Page 46 of Shattered Oath
"Back in New York with a sitter." Kim made a face. "Evie insisted she didn't need one. She's twelve, she's practically an adult, she can take care of herself and Zoe." She shook her head. "I told her I'd feel better knowing there was an actual adult present. She's still not speaking to me."
"She'll forgive you."
"Eventually. Probably." Kim pulled out her phone. "Actually, I should call them. Make sure they haven't burned the apartment down."
She stepped away, already dialing. Xavier watched her go with an expression I'd never seen on him before—soft, unguarded, completely besotted.
"You've got it bad," I said.
He didn't even try to deny it. "Completely. Utterly. Embarrassingly bad." He turned back to me. "She's it for me, Isa. I didn't know it could feel like this."
"Sickening."
"Absolutely disgusting." He grinned. "I recommend it highly."
Kim's voice drifted over from the corner, warm and patient: "Yes, sweetheart, I know you're not a baby. I just—No, Zoe, you cannot have ice cream for dinner. Because I said so. That's why."
Xavier's grin widened. "Duty calls." He kissed my cheek. "Go be brilliant. We'll be cheering from the front row."
He went to join Kim, slipping an arm around her waist as she negotiated dessert protocols with a five-year-old. They looked good together. Right. Like puzzle pieces that had finally found their match.
I turned back to the fitting room.
Naomi stood on the platform.
My breath caught.
She had taken out her braids, her natural hair loose and forming a halo around her face. The afro was magnificent—full and wild and unapologetically her. Against it, the halter dress I'd designed looked even better than I'd imagined.
A blend of green, burgundy and silver, cut on the bias, with hand-sewn crystals scattered across the bodice like constellations. The back dipped low, nearly to her waist, while the front maintained an elegant modesty. It was romantic without being precious. Sexy without being obvious.
It was the best thing I'd ever made.
"Well?" Naomi arched an eyebrow at my reflection, her lips curved in amusement. "Are you going to stand there staring, or are you going to tell me how incredible I look?"
"You look incredible."
"I know. But it's nice to hear." She turned slowly, letting the silk catch the light. "This dress is obscene, Isa. In the best way. I'm going to break hearts."
"That's the plan."
A production assistant appeared at my elbow. "Thirty minutes to doors, Ms. Dubois."
The world narrowed to a single point.
I moved through the final preparations in a trance. Checked the lineup. Verified the music cues. Made sure every model knew their marks and timing, and the precise angle at which to pause at the end of the runway.
Twenty minutes. The makeup artists made final touches.
Fifteen minutes. The models lined up backstage in order, a parade of silk and excited energy.
Ten minutes. I could hear the crowd now—the murmur of voices, the rustle of programs, the click of cameras being tested, the particular frequency of anticipation.
Five minutes.
I stood in the wings and watched the lights dim. The music swelled—something orchestral, building slowly, a heartbeat accelerating toward release.
The first model walked.
