Page 33 of Royal Deception
I don’t realize Miranda has arrived until she sets her purse down and slides into the seat across from me.
“What are you working on?” she asks, leaning in slightly.
I snap the sketchbook shut, my heart racing. No one has ever seen my sketches before—except Kate, and she never had anything nice to say.
But Miranda isn’t Kate. She won’t make a snide remark just to cut me down.
With a shaky hand, I open the sketchbook and slide it toward her. “Just messing around,” I say, my voice soft in the busy café.
One neat eyebrow arches as she studies the design, her lips pursing as she flips through a few more pages.
“This is good,” she says, tapping her chin. “You have a strong eye for structure. Your details are deliberate.”
Heat rises to my cheeks at the praise, and I curl my fingers under the edge of the table. “I thought maybe I’d be a fashion designer,” I admit. “Back when I was a kid.”
Miranda glances up, her gaze sharp with interest. “Why didn’t you go to fashion school? You have a lot of promise.”
Something tugs inside me at her words, but I wave a hand, letting out a small, self-conscious laugh. “Fashion schools are expensive. My stepmother told me to stick with something practical. So I went to community college, got my associate’s in business instead.”
She doesn’t respond right away, just flips back to the sketch I was working on when she arrived. After a long moment, she taps a manicured finger against the page.
“You could still go back,” she suggests.
I shake my head, staring down at the design. “It’s just a dream now.”
Miranda doesn’t take her eyes off me as she says, “Dreams don’t have expiration dates, Clary.”
Something stirs in my chest—something hesitant, uncertain. I don’t let myself think too much about it.
As she flips through a few more pages, her expression turns thoughtful. “You have true potential, Clary,” she says, stopping on a design I’d made for an imaginary awards show. “I see something in your sketches. You have a vision.”
Her words render me silent, and I swallow, my fingers tightening around the stem of my wineglass. I have no idea what to say. No one has ever told me that my designs had potential before.
Miranda shuts the sketchbook and turns to face me, leaning back as she crosses one leg over the other. “I have connections, Clary. You say the word, and I could pull some strings, help you get into a good program. Maybe we’ll arrange for a scholarship for you.”
Her offer knocks the air from my lungs. For a moment, I let myself dream. Miranda’s connections could take me somewhere I never thought I could go. Maybe even get me out of debt with my stepmother, get out from under her thumb, away from the only home I’d ever known.
But then reality slams me back into place. Some people just aren’t meant to fly. I smile, shaking my head. “Thank you for such a generous offer, but I can’t take it.”
Miranda tilts her head, lifting one brow as she looks me over. I feel like I’m under scrutiny now. “Whyever not?”
Running a thumb over the edge of the notebook, I stare down at it. “It’s because… because even if you think I’m good, it doesn’t mean an admissions committee would.”
And if they did let me in, I’d always wonder whether it was because Miranda pulled the strings for me or I got in on my own talent.
Miranda exhales, then gives me a slow nod. “I understand.”
I force a smile. “Besides, I’ve got too much going on right now to even think about school.”
Miranda hums, but there’s something knowing in her gaze, something that tells me she isn’t entirely convinced. “Maybe,” she says lightly. “But I’m always here if you change your mind.”
Her words settle deep in my chest, but I don’t let myself hold onto them. I’ve long since learned that dreams like mine don’t lead anywhere but to disappointment.
As I head back to the office after lunch, my thoughts are all tangled up in the conversation I’d just had with Miranda. Even as I step off the elevator, some part of me is demanding that I turn back around and tell Miranda I was just kidding, that I’d love to get help achieving my dream.
But I’m a realist and I’m determined to put those what-ifs and impossible dreams out of my head and focus on reality.
Just as I’m settling back into my desk, the door to Rory’s office swings open and Callie Fitzgerald steps out. She’s dressed as impeccably as always in a tight-fitting purple velvet dress with a lace cut-out neckline that shows off the colorful tattoos that line her arms, contrasting with her sleek curls styled in a vintage coif.
