Page 7 of Tempest

“That sounds divine, Vanessa.”

“Great! Everything you need to log in is in the folder on your desk. I’m just across the hall, holler if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I mean it.”

“You’re welcome,” she tells me with a knowing smile. “Don’t go easy on the newbies today.”

She laughs as she leaves me, but after meeting the first three students, it’s clear I can’t go hard. So far, they’re all amazing with endless potential oozing from every pore.

Benji was first up, aspiring to be a ready-to-wear designer like Ralph Lauren or Michael Kors. He has an eye for color and comes up with unexpected combinations that somehow work beautifully.

Celine was next and is edgier. She’ll easily have a career in haute couture. Her pieces were works of art and she’s leaning into unconventional material choices.

Jun-Li was my third student and the first one to proudly admit she only works with neutrals, no color whatsoever. A bold move, as it can lend to the finer details of a garment not carrying over so well to the runway or magazine layouts. But she had talent in spades.

The knock on my office door signals my fourth student’s arrival.

“Miss Quinn?”

“Hello,” I call, waving her in. She’s tall with dark hair and darker eyes. She could model, honestly. As I scan her style, I don’t recognize a single item on her, though it clearly isn’t an ensemble she picked up at the local shopping mall, either. “Call me Odette, please.”

“Odette,” she tries out. “Okay. Hi, I’m Tori.”

“Have a seat, Tori.” I wait for her to sit in the chair opposite me. She nervously places her hands in a few different positions before laying them on her thighs with a soft sigh. “You’re nervous.”

“Yeah, sorry. You’re just…well, sort of my idol.” The olive skin darkens on the apples of her cheeks.

“Oh? Do you want to take the styling route?”

She shakes her head. “I want to design my own line, but more like how you design.”

It’s no secret that I design many of my own outfits and some for a few selected clients. But I never did take it as far as starting my own fashion house. That may have been my dream at the young age of eighteen, but the more jobs I acquired as a stylist, the more I fell in love with it.

“Seldomly?” I tease the question.

“No,” she laughs, some tension leaving her shoulders. “I want to design full-time, but I want to do it as responsibly as possible. No fast fashion, no overseas child labor, and no waste.”

“A lofty goal. Do you have a plan for it?”

“The beginnings of one. I need to learn more about the industry before I hammer out the finer details, but I believe I can accomplish it.”

“I like your confidence, Tori. Show me what you’ve got,” I say, nodding toward the portfolio set in the chair next to her. She hands it to me, and I flip it open to the first page. It’s a collage of photos, not drawings like the students before her. “Tell me about these.”

“These are all fits I put together using thrifted items that had seen better days and giving them new life. Most garments are a combination of three or four thrifted ones.”

“Your use of patterns is exceptional,” I compliment. Again, it’s a display of unexpected combinations, florals mixed with geometrics or stripes. Her use of color is bold but softened by feminine touches of lace or bows. It’s almost coquettish at times, but without the girlish aspect. I can see women of all ages in the clothes. Hell, I’d wear several of them. “Where did your inspiration come from?”

“When I was eight, I saw my first episode of Project Runway. I was a goner from there. My mom bought me a sewing machine and some fabric. But my dad told me about a friend they’d had when they were younger. She’d gone to secondhand shops and redesigned the items she found into her own style,” she says. “I fell in love with the idea and never really looked back.”

“Their friend sounds a lot like me,” I say, flipping the page. I stop when I notice the name embossed on the inside of the cover. Victoria Vaughn. I pause and get a better look at her face. Holy shit. “Vaughn? Daughter of Caroline and Gavin?”

“Yes,” she says, her eyes widening in surprise.

“I grew up with your parents,” I tell her, leaning back in my chair. “I probably am that friend your dad spoke of.”

Gavin Vaughn was at the top of my cons list. I’d convinced myself that this city was big enough for the two of us and I wasn’t likely to run into him at all. Who would have expected his daughter to be sitting in my office on my first day at work? Not me, surely.

Tori looks like them both, now that I take a moment to consider it. She has Gavin’s eyes and Caroline’s high cheek bones and petite nose.

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