Page 104 of Cashmere Ruin

Because I trust her.

In the car, a thousand worries crowd my mind. Last time she had to deal with these people, she ended up dangling over a railing. What’s this going to do to her? After all the work she’s put in to get back into a good place—for our daughter, for us…

“April, let me fix this.”

She smiles at me. A warm, genuine smile. “Thanks,” she says. “But this is my fight. Trust me.”

So I do. Even if it’s the hardest thing in the world, I do it for her.

Because I promised.

At the penthouse, I’m fully expecting April to make an emergency call to Dr. Knox. Instead, I watch her hug Elias, offer her thanks, tell him she’ll call.

Then I watch her grab her sketchbook. “What are you doing?”

She looks up then: fierce, fired up, a fighter ‘til the death. “I’m making another fucking dress.”

Beautiful.

“Tell me how I can help,” I say at once.

April’s eyes light up. “Okay. I’m gonna need two things.”

“Name them.”

“One: if you could watch May for?—”

“Done. Two?”

Her lips curve into a grin. “Two: I need to borrow your wife.”

32

APRIL

Forty-eight hours. That’s how long I have to come up with a new dress. No, not just “come up with”: sketch, sew, and submit a new dress.

For the Daphne gown, it took weeks.

Now, I have two days.

“Unbelievable,” Petra mutters under her breath, pacing up and down the room like an angry lioness. “Un-fucking-believable. The nerve of thosesuki. And you didn’t shoot them?”

“I was asked not to,” Matvey replies laconically.

“Well, I wasn’t. Where do they live?”

“Guys,” I call over, “I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. But can we think about this dress first?”

“Sorry,” Petra sighs. “It’s just so unfair. I saw how hard you worked on that other dress. Can you really make something else so soon?”

And if thatisn’t the million-dollar question… “I don’t know. But I have to.”

Matvey gives a grunt of approval. In his lap, May coos in what could be encouragement or a polite request for food. On the floor, Buttons chases a stolen ball of yarn.

I grab my fabrics off the floor and sigh. Petra isn’t wrong. Make a high-concept piece in two days? Not even dear old Vivienne could have swung that. And I’m no Westwood girl. More than that, I’m aworkinggirl. One who’s been pushing off deadlines to this specific weekend.

“Goddammit,” I curse.

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