“Next door to the hotel,” I tell them.
“Let me go outside first and scope it out,” Arson offers, pushing ahead of us. He exits the hotel, leaving Tony and me with Piston.
“How did the meetings go?” he asks.
“Fine, a few of the buyers showed interest in our designs. One wasn’t very nice, but in fairness, my designs wouldn’t work in her stores.”
The late afternoon air is crisp as we step out of the hotel, the glass doors whispering shut behind us. Piston and Arson automatically flank Tony and me, forming a wall of muscle and menace as we head down the sidewalk. The hotel sits on a busy downtown corner—brick buildings, streetlamps just starting to glow, traffic humming past in steady waves.
The coffee shop next door is all exposed brick and tall windows, slightly fogged from the espresso machines working overtime. Edison bulbs hang from thick cords, casting everything in amber light. It smells like roasted beans and sugar.
Piston opens the door for me. Arson scans the street before following us in.
Inside, a small cluster of reporters has already claimed the long farmhouse table near the back. Laptops open. Recorders ready. Not a huge media turnout, but enough to matter.
Tony squeezes my hand briefly. “We’ll divide and conquer.”
I nod. We split—him drifting toward two reporters near the pastry case while I head to the long table.
A woman with a sleek bob and sharp eyeliner smiles at me. “Zara Sutherland? I’m Elise from Style Current.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Recorders click on.
“Your designs are bold,” she says. “Structured. Almost defiant. What motivates that aesthetic?”
I wrap my hands around the paper cup someone slides toward me, grounding myself in the warmth. “I grew up around clothing,” I begin. “My father owns a small clothing store. Nothing glamorous—just a neighborhood shop—but he treated it like a boutique. I used to help him choose inventory. I’d sit on the counter with catalogs spread everywhere, telling him what women would feel powerful in.”
Elise smiles. “How old were you?”
“Ten. Maybe younger.” I laugh softly. “I didn’t know I was developing a design philosophy. I just knew I hated when women came in and apologized for taking up space.”
A murmur of approval ripples around the table.
“So your pieces are about reclaiming space?” another reporter asks—a man with tortoiseshell glasses and a velvet blazer.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Armor doesn’t have to be cold. Strength doesn’t cancel out femininity.”
Across the shop, I catch sight of Tony. He’s animated, hands moving as he talks, charming one reporter, then pivoting seamlessly to another. He looks at ease—like he was born for this part of the business. For a second, it steadies me.
“And you studied abroad?” Elise prompts.
“Yes. I attended design school in Auckland.” The word alone pulls up memories—wind off the harbor, long studio nights, learning to trust my instincts. “Moving that far from homeforced me to define my voice. I couldn’t lean on my father’s store or familiar influences. I had to decide what I wanted my work to say.”
“And what does it say?”
Before I can answer, I notice Elise’s gaze flick past me. Her expression shifts—subtle, but there. Curiosity sharpening into something else.
The noise level in the shop dips.
I turn.
Six men stand just inside the entrance.
Leather kuttes. Club patches bold against worn denim. Heavy boots tracking in city grit. They don’t belong in this soft-lit, indie coffee haven—and they know it.
The Bushrangers.
