Read Chapter 9: THE FITTING

The model's name was Nina, and she had the patience of a saint.

For forty minutes, Camille and Julian argued around her body as though she were neutral territory.

"The waist is too low," Camille said.

"It's exactly where the sketch puts it."

"The sketch was wrong."

Julian crouched to examine the drape.

"The balance is wrong because you added two centimeters at the back."

"Because she needs to walk."

"Nina, walk."

Nina walked.

The dress twisted.

Camille sighed.

Julian looked up.

"Say it."

"No."

"Say I was right."

"I would rather destroy the sample."

Nina laughed.

They pinned, released, repinned.

It was the Margaret dress, inspired by a 1924 sketch but reworked into something unmistakably contemporary: charcoal silk wool, long sleeves, a narrow front, and a hidden side panel that opened during movement.

After another twenty minutes, the line finally settled.

Nina walked again.

This time the dress seemed to change shape around her without losing discipline.

Camille felt the familiar internal click.

There.

Julian stood beside her.

"There," he said.

She turned.

"You felt it."

"Of course."

The same word.

The same moment.

That was the problem.

They had begun finishing each other's visual sentences. Camille could tell when Julian was about to reject a fabric from the way he touched it. He could predict which of her sketches were serious from how quickly she turned the page.

Rivalry had become fluency.

Fluency had become intimacy.

After the fitting, Nina left. Mara left. The patternmaker took the garment to corrections.

Camille and Julian remained in the fitting room among mirrors.

"You know what Vale said to me?" Camille asked.

"More than you told me?"

"He said talent is portable."

Julian's reflection met hers.

"He would."

"I keep thinking about it."

"Because he's right."

She turned. "You agree?"

"People leave companies. Companies fail. Work survives sometimes."

"Then why are you fighting so hard for Bellwether?"

He looked at the empty dress form.

"Because portability isn't the same as belonging."

Camille felt the sentence settle inside her.

She had spent years believing freedom meant the ability to leave.

Paris. Antoine. Vautrin.

New York had been an act of departure before it became anything else.

"What if belonging makes you easy to control?" she asked.

"It can."

"And you still want it?"

"Yes."

His honesty stripped the question of elegance.

Camille stepped closer.

"So do I," she said.

Julian looked at her.

There was no conference-room door opening this time.

No one entered.

He touched her face with one hand, slowly enough that she could turn away.

She didn't.

The kiss was not careful.

Weeks of interruption made care impossible.

Camille gripped the front of his shirt. Julian backed her gently against the edge of the fitting platform, then stopped.

He broke the kiss first.

Their foreheads almost touched.

"We can't."

Camille's breath came unevenly.

"You are choosing an astonishing moment to become ethical."

"I'm your manager."

"Technically."

"Technically is how lawsuits happen."

She laughed despite herself.

He stepped back.

The distance felt physically wrong.

"What do you suggest?" she asked.

"I can ask Evelyn to change your reporting line."

"And tell her why?"

"Not necessarily."

"Evelyn Rowe has eyes."

"Unfortunately."

Camille sat on the platform.

"This is absurd."

"Yes."

"You are still competing for creative director."

His expression sharpened.

"Who told you?"

"No one. Everyone."

Evelyn had not formally announced succession, but Bellwether ran on rumors as efficiently as electricity. If the company survived, Julian was the obvious candidate.

Camille continued, "And if I become more visible, I become part of your competition."

"You're already part of my competition."

She looked up.

He said it without resentment.

That made her want him more.

"What do we do?"

Julian sat beside her, leaving six inches between them.

"Until the board vote?"

"Work."

"That is your solution to every emotional problem."

"It's worked badly but consistently."

Camille smiled.

"No more kissing?"

He looked at her mouth again.

"This conversation would be easier if you stopped asking questions you know I hate answering."

"No more kissing," she repeated.

"No more kissing."

They shook hands.

It was ridiculous.

His thumb brushed the side of hers.

Neither let go quickly enough.