28. Silence

“Five minutes until we need to be out the door for the Herrera show.”

I shove in a new pair of studs and crouch—carefully, so I don’t rip my skirt—scanning the floor for the heels that go with this outfit.

“Bloody hell, I know,” Emily hisses from across the room. She’s not mad at me—probably—the schedule is just brutal.

New York Fashion Week is not for the faint of heart.

I’m just grateful I’m not also jet-lagged this time.

I jam my feet into the nearly-too-tight heels—not made for walking, barely made for standing—and pull up my email. One last check to make sure I haven’t missed—

From: Jay Kessler jay.kessler@yahoo.com

To: Andrea Sachs andrea.sachs@eliasclarke.com

Subject: My Say

Before I can stop myself, I’m scanning the contents. 

I have given it a few weeks, but I believe it’s only fair to have my say as well. If I am to respect your wishes, I believe it’s only fair that you at least acknowledge mine as I will be doing for you. After this, you do you until as such a time as you feel I have done better or good enough to deserve your attention again. The last 2 conversations I have really had with you were the most grown up conversation we have ever had. I’m sorry if you felt they were childish, they were in my mind very adult. So I guess you are saying that in fact I am to childish? As for my absence earlier in your lives, there are so many things that you don’t know. The trauma I have/had. The person I was who stayed away as a way to keep others safe. I was not a good or mentally strong person. I am only better because of Amber, medication and a lot of counseling. I am sorry if that bothers you, and that I missed out on so much, but it was honestly for the best and I would rather you feel I was absent then have any fear of the person I was. You have said some things that have hurt me prior to this, but I know it wasn’t out of directed anger or spite, so it was let go. I wonder how you would have felt if I would have just closed the door on you like you have on us without letting you know you did something to upset me? You have not told us you felt we treated you like a child as so we could adjust to not bother you. We are honestly sorry, as we did not know. One day you will see how hard it is to see the kids you knew as adults. You do what’s best for you. We will always be here for you. Just like I’ve offered your mother my kidney, liver, lung and everything else, that all goes for you. I honestly think there is more to the story that you don’t know, and I hope we can talk about it all someday. My upbringing and my time in the military did some bad stuff to my mind. I am truly sorry it has affected you and your family as that was exactly what I was trying to avoid. To much over compensation on my part. Honestly wishing you nothing but the best! I would love to get a thumbs up, or F you to know that you read this. From here on out though I will leave you alone till you are ready. That door will always be open. 

I can only stare at the words in astonishment.

What.

A load.

Of bullshit.

I slam CTRL+ALT+DEL, and the self-pitying, boundary-breaking monologue disappears in a blink. The Elias-Clarke logo returns—cleaner, colder, better.

I brace my hands on the desk and hang my head. Breathe.

In. Out. Again.

This isn’t the time.

I don’t have the room in my head for this.

Not today. Not with Miranda waiting.

I need to focus. I need to move.

I can’t think about how he got my work email.

I can’t think about why he couldn’t follow one simple request.

I can’t think about how all over the place that message was.

I can’t think about any of it.

But seriously? You can vanish for years—but you can’t disappear when I ask you to?

“Andy, for god’s sake, are you ready?”

My head snaps up. Emily stands in the doorway, foot tapping an impatient, uneven rhythm.

“Yeah,” I say, snatching my bag off the desk. “Let’s go.”

She rolls her eyes and stalks off, leaving me to follow—shoulders tight, stomach twisted, trying like hell to keep it together through another brutal day of Fashion Week.

Even with an emotional grenade still ticking in my inbox.

The lights go down, and I have my pen at the ready. 

With New York City traffic fought and conquered, for now, my anger has pushed its way to the forefront. 

I will focus, I tell myself, spine stiff and uncomfortable against the chair. I am going to take notes, and I am not going to let Jay’s histrionics distract me from doing my job. 

Strobe lights go off, timed to dramatic music, and the first model appears on the runway. I write fast and blind, praying that I’ll be able to read it later.

A sleek, asymmetrical white gown with a sheer overlay. 

Ah yes, the ‘I’m only reaching out to acknowledge your wishes’–disguising control as concession. Transparent, just like that overlay. 

The next look is a bulky, oversized military-style trench coat paired with rough leather boots. 

Oh good, the trauma paragraph. Nothing like dragging out your war wounds to reframe lack of accountability as nobility. 

A soft, ivory cashmere set with exaggerated baby-doll sleeves. 

Our last two talks were the most grownup you’ve ever had? You call that grown-up? Just say you’re emotionally stunted and go.

A corseted dress in blood red, laced too tightly at the waist. 

How would I feel if he shut the door on me? Relieved! Hence why I put an end to the relationship. 

A refined pantsuit, elegant and crisp—until the shoes ruin it. Cartoonish platform sandals. An incongruous pairing. 

He says he’s better now. Medication, therapy, Amber. If you’re actually fine, why are you still spewing emotionally unstable bullshit? 

A wide-shouldered blazer in garish yellow, out of place in the collection yet demanding attention.

His kidney, his liver, and lungs. Christ, as if listing off body parts proves love. 

A dress with a thousand, tiny buttons running up the back–impossible to put on alone. 

There are ‘so many things I don’t know.’ And you tell me none of them. Sure. That’s not vulnerability, that’s deflection with a lace overlay. 

A long, conservative navy ensemble with an absurd feathered hat. 

One day I’ll understand how hard it is to watch kids become adults? How hard is it to respect someone as an individual human being? 

A metallic bodysuit that reflects the strobing stage lights like a mirror. 

He let go of my past comments because he knew I didn’t mean them ‘spitefully.’ How generous of him to decide my intentions for me. 

A dress so backless it might as well be frontless, too. 

He frames it all like truth. Like confession. But every word is calculated–just naked enough to pass for brave. 

A tailored, silver column dress with a sharp-angled cape. 

He wants a thumbs up or an F you? I don’t think so. I won’t give him that leverage. There’s nothing worth responding to, anyway. 

My eyes burn, blinded by sudden brightness. 

I look around. The show is over. The applause is dying down and people have started standing and mingling. 

I look down at my notes, finally legible in the light–

Disastrous. Every last bit of my righteous fury is scribbled across the page.

Perfect, I think, snapping my notebook shut. Just perfect. 

The good news: there’s a small dinner break built into the schedule. 

The bad news: we’re all using it to change outfits. 

Again. 

“Six, what’s taking so long?” Nigel walks by, fastening a watch on his wrist. 

“Don’t talk to me,” I growl. “Unless you have to deal with heels, a million accessories, and skirts with very inconvenient zippers, just don’t talk to me.” 

“Well, you’ll want to hurry up if you want to eat before the Tom Ford show.” Two quick raps on my desk, and he leaves me alone with my stubborn zipper. Emily, of course, had no problems finalizing her latest ensemble. I guess she has a lot of practice. 

I’m spinning in circles, trying to reach the damn thing, and I glance up to see that yeah, I’m not getting any of that catered chicken Caesar salad at this point. 

Damnit! 

Finally, I get the stupid thing fully zipped. I actually have to mop up a bit of sweat from my brow. 

Just accessories left. Apparently, dressing is an Olympic event. And I’m not making it past qualifiers.

Is this why people had valets? Or ladies’ maids?

The earrings and bracelets are easy. Then it’s just a simple necklace, and I might be able to make it down in time to grab a salad, and–

I can’t get the clasp. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper, trying more and more frantically to fasten the miniscule clasp. My thumb keeps falling off the tiny lever every time I get the loop close enough. 

“Oh come on!” 

I’m about to either stomp my foot like a five year old, or forget the necklace entirely. Honestly, who is going to care whether I’m wearing a gold chain or–

Miranda steps out of her office, and I feel my eyes try to pop out of their sockets. 

She’s stunning. Of course she is, she’s always stunning, but this … wow. 

My pulse speeds up as I take her in, and I can’t pretend it’s from the Dressing Olympics. 

It’s not just a suit. It’s the suit. 

A deep sapphire velvet jacket—not navy, not cobalt, but some impossibly rich shade that shifts with the light. The jacket is tailored to absolute perfection, sharp at the shoulders, fitted through the waist, and just slouchy enough in the sleeves to look effortless.

Beneath it, her shirt is unbuttoned nearly to her sternum, a soft slate-blue silk that clings and gapes and somehow manages to look both intentional and unbothered. Her collar is popped to lay over the jacket. Of course it is. No one else could make that look like a power move instead of a mistake.

The pants are just as lethal—lean, precise, devastatingly sleek, catching the light like liquid midnight. The whole outfit is pure command. No jewelry. No sparkle. Just velvet and silk and that alluring face. 

That face that’s smirking at me. 

I crash back to earth. I look, quite simply, ridiculous. Both arms are stretched behind my neck, holding the ends of the necklace but not able to do anything with them. My face heats. 

I’m about to drop the necklace, pretend I was taking it off anyway, but Miranda moves. 

With a low, goddamned seductive chuckle that I already know will haunt my impossible dreams, Miranda stalks toward me. And god help me, I can’t move. 

Miranda comes to stand behind me. Her fingertips graze mine as she takes the strands of the necklace.

Her perfume surrounds me, intoxicating me. 

Her breath hits my neck, warm and steady, and my whole body shivers.

Her fingers brush the nape of my neck as she clasps the necklace. There’s no way she doesn’t feel my thundering pulse. Hell, she can probably hear it. 

Time slows, it has to, because it feels like she lingers for one, incredible, impossible moment and I swear I hear an unsteady intake of breath. I’m not sure if it’s hers or mine. 

And then she’s gone. Striding around me, toward the doors. That perfect suit. That entrancing sway of her hips. And—

“Let’s go.” 

I grab my bag and scramble after her, dazed and dizzy. All thoughts of salad, Jay, or clothes are gone—replaced by the all-consuming memory of her fingers on my neck.

Wow. Just … wow.