Page 45 of Shattered Oath
Margaux appeared in the emerald piece—the one I'd almost scrapped three times before finally getting it right. The bodice was beaded by hand, thousands of tiny crystals that caught light like scattered stars. It had taken my team in London four months to complete.
"Arms up."
She raised them. I checked the seams, the invisible closure, the way the beading lay flat against her ribs. Everything had to be flawless. Tonight wasn't just about selling clothes. It was about proving something—to the industry, to the critics, to myself.
My father's voice drifted through my mind, unbidden.A little boutique.
I thought about that moment sometimes, especially on nights like this when I was about to cross what had initially seemed like an impossible milestone. It was my origin story. The story I'd tell my children and their children after that. The moment everything changed.
At that moment, I’d truly thought it was the end of the world, or the end of me.
We were at some restaurant in Manhattan with white tablecloths and waiters who refilled water glasses before you even noticed they were empty. I'd spent weeks preparing my pitch, practicing in mirrors, anticipating every objection. I'd asked for a loan to open my first boutique. Just a small one in London. Modest square footage. Nothing extravagant.
He'd laughed. Actually laughed, like I'd told a joke.
A little boutique,he'd said, shaking his head with paternal amusement.That's sweet, Isabelle. But when you're ready to do something serious, come talk to me about the hotel business.
I wanted to throw my water in his face. Instead, I'd excused myself, gone to the bathroom, and cried for exactly three minutes. Then I'd fixed my makeup and returned to the table with perfect composure.
He'd never taken me seriously. Never seen me as anything more than an ornament—beautiful, decorative, ultimately forgettable. My brothers got groomed for the business while I got groomed for an advantageous marriage to someone else’s empire.
But here was the thing about being underestimated: it made you mean. It made you hungry. Every dismissal became fuel. Every patronizing comment became a promise I made to myself.
Watch me.
He'd died before I could show him. Before the London boutique took off, before Vogue came calling, before any of it. Sometimes I wondered if that was better or worse—never having to see his face when he realized he'd been wrong about me. Never getting to saylook what this little girl did.
I hadn't hated him. That was the complicated part, the thing that kept me up some nights. He'd loved me in his way, limited and conditional as it was. He just couldn't imagine a world where his daughter was capable of building something real.
"Isabelle?" Margaux was watching me in the mirror. "Is something wrong with the dress?"
I blinked, pulling myself back to the present. Refocused.
"No. It's perfect. You're done."
I moved through the remaining models with mechanical precision. Check the fit. Adjust the hem. Verify the accessories. Each dress was a piece of the puzzle, building toward the finale, building toward Naomi in the showstopper I'd been dreaming about for months.
The door opened and Xavier's head appeared.
"Special delivery," he announced, stepping inside with Kim close behind. "One extremely nervous designer's family, as requested."
I crossed the room and hugged him tight. He smelled like expensive cologne, his jacket slightly rumpled from the flight.
"You made it."
"Wouldn't miss it for anything." He pulled back, hands on my shoulders, studying my face with concern. "You look terrified."
"I'm not terrified. I'm focused."
"Same thing, Issy." He grinned, and for a moment he looked exactly like the boy who used to steal cookies from the kitchen and blame it on Sebastian. "The place looks incredible, by the way. Very fancy. Very you."
Kim stepped forward and wrapped me in a hug. Her perfume was soft, floral—the same one she always wore. "How are you feeling? Honestly?"
"Like I might throw up."
"That's completely normal. I felt the same way before my first big presentation at work." She squeezed my hands, her grip warm and anchoring. "You're going to be brilliant."
"Where are the girls?" I asked, glancing toward the door. "I thought you were bringing them."
