There’s a particular kind of chaos that goes on backstage at a runway show. It’s controlled and curated, glistening with the illusion of effortlessness. All the while and just out of sight, a dozen interns frantically sprint around with garment bags, makeup artists have mascara-induced breakdowns, and creative directors bark orders like generals about to lose a war over the hemline of a silk trench.
I don’t mind the chaos. I helped build it. But tonight, as the newest Voss & Bartley collection takes its turn under the lights and the first model glides down the runway, I find myself only half-present. As I sit down in the audience, front and center, I’m not really watching the show. My eyes might follow the models, but my mind is elsewhere.
Because I know she’s here.
April’s seat is seven rows down, tucked in the left beside the lighting crew. She’s far enough away to pretend we’re strangers. It doesn’t surprise me considering she’s not spoken to me since she walked out of my office two days ago.
Apparently, she put in a WFH request for the last two days. She communicated through myassistant.
I should be focused on the show. There are critics, cameras, and a cluster of board members watching me. Among those are Joseph Brant and Karen Bartley, my late wife’s sister. She’s sitting directly behind me and slightly to my right, breathing down my neck like always.
Joseph leans into my space first. “The board knows,” he says, low enough for only me to hear. “Karen’s been talking. Just a heads-up.”
I don’t look at him. “Fine. Let them talk.”
He hesitates as a model passes right in front of us. “You have a solution?”
“I’m working on it,” I murmur.
He waits for me to say more, but I don’t give him anything else. Joseph is probably the only member of the board I genuinely get along with. When he backs away, I know he’s not going to pry further.
Karen, on the other hand, is less discreet.
She waits until there’s a quiet transition between walks to speak to me. Her voice is casual and as smooth as honey. Her black dress shimmers as I glance back at her. “Anthony,” she says.
“Karen.”
“You know I have the easiest solution for you.”
“I take it you were listening to me and Joseph just now,” I say dryly.
“You’re not exactly quiet,” she retorts, resting her chin on her palm on the back of my chair, way too close to my space. “You need an heir. A wife, a child, someone connected to Voss & Bartley to keep it all intact. Someone already partially in the family, even.”
I instantly whip my head around to look at her and say, “You’re joking.”
Her lips curve, but it’s not quite a smile. “I have frozen eggs. The board would approve. It would be easy. The legacy remains, and the business stays in the family. I don’t think Natalie would mind.”
The mention of her name makes me stiffen. “Natalie is dead. I don’t think skeletons canmindanything.”
“You know what I mean, Ant.”
“My answer is no,” I say flatly.
“No to the eggs, or no to me?”
I lock eyes with her, unflinching and headstrong. She looks far too much like Natalie and far too little like someone who actually cares. “Both,” I say.
She doesn’t recoil, but the steel that clearly slips into her posture tells me she wasn’t expecting me to be so blunt.
“I already have someone in mind. I’m sorting it.”
I slowly turn back to the runway, letting my gaze stop for just a second on April. I pull my phone from my pocket and send a text.
Me:
I’m surprised you showed up.
I turn my screen off and watch the runway. However, I’m waiting and wondering if she’ll even respond. A minute passes, then two, and then it vibrates in my hand.
