"Yes."
"Why?"
I swallowed hard. "Because it's mine. Really mine. Not an interpretation of your vision or what I think buyers want. It's... me. Every piece is something I needed to create. Something I couldn't not make."
Greer leaned back in her chair, studying me the way she'd studied my sketches.
I felt like a butterfly pinned under glass—examined, catalogued, judged.
"Dalla," she said, "in my almost forty years of this industry, I've learned one thing above all else: the work that terrifies you is the work that matters. The pieces you're afraid to show are the pieces that change everything." She paused. "Fear is a compass. It points directly at what matters most."
My breath caught.
"This collection is exceptional. Bold, uncompromising, utterly original." A faint smile curved her lips—the first smileI'd seen from her all morning. "I believe I used those exact words to describe what I look for in my designers. You've exceeded every expectation I had for you."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything but stare at her like an idiot.
"We'll discuss production timelines after the showing today. I want this collection in our fall lineup. Full production, not limited release." She picked up her reading glasses again, sliding them back on. "Now go get ready. You have work to present."
I floated out of that room.
I don't remember my feet touching the ground.
All I could think was: I did it. She loved it. Everything is about to change.
I called Rev from the hallway, barely able to get the words out.
She screamed so loud Doran probably heard it from the other side of the estate.
We laughed. We cried.
We made plans to celebrate that night with champagne and too much dessert.
Five hours later, everything did change.
Just not the way I'd imagined.
A knock on the bathroom door jerks me back to the present.
"Dalla?" Rev's voice, tight with worry. "Can I come in?"
I take a shaky breath. "Yeah."
The door opens and my sister slips inside, closing it behind her.
She's changed out of the dress she wore to the showing—she's in jeans now, an oversized sweater, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun.
She looks younger like this. Softer.
More like the girl I grew up with and less like the mafia wife she's become.
"Hey," she says quietly.
"Hey."
She crosses to me and pulls me into a hug without another word.
I sag against her, pressing my face into her shoulder, and for a moment I'm not twenty-six years old.
