"Dalla."
I blink.
Greer is watching me, her wine glass paused halfway to her lips. "Sorry?"
"I asked about your spring line sketches. The ones you sent last month."
Right. Work. Safe territory.
"We've moved three of them into development. The asymmetrical coat is testing well with the focus groups, and the draped blouse is already getting interest from buyers."
Greer nods slowly. "And the others?"
"Still refining."
"Mm." She sets down her glass. "You're too careful with them."
The words hit like a slap. "I—what?"
"You're too careful. You sand down the edges until they're safe. Marketable." She says the word like it tastes sour. "But the raw versions—the first sketches you send me, before you second-guess yourself—those have fire. Those have vision."
I don't know what to say. My throat feels tight.
"Tomorrow," Greer continues, "I want to see the work you're afraid to show me. The pieces you think are too strange. Too bold. Tooyou." Her eyes hold mine. "Can you do that?"
I swallow hard. "Yes."
"Good."
She returns to her wine, and the conversation moves on, but I can barely breathe.
The pieces I'm afraid to show her.
The collection I brought—the personal one, the one that feels like my own bones and blood—suddenly feels like both a gift and a grenade.
After dinner, I escape to the gardens.
The evening air is cool against my skin, carrying the scent of jasmine and fresh-cut grass.
Gravel crunches under my feet as I follow a winding path away from the house, past sculpted hedges and stone benches, toward the soft golden glow of the stables in the distance.
I need to breathe.
I need to think.
I need to stop my heart from trying to beat out of my chest.
Greer's words keep circling in my head.
Too careful. You sand down the edges.
She's right. The worst part is Iknowshe's right.
Every time I create something that feels truly mine, I hear the voices.
My mother asking why I couldn't just be happy with a stable career.
My father's silent disappointment when I dropped out of med school.
