Page 1 of All the Drama from New York

PROLOGUE

An elegant chateau outside of Paris

Almost four years ago.

The problem with secrets is that they rarely remain that way. One small slip up, and the world suddenly knows all about the things you’ve been keeping well hidden. For Camille Royal that moment was happening now.

Standing motionless in the doorway of her father’s atelier workshop, she watched with growing unease as her father, hands resting on the cutting table, closely examined her design sketchbook. He was flipping through the pages, swearing loudly enough that she could hear every foul word.

This was not how she’d wanted François to find out that she had been secretly designing ready to wear clothes for the American fashion market. Her plan had been to keep it from him until the day she was ready to leave. Until everything she’d worked out with her cousin Bryce was set firmly in place.

But last night she’d inadvertently left the sketchbook behind in the workshop. This morning she’d risen early and hurried upstairs to retrieve it. Once she had the book safely back in herbedroom, she’d then been on her way into central Paris to see some friends.

But horror of all horrors, her father had discovered the sketchbook.

As Camille took a step forward, the seventeenth century floorboard underfoot let out a loud creak. François raised his head. The same shade of blue eyes that Camille possessed, looked back at her.

Did he just growl at me?

There was nothing left to do but deal with the situation. She would try and reason with her father.

Like that has ever got me anywhere.

She took a deep breath, straightened her back, and kept walking into the room. Camille was no coward. She’d always known this day would eventually come. But she’d been hoping it would be when she had a grand speech prepared for the occasion, not at seven o’clock on a rainy April morning, when she’d just got out of bed.

“What is this?” huffed François. “More of your childish drawings?”

Camille’s tongue touched the sharp edge of her teeth. She was not going to take the bait. Her father had always said her designs were unworthy, but this time, she wasn’t going to cower to his demands. She was not giving up on her dream.

“They are a collection of garments that I think will do well in the US. Well-tailored but comfortable clothing for career women. Pieces that will last and give their owners good value.”

His snort of disgust went like a sharp arrow, straight to her heart.

“You have been trained in one of the most prestigious haute couture houses in the world. Learned your craft at my feet from an early age. And this…” François picked up the sketchbook. Hedangled her precious book of drawings from his fingertips like he’d picked up a piece of rotting garbage. “is how you repay me?”

She bit down on her bottom lip. Not in fear, but in readiness for war.

If this is how it’s going end between us, then so be it. I am not backing down. Never again.

Camille had long imagined this day. Pictured her grand victory as she marched proudly out of her father’s atelier and bade him and his stuffy ways a fondadieu. And just like in the movies, her every step toward the door would be accompanied by a rising musical score.

All the craftspeople in François’ employ would rise to their feet, and cheer. When her hand touched the doorknob, the music would reach its final crescendo, and the staff would break into unrestrained applause. They could live the rest of their lives knowing that at least one of them had been brave enough to risk it all, and make their escape.

But life wasn’t like it was in the movies.

Cue the air leaking out of a balloon.

It was eerily quiet in the workroom this morning. All the sewing and cutting machines lay still. It was a public holiday in France. No one from the design team was at work. Only rows of empty desks would now bear witness to the inevitable battle between father and daughter.

To Camille’s defiant breaking of chains.

“Papa, the designs in that book are my life’s passion. You want to create stunning garments for the super wealthy, while I want to reach the ordinary woman in the street.”

Her father dropped her precious book onto the metal cutting table, and it landed with a sickening thud. “As I’ve told you many times before Camille, stick to what you know. And that’s seam work and beading. He pointed at the book. “You will never makea career out of those designs. Your dream of being a fashion designer is utterly ridiculous.”

My father thinks my dreams are ridiculous. Quelle surprise !

Camille moved quickly to where her father stood, and snatched up her sketchbook. She took several steps back, creating a clear-cut distance between them. A no man’s land.

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