Page 44 of Shattered Oath
"Yes, both. Femi, who can't be bothered to pick up a phone. And Matteo, who—" she gestured vaguely "—is clearly interested in you but is also a complication you don't need right now."
"Matteo isn't interested in me like that."
Naomi gave me a look that said she didn't believe me for a second.
"He's just friendly," I insisted. "Italian. They're like that."
"Isa."Her voice was patient but firm. "The man fed you dinner by candlelight, taught you to make wine with your hands touching, almost kissed you in a rainstorm, and then stood outside your door in the middle of the night deciding whether to knock." She raised an eyebrow. "That's not 'just friendly.' That's a man who's trying very hard not to make a move because he knows you're technically with someone else and he respects that."
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out.
"Focus on the boutique," Naomi said, gentler now. "You've worked too hard to let boy drama derail you. After the opening, when everything’s settled, you can sort out your love life. But right now? Right now, you're Isabelle Dubois, and you're about to take Milan by storm."
She was right. I knew she was right. The boutique had to come first. Everything else—Femi's silence, Matteo's almost-kiss, and my confused heart—it could all wait.
"Okay," I said, straightening my spine. "Boutique first. Men later."
"That's my girl." She squeezed my hand again. "Now. Is there food in this hotel? I'm starving, and airplane pretzels don't count as actual nutrition."
I ordered room service. We ate on my bed, plates balanced on our laps, talking about everything and nothing. Her shoot in Barcelona. The models arriving tomorrow. The last-minute adjustments I still needed to make.
Normal things. Safe things.
But underneath it all, in the quiet spaces between words, I was still thinking about a vineyard in Tuscany. About footsteps stopping outside my door. About the way my heart had jumped when I'd realized he was there, just on the other side of the wood, making a choice.
About the choice I'd been relieved he'd made.
And the choice I'd secretly wished he'd made instead.
9ISABELLE
The pinbetween my teeth tasted like metal and anxiety.
Slowly, I circled my model, Abby, studying the way the burgundy silk fell across her hips. Too much gathering on the left side. The fabric was pooling instead of draping, and pooling was amateur. Pooling was what happened when you rushed, when you stopped paying attention, when you let yourself get distracted by men and vineyards and almost-kisses?—
Focus.
I knelt and adjusted the hem, repositioning three pins before standing back to assess. Better. Not perfect, but better.
"Hold still," I said, removing the pin from my mouth. "I need to fix the waist."
Abby obeyed, her dark eyes tracking me in the mirror. She was nineteen, new to the industry, still learning how to be looked at without fidgeting. By the end of fashion week, she'd either develop the stillness or wash out. Most did.
Around us, the fitting room hummed with controlled chaos. Racks of garments lined the walls, organized by appearance order. Three makeup artists worked in the corner, their stations cluttered with brushes and palettes and enough product to painta small army. The air smelled like hairspray and coffee and the particular electricity that preceded a show.
I still couldn’t believe the boutique was opening. That the boutique was actually opening.
I made a small adjustment to Abby’s neckline and stepped back. The burgundy caught the light now, shifting from wine to blood to something darker. The cut was architectural—sharp shoulders, a plunging back, a skirt that moved like water when she walked.
"Turn."
She pivoted slowly, carefully. The dress followed a half-second behind, creating that ripple effect I'd spent weeks perfecting.
"Good." I nodded once, already mentally moving to the next adjustment. "You're done. Send in Margaux."
Abby stepped carefully off the platform and disappeared toward the changing area. I checked my phone. Two hours until doors opened. Two hours until every fashion editor, buyer, and influencer in Milan would be staring at my work, deciding whether Isabelle Dubois was the real thing or just another pretty girl playing designer.
No pressure.
