Page 31 of These Thin Lines

“Yes, I wanted to ask about the lack of apologies in your life. But I’m concerned that might lead to more melancholic moments?” Vi’s hand trembled, but she didn’t care. Under both their gazes, she lifted it and laid it carefully over the one on her left shoulder.

Chiara gasped, then coughed when their skin made contact, but Vi held on, in spite of being ready to be shaken off at any moment. The touch, intimate as it was, had nothing to do with her feelings for Chiara or her marital status or anything in between. Chiara was sad and Vi was there. In that moment, to Vi, that was the extent of it.

She gently squeezed her fingers over Chiara’s and felt the hand underneath hers turn so that they were now palm to palm. A few seconds later, Chiara interlaced their fingers, soft skin gliding over soft skin, the lump in Vi’s throat getting larger by the second. She gulped around it as Chiara let go and stepped away from Vi.

“And you doubted that you’re astute? Case in point. I shared something I shouldn’t have uttered out loud, Ms. Courtenay. My issues with my spouse are mine alone. And as much as I like you and respect you, I would never use you. Even as a shoulder to cry on.”

“You’d be welcome to it.” Vi squeezed her eyes shut. Chiara didn’t need her.

“You are very sweet and very endearing, Ms. Courtenay.”

Vi huffed and moved closer to the windowsill where Binoche was lying in a perfect cat loaf again, little feet tucked under her chocolate body.

“Brioche is endearing. Chiara, I can help you…”

As expected, Binoche threw her a decidedly dirty look before turning away and making biscuits on the large cat bed before settling down and presenting Vi with her tail end.

Chiara laughed, and this time, Vi thought, the laughter wasn’t sincere.

“We all make our choices, Cenerella. And don’t call her Brioche, or the Fairy Godmother might not help you go to the ball.”

The dark eyes sparkled with something, and Vi’s heart lifted.

“Ball?”

8

ONCE UPON A TENNIS MATCH

Genevieve Courtenay had never been to a ball. Her family had attended plenty. Her royal relatives—whom she never saw but frequently heard about, especially since she’d gotten hired at Lilien Haus—had thrown even more. But Vi herself had never been part of the family dealings.

“Why are you this excited?” Aoife took a big swig from her water bottle and made a decisive cut in the light blue chiffon. “Shit.”

“What was that saying? Measure twice, cut once? And what did that design even do to you?” Vi focused the shutter and snapped a few pictures of Aoife’s disgruntled face. Say what you want about Gwyneth, but her love for all things top-notch was on display here. The camera was state-of-the art.

“Stop it. The fortune cookie wisdom. I don’t understand why she has to have this particular cut. She had some kind of epiphany over hemlines.” Aoife got up and walked away from the workstation Vi was sitting on. She wisely kept her mouth shut about anything related to adjustments in the design and why Chiara might have changed her mind. A few presses of a button could be heard, and very soon, the aroma of coffee wafted Vi’s way.

She knew Aoife wasn’t really upset with her when her mentor carried two mugs back from the little kitchenette. Which had nothing on Chiara’s beautiful, wood-toned kitchen with its gorgeous island, tasty food, comfortable silences, and absolutely inappropriate fantasies. Vi glugged her coffee, burned her tongue, and felt like it was karma, punishing her for the prurient thoughts.

“To answer your question, Cinderella, I’ve worked with Chiara for ages now. And I’ve never had anything like this happen.” Vi opened her mouth to ask, then, with her tongue still smarting, once again thought better of it, closed it again, and they instead sat in silence, both sipping their drinks.

Aoife looked at the swaths of material on her workstation that reminded Vi of the sky and shook her head.

“Kid, I was your age when I met her. She was this absolutely massive star on the catwalk, and I was helping my dad, who was the backstage hand at the London Fashion Week. Much like yourself these past few weeks, she just couldn’t seem to stop tearing things. I helped her, again, and again. By the end of that week, I was her personal seamstress. When she married Frankie, who was flying high with Lilien Haus, my fate was sealed.”

She took a longer sip, eyelids fluttering in the simple pleasure of enjoying the brew. Vi couldn’t relate, even if her mouth hadn’t still been burning.

“All of this is just not like her. She calls me in the middle of the night with the same five words that mostly spell doom for me since they’ll lead to a shit ton of work. ‘I have an idea, Sully!’ For the past fifteen years, Lilien Haus’ collections have been planned years in advance. Sure, we’d tweak them here and there. We even scrapped a collection once, because Chiara’s red theme didn’t jibe with the Tuscany Yellow DeVor put out that year.”

Aoife guffawed at the memory, and Vi drew her eyebrows together. She had a vague recollection of hearing the name.

“Cinderella, honestly, if not for your storied bloodline and your genuine, good disposition and skill with that monstrosity…” Aoife nodded towards the camera in Vi’s hand with her chin. “I wonder about you sometimes. DeVor runs fashion, kiddo. Actually, scratch that! DeVor isFASHIONwith capital letters. They, whoevertheymay be, are a name behind the artist who has a grip on the industry. If you ask me, it’s inconvenient. You make plans, and then someone comes in and their whims change everything. But… do not, under any circumstances, tell Chiara I said so.”

Vi made the gesture of zipping her mouth shut and waved for Aoife to go on as she tried to sip her coffee slowly, her burned tongue aching in protest. It still didn’t taste like anything she wanted to spend her whole life depending on.

“Anyway, Google is your friend, young lady. Especially working in this industry, you can’t escape DeVor. I may kvetch that they make us change our plans sometimes, but they’re a genius. Frankie wanted to buy Chiara an original DeVor painting once but was outbid at the auction. If you ask me, she wasn’t trying hard enough.”

Vi’s chest clenched as it always did when Frankie’s name came up in the context of not doing more for Chiara, so she was hasty in changing the subject.

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