Page 61 of These Thin Lines

“Renatenothing.” Aoife’s voice sounded from the doorway with uncharacteristic malice. “She said nothing, did nothing, looked the other way, and you got hurt. And humiliated which, when it comes to you, is even worse with all that pride of yours and all of your history.” Chiara wanted to flinch, but Aoife came closer and put her hand on her shoulder, laying her other one on Renate’s forearm and looking at Chiara.

“We both did. Her and I. We held on to the damn status quo for so long, we forgot there was a real person in the middle of it all. And when the proverbial chips fell, you were left alone. I didn’t know about the cheating. And on top of everything, I let Vi fall head over clumsy tits in love with you and get us into this mess. And for all of that, I’m sorry.”

Aoife’s brows were furrowed, eyes blinking rapidly, and now Chiara felt like she was swimming in grief. Not of her own making, but grief she deemed imperative she had to end. A year was long enough to wallow.

But before she opened her mouth to speak, Aoife surprised her yet again.

“So, where are we going? Milan, is it? I’m all packed.”

Renate smirked, and Aoife’s contagious smile soon tugged on her own lips as well.

“I don’t know what to say…” she began.

“Nothingtosay. I left some fish to rot in most of the drawers in my studio downstairs. And in hers. Want me to spread some around here as well?”

With Renate’s and Aoife’s laughter surrounding her, Chiara had picked up Binoche, her own packed bag, and walked out of the atelier on Rue Saint-Honoré without looking back. They had work to do. And Aoife’s fish had needed time to rot and give Frankie a nasty surprise come the Monday that followed.

* * *

Chiara wasn’tsure if Aoife’s prank had ended up being successful, but the work they had done since then very much had been.

After spending a year in Milan, drawing like she was possessed, Renate’s capital and Aoife’s drive helped her set the foundation for what today was known asChiaroscuro. A new brand was born. If all she sketched and designed were wedding dresses, she didn’t want to delve into her reasons why too deeply.

Just like she didn’t want to think about why she took Binoche—not that she’d considered abandoning her even for one second—but after leaving everything in a place where her heart had been broken twice, she ended up with two reminders of the last person to have shattered it.

Even as she drew a Queen Anne bodice on a gown she already knew would be spectacular, Chiara chose not to think about the fact that, after years of trying to find herself, it was Vi’s unique vision and perceptiveness that had given her a direction, a breakthrough into what she was meant to do.

Chiara had a little help from her friends. Neve Blackthorne and Princess Allegra of Savoy had steadfastly stood beside her through her tribulations. And the diamond-encrusted mermaid-line gown worn by the second bride of King Aleric of Savoy—or was it his third?—had landed with the effect of a nuclear detonation, blowing the fashion world’s collective minds.

Chiara deliberately shied away from the spotlight, keeping herself in the shadows, creating a sense of mystery about Chiaroscuro. That boon aside, she felt comfortable on the sidelines, having to worry about the creation and not being the face of something she had yet to fully flesh out. Some days, she looked back at her years with Lilien and had a reluctant moment of appreciation of Frankie taking all that attention upon herself. It wasn’t easy. And it wasn’t all roses, being the public front of a fashion brand.

After the royal wedding, commissions soared, and Renate had put her foot down. No more nomadic lifestyle. No more hotels. No more rental work space. They were going to settle down. They were going to put down roots someplace where they would find their permanence.

Paris was out of the question. With Brexit, London did not appeal. So there was only one sensible destination. The land of the aforementioned subpar coffee, microwave tea and spongy bread. But all that aside, it was and still remained the land of opportunity.

That was how Chiara had found herself in front of the four-story brick, late nineteenth century townhouse in Lower Manhattan, between the Balenciaga and Schiaparelli flagship stores. As she’d taken in her surroundings, the bustling, loud and always busy Mercer Street, she knew that she had found her place again.

Her first thought had been to hide her new endeavor. To keep it amidst coffee shops and less fashion-forward brands. To avoid the limelight. But she was also proud. Of every stitch and every piece of lace. Of every cut and every veil.

Chiaroscuro wedding gowns were taking the world by storm, and the queue for them spanned years in advance. Renate would figure out that aspect of the business, but Chiara liked the exclusivity, the fact that nothing she created was mass-produced, and everything held her touch.

When all was said and done, the three of them were an unbeatable trio.

And so she’d stepped into the Mercer Street townhouse with her head held high and pictured the store on the ground floor and her atelier under the skylights. Then she made the realtor’s day, nay year, by taking one sweeping walk around and saying ‘yes.’

These days, she found herself saying ‘yes’ to a lot of things, and as she put the finishing touches on Renate’s sketch, she felt that one of those ‘yeses’ was about to bite her in the ass. Because Renate’s eyes were shrewd, and Aoife’s arms were holding all that ivory lace after all.

“So are you ready for the Grand Dame?” Aoife didn’t hide her awe when she spoke the appellation as if it was sanctified.

TheGrand Damein question was none other than the owner of Poise Magazine and dozens of other fashion- and art enterprises and ruler of the New York social scene, the one and only Arabella Archibald Avant.

A week ago, the phone had rung and without preamble, a raspy, no-nonsense voice had stated, “Arabella here. I want you in Poise,” and that was that.

Chiara hadn’t really had much to say on the matter, because apparently, when Arabella Archibald Avant wanted something, it had to be done. Preferably without delay and any other such nonsense.

And Chiara would have probably acquiesced right away, but the moment she’d opened her mouth, Renate shook her head and in an equally brooking-no-argument tone answered, “Ms. Conti’s week is booked. Please get back to us in a few days, and we will see about fitting you in.”

Aoife had spilled her coffee and Chiara smiled. Because Renate was right, Chiara should always remember her value. And her position. Five years sadly hadn’t cured her of her self-doubt or patched up her self-confidence. Though that, if she ever went into counseling again, would be something her potential therapist would have a field day with.

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