Maybe a lot of paranoia.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it, expecting a text from my mom or Rev—I sent them both messages from the hospital letting them know I was okay.
It's Greer.
"Oh god," I mutter, sitting up straighter. "I completely forgot?—"
"What?"
"My collection. The deadline. Everything." I run a hand through my tangled hair, panic rising in my chest. "With everything that happened, I never followed up. She's probably been trying to reach me all day?—"
I answer the call before I can spiral further. "Greer, I'm so sorry, I?—"
"Dalla! Finally!" Her voice is bright, excited. Not angry. Relief floods through me. "I've been trying to reach you all afternoon. Are you okay? Your sister said there was some kind of family emergency."
Bless Rev and her quick thinking.
I make a mental note to thank her later.
"Yes, I'm fine. Everything's fine now. I'm sorry I went dark?—"
"Don't apologize, please. Family comes first. Always." She pauses, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "But I do have news that I think will make your day considerably better."
"News?"
"The samples from your collection arrived at the showroom yesterday. Dalla, they're stunning. Even better than I expected from the sketches, and I already had high expectations." She laughs at whatever sound I make. "The buyers who've seen them are already asking about orders."
My heart stutters. "Orders?"
"Multiple orders. From major retailers. We're talking Nordstrom, Saks, Neiman Marcus—they all want pieces." She's practically giddy now. "I told you your work was special. This collection is going to put you on the map, Dalla. We're talking features in Vogue, Elle, Harper's Bazaar. Runway shows. The whole thing."
I can barely process what she's saying.
After everything—the kidnapping, the terror, the violence—my career is somehow still moving forward.
My dreams are still coming true.
The sketches I submitted before everything went to hell have become something real, something wanted, something that might actually launch the career I've been working toward for years.
"I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll be in New York next month for the show. We're putting together something special—a showcase for emerging designers—and I want your collection front and center. Can you make that work?"
"I'll be there," I promise, my voice steadier than I feel. "Thank you, Greer. For everything. For believing in me."
"Thank you for proving me right." I can hear her smile. "Get some rest, okay? We'll talk details next week."
After I hang up, RJ is watching me with a curious expression. "Good news?"
"The best." I tell him about the orders, the features, the runway show in New York.
His face lights up as I speak, genuine happiness for my success.
No jealousy, no resentment—just pure, uncomplicated joy that good things are happening for me.
"I told you," he says. "Your work is brilliant. The world was going to see it eventually."
"We'll have to go to New York," I say. "For the show. Next month. Will you come with me?"
