The waiter grins and walks away. The drinks arrive fast, jeweled and fizzing. And with a tiny umbrella. We clink glasses.
“To the future,” he says.
“And whatever it may hold,” I add. Truth is, I have no idea. And I’m a little scared.
The hostess returns with a woman. She’s elegant, late fifties, immaculate tailoring, and a poise that comes from being waited on, never waiting.
“Someone wanted to say hello,” the hostess says.
Her name lands like a headline. She’s Imani Dupré. I knew it before the hostess said it—everyone in plus-size fashion knows who she is. She’s one of the biggest names in the game, the woman who put god-tier suiting on bodies like mine and refused to call it a niche.
She’s glorious up close, dressed in a midnight silk moiré tuxedo wrap with a sculpted shawl collar, wide palazzo trousers that move like poured ink, a narrow leather obi belt knotted just off-center. Low stacked heels, a vintage gold cuff at one wrist, and a fountain-pen brooch clipped to her lapel like a private joke. Her silver hair is styled in a precise bob, skin luminous, makeup flawless. She has the kind of presence that hushes rooms without trying.
“Cassandra?” she says, smiling at me first, not Damien.
“I. Um.” I turn to Damien, looking for an explanation. He just smiles. He knows exactly what’s going on.
“I’m Imani, a friend of Damien’s.”
“Hello, Imani,” Damien says, his tone warm and familiar.
“Always a pleasure, Damien.”
She offers her hand, and I take it.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Now, far be it from me to intrude upon a date, but I was fortunate enough to see some of your recent sketches.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, you what?”
“The ones on your worktable,” Damien explains. “I took it upon myself to send some her way.”
I shoot him a look. He receives it without apologizing.
Imani’s smile sharpens. “Your lines are clean. You drape for curves instead of hiding them. That is rare. If you’re interested, my workshop is open after New Year’s. Come by. Sit with my pattern master. We’ll talk about an apprenticeship and credentials for your own label.” She hands me a card. My fingers do a tiny shake I hope nobody sees.
“I–are you serious?” I manage.
“Very serious,” she says, amused.
Damien nudges me softly. “Say yes.”
“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes, of course!”
“After New Year’s,” she reiterates. “Bring your ten best looks—and your spine.” She gives me a wink. “You’ll need both.” She squeezes my shoulder, nods to Damien, and walks away.
She’s gone before my pulse finishes tripping over itself. I sip my Clementine Star. The ginger sparks and settles me at the same time.
“Are you buying me success?” I ask, eyes narrowing.
“I’m opening a door,” he corrects. “You do the walking.”
“You showed her my work without asking.”
“I show people what I’m proud of,” he says unapologetically. It hits soft and hard at once.
The food arrives. Shaved fennel with seared scallops, edges just shy of caramel. Sourdough still breathing steam. I hum without meaning to.
“You’re timing my bites,” I say with a mock glare.
