died.

It was only then I discovered that not only had she happily and willingly signed a post-nup agreement, but she’d also refused to let my dad add her to his will. When my father died, I inherited everything, other than a small monthly allowance he set aside for Arabella.

My jaw clenches. And that was going to take me down a memory lane I didn’t want to visit.

“How about I send you tickets for the January showing? It’s being held in New York.”

“And you’ll stay long enough to go for dinner with me?”

I roll my eyes. The last time I’d agreed to meet her, I said a quick hi at the showing, then hightailed it out of the place before anyone saw me.

“Eli.”

“Don’t use your mom voice on me, Ellie. It doesn’t work.”

She laughs. “We both know it does. So, you’ll agree to dinner … and maybe stay over for a day or two so I can make sure you’re not wasting away?”

I sigh. “You’re pushing it now.”

Her voice softens. “I worry about you. And Ar—”

“Please don’t.”

Some days I can handle hearing about her, most days I can’t. Today is one of those days.

Chapter 3

Arabella

“Excusez-moi, Mademoiselle Gray. What is this?”

I look up from my sewing machine at the sound of Marcel Allaire’s voice. He’s the Head Designer of the fashion house I work for, overseeing a team of six who make up samples of each design before they go for manufacture. Once he sees he has my attention, he gestures at the dress half-finished on the mannequin beside me.

I tuck a lock of stray blonde hair behind my ear. “It’s for the spring collection.”

His lips curl in displeasure. “Non, non, non. Look at the color, the cut. It is all wrong.”

“But I thought burnt orange was in for autumn?”

“This is far too dark.”

“Dark?” I repeat, staring at the fabric the rest of the team I’m with has been using.

“The whole thing is missing something.” he continues, eyeing my creation. “It does not work. Scrap it. Start again.”

My heart lurches at his words. “Very well, Monsieur Allaire.”

He hovers for a moment longer before turning on his heels and stalking away from my corner of the room, leaving a cloud of expensive cologne behind. I grit my teeth to stop myself from saying something that would result in my losing my job and abandon the piece of clothing I’m working on.

My eyes are dry and tired, and I rub them, trying to ease the sting. I’ve been working hard on these designs and to be told I have to start again hurts.

Marcel has been on my back for weeks. I’m sure he stole some of my designs and passed them off as his own. When I complained to HR, they did nothing. I was given a verbal pat on the head for having a good eye and told not to make waves because catching Marcel Allaire’s attention will be good for my career. Since then, the Frenchman has decided to make my life miserable.

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