Page 67 of These Thin Lines

“Ms. Courtenay.”

She was pleased when her own tone did not waver. Neither did her hand when she extended it, feeling her own fingers like ice before they were enfolded in a warm handshake. Had the knuckles grown more prominent with time? Did the hands grow rougher? Their softness seemed to be missing, or it was possible Chiara simply didn’t remember them all that well. She clung to that last conclusion with enough force to make Vi give her a strange look.

Chiara extricated her still cold fingers from the handshake and inclined her head for Vi to follow when Renate’s cough made them all turn towards the staircase leading to the studio space above the showroom.

“Courtenay.”

“Ms. Lilienfeld.” If Vi’s reply to Aoife held warmth and mischief, the four syllables addressed at Renate held none.

“I counted the silverware. And the gowns.” Renate’s lips thinned further, but Vi’s eyes crinkled at the corners before she spoke.

“I appreciate it. I will try not to commit any acts of commercial espionage while on this assignment. My NDA and contract with Poise are both ironclad to that effect.”

Aoife’s gasp was quite audible this time around, and the splinter in Chiara’s chest twisted harder, rending more stitches, reminding her of that one emotion she’d been suppressing for many years.

Because despite all her guilt and all the self-flagellation she had indulged in quite often on account of this girl—no, woman—her anger at the betrayal was also ever present.

How dare she?How dare Vi, who’d fucked her and then fucked her over, speak of everything that happened with such nonchalance? How could she mock what had been Chiara’s torment for years?

“Just reminding you of some things, Courtenay.” Oblivious to the storm rocking Chiara—the second one Arabella had unleashed on her—Renate snarked even as Aoife shook her head.

“Look, Renate, maybe now is not the time—”

Vi’s cutting reply was only marginally softened by a hand on Aoife’s forearm. “No, Sully. There will never really be a time. And there will never really be a place. Because I have an assignment. I assume you have things lined up here, because you agreed to whatever terms Arabella set for this absolutely harebrained idea of hers.” Vi’s smile was infused with so much warmth at the name that Chiara had to blink.

“But all her harebrained ideas pay off. The woman doesn’t miss. And I have a job to do. We have less than two—four, if I get my way—weeks to do about eight thematic photoshoots and some small, adjacent ones. All that in addition to the interviews, the cover shoot and the personal profile images. If you can’t work with me, I respect that. I will walk away now, and no matter what Arabella told you, I will get another photographer assigned—”

Renate looked her up and down. “Such sway you hold with the powers of the world, girl. I see some things have not changed.” The derision in her words was downright malicious, and Chiara felt something she’d forgotten had been her primordial emotion for three months that fateful summer: protectiveness.

And maybe the woman didn’t deserve any of it, but the girl? That girl, before the world had ended, before all hell broke loose on them, she’d been someone worth protecting. And Chiara couldn’t quit now. No matter how much her mind was screaming at her to do just that, her heart was not to be stopped.

“I don’t care about any of this.” All three other occupants of the foyer observed her with such differing expressions, she actually smiled. “Ms. Courtenay, welcome to Chiaroscuro. I will show you around and we will talk setup and requirements and logistics. We’ll bring Aoife and Renate into this, depending on whatever it is you require. Follow me.”

She turned on her heel, for once not fearing whether anyone followed. She knew Vi would. If only to finish this wretched assignment Chiara herself, in a roundabout way, had set in motion. And there was some modicum of comfort in that knowledge.

That, despite everything, she could still make this woman follow her.

17

IN A FARAWAY LAND OF PAST HURTS AND NEW PAIN

Chiara Conti had fallen in love with the townhouse on Mercer Street the moment she saw it. The high ceilings, the light, the shelter it offered in plain sight, its dark oaken floors a contrast and a foundation to all that airy space.

As she’d filled it with her creations, her silk and satin, the space had become even more like home. It filled her with pride, with a sense of accomplishment that very few things in her life ever had.

So why, as she climbed the stairs to her studio in front of Vi Courtenay, did everything seem less? Her heart lurched uncomfortably in her chest at the thought of being judged. She wanted to shake her head and her fists.

Not even the presence of Arabella, with all her power and all her influence, had made Chiaroscuro feel small and shabby. And yet this girl, nay this woman, who walked quietly behind her, made Chiara question if all the years that passed since had been for naught.

“I have to say, I was surprised that you landed in New York, of all places.” Vi’s long fingers glided along the banister, a contrast of pale skin and dark wood. As they rounded the steps to the third floor, Chiara stopped and looked at her.

“What’s wrong with New York?” Her earlier anger returned, spurred on by that annoying self-consciousness at Vi being in her sanctum. And perhaps self-doubt at Vi judging it all unworthy. Which, in all honesty, was beyond ridiculous.

“Nothing. I suppose it’s something that eventually happens to everyone who works in fashion. I am just surprised that you did.” Vi’s tone was neutral, even as her eyes appraised the space and the objects occupying it. The persistent insouciance got Chiara’s dander up.

“All right, so I will rephrase my question. What is wrong with me then, if you think New York is somehow too much for me? Is that what you’re saying?”

Vi stopped abruptly, the sharp movement opening her loose shirt farther, revealing more of those jutting collarbones.

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