The Devil Wears Black(84)

Then a message from Ethan came. It was on the one morning I spent without Chase. At some point yesterday, I’d physically pushed him out of my apartment to ensure some me time.

Ethan sent me my azaleas back. What was left of them, anyway. The flowers were wilted, the leaves curling in gray and black at the edges, shriveling into themselves. The pot in which he kept it was coated with tar-like sand, clustered together. I held it in my arms and looked up to my windowsill, where my flowers thrived, then back to the dead azaleas again, something red and hot and angry sizzling behind my rib cage. There was a note. I plucked it out.

So sorry. Was busy keeping people alive, forgot about plant. Maybe you can save it?

Thank you for the gift, though.





—E




I thought about the dead azaleas the entire portion of the first half of my day while working on my Dream Wedding Dress. I stabbed at the sketch pad with my pencil, tearing it several times.

“What happened? Did one of your kids die?” Nina taunted from her corner of the studio once Sven was out of earshot, referring to the wilted plant. “Bad mommy, Maddie.”

I ducked my head down and continued working.

“Maddie.” Sven appeared behind my shoulder. I jumped, gasping.

“How are you?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand. “Never mind, I’m not here for small talk. Is the sketch ready?”

“Almost.” I held it to my chest protectively. I’d grown very attached to this sketch. It meant a lot to me. I’d designed it seeing myself wearing the dress.

“Let’s see it.” He dragged a stool from someone else’s station and sat in front of me.

“Now?” I looked around, buying time.

“No better time than the present.” He pried the clipboard with my sketch from between my fingers. I sucked in a breath, feeling the walls of the studio closing in on me. My lungs were scorching, I was so nervous.

“Oh,” was all Sven said, after a full minute of silence. Oh couldn’t be good. He didn’t even drag out the h. Ohhhhh. Nope. Just the Oh. I was feeling nauseous.

Sven’s brows pulled together. “There’s a lot of detail here.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You asked me to be artistic.”

“I figured you’d be sane too.” He scrunched his nose, still looking at the sketch.

“You actually used the words off the wall,” I countered, not really believing my own ears. Was I arguing with Sven? That was a definite first. I’d never challenged my boss. I suspected this was why he’d promoted me so quickly. I was his yes-woman. But not now. Not when I knew this dress was my best design to date.

Sven held the sketch out to me, his eyes finding mine. “Look, I’m not saying it’s not good, but there’s money to be made, and this season is all about simple strokes.”

“You specifically told me there are no rules to abide by.” I snatched the sketch from his hands. “And that’s exactly what I did. Everyone is going to turn up to Fashion Week with variations of the same simplistic dress, and I’m going to give them something new. Something grand. Something out of this world. You gave me this assignment because you said I was ready. Well, I am, Sven. And I love this design. Love it wholeheartedly.”

I thought about Chase’s words of encouragement. He seemed to love it. No, more than that. He was mesmerized by it. It helped my decision to stick to this sketch. Wedding dresses weren’t only about haute couture. Sometimes, they were just about seeing men—men like Chase—looking at a pretty dress and having that punch-in-the-gut feeling.

Sven stared at me long and hard. I looked right back at him. Even though it was out of character, I knew I was doing the right thing. Not only for myself but for the company.

He jerked his jaw toward my sketch. “I’ll get a lot of shit about it from the bigwigs, you know.”

I held his gaze. “It’s also off white.”

His eyes widened. “But swan white—”

I shook my head, holding my palm up. “It will sell, Sven. I promise you.”

He stood up, scratching his cheek. I thought he was shocked. I definitely was, by my own stubbornness.

“When did you become so”—he searched for the right word—“fierce?”

I smiled. “Since I found out being a pushover doesn’t equal being nice. Being strong is not only kind on myself—but on other people too.”



At half past noon, while everyone was taking their break, someone tapped my shoulder. I was still hunched over my drawing table, tongue poking out of the side of my mouth, sketching. I turned around.

Chase was standing there, lifting a white plastic bag full of containers. I could smell the pho soup and detect the paper-thin white-rice dumplings in the small plastic bowls. My mouth watered for exactly five seconds before I realized what he was doing.

I gave him a small shove, peeking to see if Nina was at her station. She wasn’t.

“Are you insane?” I whisper-shouted, feeling my eyes widening. “Someone could see you here.”

“And?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “I’m offering you soup, not dick. The rumor mill won’t go haywire if we take lunch together.”

I realized I was being ungrateful. He’d come in with the intention of feeding me. I took a calming breath, plastering a smile on my face. “Although I am very touched by your concern, I am also very adamant no one should know about us. It is temporary, and as I said—”