Read Chapter 28: The Board's Verdict

The conference room at Maison Lumière had never felt smaller. Meiling stood at the back, arms crossed, watching the twelve faces around the mahogany table shift like weather. Devereux sat at the head, his silver hair catching the morning light, a man accustomed to winning before the argument began.

“We have a licensing deal that covers the debt,” he said, sliding a paper across the table. “But the deal is contingent on delivery of a collection that doesn’t exist yet. The artisans have been working around the clock for three days. That’s not a business plan. That’s a prayer.”

Antoine remained seated, his hands flat on the table. “The collection exists in every way that matters. It’s being sewn. It will be finished.”

“Finished by when?” Clothilde’s voice cut through. She had her binder in front of her, unopened, as always. “Fashion week is in nine days. The vote was scheduled for this morning because the consortium is prepared to make an offer by Friday. If we don’t decide now, we lose leverage.”

Meiling stepped forward. “If we sell now, we lose everything. The archive, the ateliers, the name. The Belgian deal gives us runway. The collection gives us proof. The only thing we lack is time, and time is the one thing we can buy if the board holds its nerve for one week.”

Devereux turned to her, a thin smile on his lips. “And what happens in one week, Ms. Lin? You show a collection that no one has seen, to press that no one has confirmed, in a space that’s been closed for renovations since your arrival?”

“The space is ready,” Antoine said. “I’ve been there every night. The carpenters finished yesterday. The lighting rig is installed. The invitations were hand-delivered this morning.”

A murmur rippled across the table. Clothilde’s brow furrowed.

“You sent invitations without board approval?” Devereux asked.

“I sent invitations as the creative director of this house,” Antoine replied. “A role this board confirmed when I was appointed. I did not believe approval was required to do my job.”

The silence stretched. Meiling watched the board members trade glances. Some had softened since the press conference—she could see it in the way they no longer flinched at Antoine’s name. But Devereux’s faction was still solid. She could count them: six. Maybe seven with Clothilde, whose loyalty remained impossible to read.

“The question before us,” Devereux said, “is whether to proceed with the consortium’s offer or to gamble on a fashion show that may not happen.”

“It will happen,” Meiling said. “And I’ll stake my reputation on it.”

“Your reputation runs with the Chinese subsidiary,” Clothilde said quietly. “You’ll be reassigned in three months regardless.”

The words landed like a slap. Meiling felt Antoine’s eyes on her, but she didn’t look at him.

“My reassignment is irrelevant,” she said. “What matters is that I have a relationship with the Belgian house. They’ve signed conditional papers. They’ve wired the first tranche. They’re waiting for a single shipment to release the rest. That shipment is the collection. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Devereux leaned back. “And if the collection fails?”

“Then you sell the house to the consortium at a price that’s already been negotiated, and no one in this room is worse off than they are today.”

Another murmur. Meiling saw the shift—the arithmetic working in their minds. The deal on the table was still there. They weren’t losing anything by waiting. They were only gaining information.

“She’s proposing a hedge,” Devereux said, his tone almost amused. “A one-week delay on a liquidation that benefits everyone.”

“I’m proposing you let the house prove it can stand on its own,” Meiling said. “If it can’t, it won’t be the first couture house to fail. But if it can, you’ll have sold at a valuation three times what the consortium is offering. That’s not a prayer. That’s math.”

The board chairman, a quiet man named Aubert who had said almost nothing in every meeting Meiling had attended, finally spoke. “I’d like to see the collection.”

Antoine stood. “Then come.”

The atelier was chaos organized into purpose. Twenty artisans bent over tables, needles flashing, fabric cascading like water frozen mid-fall. The air smelled of steam and starch. In the corner, the silk scarf from the archive hung framed, Lèa’s photograph beside it.

Aubert walked the room slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. He stopped at a table where a young woman was hand-beading a bodice, the pattern intricate as a constellation. He touched the fabric lightly.

“This is the capsule collection?” he asked.

“The first of three,” Antoine said. “We’re calling it ‘Foundations.’ Each piece reinterprets a garment from the archive, remade with contemporary lines. The story is the house itself—the hand that built it, the hands that keep it.”

Aubert turned to face the board, now gathered at the atelier entrance. “I’ve sat on this board for nineteen years. I’ve voted to close three ateliers. I’ve never once seen a garment being made in this building.” He paused. “I’d like to see it finished.”

Devereux’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing as the vote was called. Hands rose. Nine for suspension. Four against. The sale was paused pending the outcome of fashion week, with a review meeting in one month.

The board filed out, Clothilde last, her binder still unopened under her arm. She paused at the door and looked back at Meiling. “You’ve bought yourself a month,” she said. “Make it count.”

The door closed.

Meiling exhaled. Her hands were trembling. She pressed them flat against her thighs to still them.

Antoine was across the room, watching her. She felt his gaze like a hand on her spine.

“You did it,” he said, walking toward her.

“We did it.”

He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could see the flecks of grey at his temples that she hadn’t noticed when she’d arrived. “You have a month,” he said. “Then what?”

“Then you’ll have a successful show, a licensing deal, and a board that trusts you. You won’t need me anymore.”

“Is that what you think will happen?”

The question hung between them. Meiling heard the edge in his voice—not accusation, but something closer to worry.

“What I think,” she said slowly, “is that I’ve never stayed anywhere long enough to find out what happens after.”

Antoine reached up and touched the collar of her jacket, smoothing it with thumb and forefinger. “Then maybe this is the time to start.”

Meiling felt the warmth of his hand, the weight of his words. She wanted to lean in. She wanted to tell him she had no plans to leave.

Instead, her phone buzzed against the counter. She glanced down. A message from her New York office, flagged urgent.

*Need your post-assignment preferences by Friday. Three new projects are being scouted in Shanghai, Mumbai, and Dubai. Please advise.*

She read it twice. Then she looked up at Antoine.

“Everything all right?” he asked.

Meiling put the phone away, face carefully blank. “The office is confirming my next project. I’ll handle it.”

Antoine’s eyes searched hers, and she knew he recognized the lie for what it was. But he didn’t press—he simply nodded, turning back toward the atelier, where the seamstresses were waiting for the board’s departure to return to their work.

Meiling stood alone in the doorway and watched him go, her hand pressed over the phone in her pocket.

One month to prove everything.

And one message that told her she might not be around to see it.