Page 1 of Crossing Lines

ONE

Anxiety roils in my body like chaotic ping-pong balls with every stride toward Chavonne’s office. She encouraged me to push the envelope, so I hope she’ll like my ideas and consider the proposal.

Reaching the pink door, I draw a deep breath and knock. “It’s Davia.”

“Come in,” she calls out.

My heart accelerates as I enter the large, bright, tranquil suite, glamorously adorned with chic furniture, stylish décor, and mannequins displaying her favorite looks.

“All set?” she asks, peering up from the papers.

“Yes. These feel like my best yet.”

Her flawless brow quirks with interest as her red lips curve into a pleased smile. “Let’s see.”

Once she makes room, I place the folder on the marble desk and flip it open. Her mouth drops. “Wow, Davia, these are incredible—the details. Great work. We’ll start the process when we return from Paris.”

“I’m happy you like them.” I rock back and forth on my heels while wringing my hands.

“Okay,” she drones, squinting. “Something else?”

“You look so lovely today.” I motion to her wavy, copper-streaked brunette hair, bedazzled ivory jacket, and white dress. “Just spectacular. Regal energy.”

“As always,” she chuckles. “What is it, Davia?”

“Well...” I lower into the white boucle chair and go for it. “I’ve been here seven years, so I hope I’ve proven myself enough to propose… you consider launching this line under my name.”

“Oh?” Her expression remains unreadable as she leans back in the chair. Then again, no one could ever predict Chavonne’s moves.

“It’d still be under your brand,” I add. “Something likeDarling Sinclair presented by La Monte. What do you think?” I rub my palms on my pants, praying she doesn’t find my pitch offensive. She gave me a chance after college. The last thing I want is to overstep.

The slow tapping of her long red nails on my folder is the only sound in the office. As her silence stretches, my worry grows.Should I have kept my mouth shut?

Chavonne is a force with stores in Baltimore, New York, and online. Despite building a successful black-owned luxury brand, she still fights for respect in the industry. Perhaps it’s insulting that a twenty-eight-year-old designer with a younger career dared to utter such a proposal.

“Too much to ask?” I question softly.

“Hmm.” My anxiousness subsides as her almond-brown face morphs with a smile. “I like it.”

“Really?” I almost spring to my feet and start dancing. “Oh my gosh!”

“Darling Sinclairsounds great.”

“For real, Chavonne?”

She laughs. “Yes, Davia. Honestly, I’ve been waiting for this moment. There’s a fire in your eyes. I know you want your own brand someday.”

“I’m not trying to shit on all you’ve done for me,” I rush to say. “I appreciate everything.”

“Relax, hon,” she waves me off. “I’m happy you found the courage. I respect you more.”

That settles me. “It means a lot that you’re willing to take the chance.”

“Your talent speaks for itself. You’re ready for this.”

“Thank you.” I leave her office with my head high, smiling bigger than ever the entire way to my workspace.

Not a minute after sitting, Iree turns into my office, vibrant in her blue pantsuit. “Hey, uh…” Her voice trails while studying my face. “You look extra happy.”

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