Say the Word(53)

I stood near the wall, taking it all in as my stomach clenched with nerves. The floor was one large open space, with several work stations set up around the room and a conference table long enough to seat thirty by the far windows. There was a space cordoned off with racks of clothing and a small, mirror-enclosed platform, which I assumed was used for model fittings.

Recognizing no one, I had absolutely no idea where to start and, like a stream around a rock in the riverbed, people filtered by as though I were invisible. Which, at first, was fine, but after a few minutes began to piss me off. I was Lux Kincaid. No longer the high school wallflower, unsure of my place in this world. If Sebastian wanted me here to work, I was going to work. I didn’t wait around for orders like a meek intern. I was a professional, successful, career-driven woman. And if he didn’t like that, well, he could send me back to Luster and this whole ordeal would be over before it began.

Pulling my shoulders back, I threw procedure out the window, strode toward the center of the room, and jumped into the fray. I’d never been particularly good at following the proper decorum rulebook, anyway. After introducing myself as the Luster writing correspondent for the Centennial issue series, I’d immediately become engrossed in a conversation with two friendly designers — both of whom, coincidentally, were named Jenny. We were so enmeshed in our discussion of a possible 1960’s revolution-themed photo shoot, we didn’t notice our audience until it was too late.

“I think just focusing on the hippie, flower-girl angle is going to limit us. It’s tired, it’s been done before,” I told them, impassioned as the idea bloomed in my mind. “We need a fresh angle — something that focuses on the huge changes that happened in society during that decade.”

The two Jennys nodded in unison, their eyes thoughtful as they absorbed my words.

“Clothing evolved with the culture — we could explore the fashion revolution theme. From the refined elegance of Jackie Kennedy and Audrey Hepburn — arguably two of the classiest 1960’s icons — to the sexually liberated culture of the late 60’s, where everyday women were finally free to wear what they wanted — from mini-dresses to go-go boots,” I prattled on, foolishly unaware of the reason my two conversation partners had grown wide-eyed and silent. “I just think that would be more interesting than a photo spread of the same frizzy-haired, headband-wearing model, running through a field of tall grass in a flowing floral print dress.”

“Well, thankfully,” an icy voice snapped from behind me. “No one cares what you think.”

Shit. That tone of unparalleled bitchery was unmistakable.

I turned slowly, dreading the encounter, and came face-to-face with Cara, who dwarfed me ridiculously in her five-inch stilettos. I tried to shutter my annoyed expression but was likely unsuccessful, given the fact that Sebastian was standing immediately to her left, gazing at me stone-faced and giving me heart palpitations.

“You’re a nobody,” Cara sneered. “No one here wants your opinions. Why don’t you stop breathing my air. Oh, and go get me a latte while you’re at it. Double shot espresso, skim milk, extra foam, no whip.”

Bitch.

I felt my cheeks heat with embarrassment, and I could practically feel the sympathy radiating off the two Jennys, who had front-row seats to my humiliation. My gaze moved from Cara to Sebastian, who was staring at me with an unreadable look in his eyes. Obviously, I’d be getting no help from that front. I turned to leave, but stopped when I heard Sebastian’s voice.

“Wait, Ms. Kincaid.”

Ms. Kincaid? There was that forced formality again. I pivoted in place, meeting his eyes, which were as inscrutable as ever. Sebastian sighed and raised one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Cara, Ms. Kincaid is not here to fetch your coffee. She is not an intern. She’s a consultant and will be treated with the respect normally afforded one. She also reports to me, not you.” He didn’t bother to look at her, but his tone was cold, nearly scolding, as he spoke.

My eyebrows lifted in surprise and I heard Cara’s displeased huff, but didn’t tear my gaze away from Sebastian’s face. It was still fixed in what seemed to be a permanent frown.

“Cara, don’t you have a fitting to get to?” He may’ve phrased it as a question, but it was clearly an order. She cast one last scathing look at me before stomping away to yell at whatever poor soul had been assigned to do her fittings.

“Everyone!” Sebastian yelled, causing the thirty or so people in the room to fall instantly silent. “Huddle in for a minute. Morning meeting.”

I watched, fascinated, as designers, artists, assistants, and consultants all dropped what they were doing and rushed to the center of the room where we’d gathered. Sebastian commanded a lot of respect around here, that much was apparent. And though this wasn’t what Jeanine would consider an official meeting, considering we weren’t jammed into a small conference room listening to her drone on needlessly for a half hour, Sebastian’s short and sweet, informal approach seemed equally, if not more, effective.

“We’ll be working chronologically through the decades: the 1910’s through the 2010’s,” Sebastian said, once everyone was close enough to hear him. “Each decade gets a unique set, costumes, everything. Brainstorm new ideas, seek out fresh angles,” he said, locking eyes with me for a brief moment.