Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Then he opens the outer door, leading me to an inner door that he knocks on three times. When he opens the door, he stands aside. “Madame Corbin will see you now.”
Jacqueline sits in a throne-like leather wingback chair behind a huge gilded white desk that looks like it came from Versailles. Knowing her, it probably did. “Madame Corbin, bonjour.”
“Good evening, Mademoiselle Fisher,” Jacqueline responds coldly. She’s wearing red today, and while I can’t see below her waist due to the huge desk she’s perched behind, I get a very distinct Queen of Hearts impression. Hopefully, my head is safe.
I feel decidedly underdressed to be in her presence too. My slim black pants and loose linen top are not nearly chic enough, and I’ve been working all day, up and down from the floor, lying over my table, and sweating as I feed materials through the sewing machine. I run my hands over my thighs, hoping I’m wiping away lint but also drying the nervous sweat from my palms.
“I advised that there would be critiques after the shows if I felt it warranted,” Jacqueline says. She places her hand on a manilla folder on her desk, and I can see that my photo is clipped to the outside.
“Yes,” I sigh in relief.
Jacqueline’s eyes lock onto me. “Your designs were intriguing.”
That’s it? Intriguing? Is that good? Bad? Help an anxiety-riddled designer out!
I wait for her to say more, not that I expect her to wax poetic on my work, but a simple ‘I liked the dress’ would go a long way toward reassuring me and allaying some insecurities. She stays completely silent. “Uhm, thank you,” I respond a beat too late.
Her smile feels like a knife twisting in my back. “But that is not why I called you here.”
I swallow, the gulp audible. “It’s not?” I say tightly.
“You have been seeing my nephew, Mademoiselle Fisher.” She lets that bomb hang in the air, and when it detonates, there’s shrapnel throughout my mind and my heart. My jaw drops open, my eyes wide. It’s not exactly forbidden in the competition, but it goes against the spirit of things and I know it.
I gambled, and now I’m losing.
“Ma’am—”
She holds her hand up, stopping whatever defensive excuses I can offer.
“He thinks he can keep secrets from me, but I have known him his entire life. There is nothing I don’t know or that isn’t shared with me by someone in Paris.” She looks down her nose, ensuring that I understand that she has eyes all over the city, not that we’ve been particularly sneaky. “At first, I admired your resourcefulness. If you can’t work your way into the House, sleeping your way in is a reasonable use of your talents.”
“Excuse me?” I snap. “Are you accusing me of fucking my way to the top?” Her French accent doesn’t make her able to say whatever she wants. I’m offended and angry, not giving two shits about professionalism when I’m being accused of something so crass.
“Actually, as I said . . . at first, I considered that. But seeing your designs, it seemed a bit like putting ganache on top of icing. A bit unnecessary.”
“Huh?” Not my brightest comeback, but that almost sounded like . . . a compliment in a twisted way. I shift on my feet, wringing my hands, not sure what to expect.
“On second thought, I considered that he wooed you. He’s quite the charmer, hard to resist, I imagine.” She tilts her head, her lips lifting in something resembling a wry smile. “Well, I suppose I don’t have to imagine. He’s quite the ladies’ man, after all.”
Jacqueline leans forward, laying her hands on top of one another on her desk. Her look seems pitying and full of concern . . . for me.
Is she kicking me out of the competition? No! I’ve worked so hard.
“I feel like I should warn you that Simon, while he’s like a son to me, is not known for being . . . a long-term partner. Do you understand what I’m saying?” she asks.
“You think he’ll break my heart when he throws me away and moves on to the next woman,” I surmise. Admittedly, I’ve worried about the same thing. Simon and I aren’t exactly a perfectly logical match.
“That, and that your place in the competition will be compromised. He surely can’t judge you and the others objectively. I can filter out his feedback. It’s my ultimate decision as it is. But consider if you won.” She pauses, seeming to think that possibility is absurd. “If that happened, and then it came out that you and Simon were involved, the reputation of House Corbin would be scandalized, the competition seen as a mere farce. If you don’t win, you’ll return to America and Simon will stay here. There’s simply no positive outcome with this.”