Read Chapter 10: PARIS CALLING

The offer from Paris arrived three days later.

Maison Arnaud wanted Camille for a permanent senior designer role.

The salary was good. The title was better. The visa problem would disappear because there would be no visa.

She read the email twice before closing it.

At lunch, she called the recruiter from the stairwell.

"We've followed your work at Bellwether," the woman said in French. "Your capsule is getting attention."

"It's not released."

"Fashion is a small city pretending to be an industry."

Camille smiled.

Arnaud wanted an answer within a week.

That evening, Sophie called.

"You could come home."

"I could."

"That sounded less angry than last time."

"Perhaps I am maturing."

"Impossible."

Camille sat on the floor beside her bed in Greenpoint, looking at sketches taped to the wall.

Paris was certainty.

New York was a temporary contract inside a company considering sale.

The rational choice was so obvious it made her suspicious.

At work the next morning, Julian noticed within ten minutes.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You've drawn the same sleeve four times."

"It may be a very important sleeve."

He waited.

Camille sighed.

"Arnaud offered me a job."

Julian did not move.

"In Paris?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"Good house."

"I know."

"Good role?"

"Senior designer."

"That's good."

She stared at him.

"Could you sound more pleased?"

"I am trying."

"Why?"

"Because it is a good offer."

She wanted him to say stay.

The wanting embarrassed her.

"Vale offered me uncertainty in New York. Arnaud offers me certainty in Paris."

"Then you should evaluate both."

"That is very managerial."

"I'm not your manager anymore."

She blinked.

"What?"

"I spoke to Evelyn. As of this morning, you report to her for the duration of the acquisition review."

Camille's pulse accelerated.

"Why?"

Julian met her eyes.

"You know why."

The room around them seemed louder.

Camille lowered her voice.

"So now?"

"Now what?"

She hated him.

"Nothing."

"Camille."

She stood.

He followed her into the sample corridor, away from the main studio.

"You changed my reporting line because we kissed once?"

"Because I want to kiss you again."

The bluntness stopped her.

Julian continued, quieter.

"And because whether anything happens or not, I don't want your career decisions contaminated by the fact that I sign your reviews."

Camille leaned against a shelf of fabric rolls.

"That may be the most responsible thing anyone has ever said to me. It is deeply irritating."

"I had a feeling."

"What about Paris?"

His face changed.

"What about it?"

"Tell me what you think."

"I think Arnaud is a strong house. I think you'd be good there."

"And?"

"And I think if I ask you to stay, every reason becomes impossible to separate."

She looked at him.

"Maybe I am asking what you want, not what I should do."

Julian inhaled.

"I want you here."

There it was.

Simple.

Terrifying.

"Professionally?" she asked.

"No."

The space between them vanished.

This kiss was slower.

Not less hungry, but chosen.

Julian's hands settled at her waist. Camille touched the back of his neck. The shelves, the fluorescent light, the office sounds beyond the door—all of it remained ordinary, which somehow made the moment more intimate.

When they separated, Camille rested her forehead against his chest.

"This is still a terrible idea."

"Yes."

"Good."

"Why good?"

"I would be concerned if we had lost all judgment."

His laugh moved beneath her cheek.

Then his phone rang.

Evelyn.

He answered.

Camille watched his face change.

"When?" he said.

A pause.

"We'll be there."

He hung up.

"What happened?"

"The board moved the vote."

"To when?"

"Monday."

It was Thursday.

Their three weeks had become four days.

Julian looked toward the studio.

"We need the presentation finished tomorrow."

Camille straightened.

"Then we finish it."

The kiss remained between them, bright and unresolved.

So did Paris.

But for the next thirty-six hours, there was only Bellwether.

Before the board vote, however, there was one more problem.

At three on Sunday afternoon, Leonard from finance discovered that one of Julian's charts used wholesale projections that had been updated after the design team exported its deck. The difference was not catastrophic. It was worse: small enough to look careless.

Julian swore, deleted three slides, and began rebuilding.

Camille watched him for ten minutes.

"You are panicking."

"I am correcting data."

"You are correcting data as though your ancestors will be judged."

"They might."

She moved his laptop away.

"Stand up."

"No."

"Mercer."

"Laurent."

She pulled the power cable from the wall.

He stared at her.

"That was dramatic."

"You have been looking at percentages for four hours. Walk."

They went downstairs.

Seventh Avenue was cold and bright. The city did what it always did when a private crisis felt enormous: nothing. Tourists took photographs. A delivery cyclist shouted at a taxi. Someone sold roasted nuts from a cart.

Camille bought two coffees.

Julian looked offended by his.

"This tastes like melted plastic."

"It is medicinal."

They walked one block without discussing Bellwether.

Then two.

At the corner, Camille said, "If Northstar wins tomorrow, what will you do?"

"I don't know."

"That is your third 'I don't know' this month. I am documenting the decline."

He ignored her.

"What will you do?"

Camille looked at the people waiting to cross.

"Maybe Paris. Maybe another house here. Maybe I finally start something small and impossible."

"A label?"

"Perhaps."

"You've thought about it."

"Everyone in design thinks about it."

"Not everyone thinks about supply chain before they think about a name."

She looked at him.

"You've thought about my imaginary label?"

"Occupational hazard."

The light changed.

They crossed.

Camille said, "I would call it nothing with my surname."

"Good."

"Why?"

"Because then people would call it 'Laurent' anyway and you'd spend ten years correcting them."

She laughed.

At the next corner, Julian stopped.

"If Northstar wins, don't let this become evidence that coming here was a mistake."

She studied him.

"I wasn't planning to."

"Good."

"But you were."

He looked away.

Camille understood.

Bellwether failing would wound him as if all eleven years had been retroactively foolish.

She touched his sleeve.

"Work is not validated only by whether the institution survives it."

He gave her a tired smile.

"That sounds suspiciously like something I would say."

"I improve your ideas."

"Constantly."

When they returned upstairs, Julian corrected the projections in twenty minutes.

The revised slide was cleaner.

Camille did not point this out.

He did.