Part of me wants him tortured by it. Part of me wants him on his knees, begging for forgiveness.
And another part—the softest, most vulnerable part—wants him at my door, telling me he made a mistake. That this time, he’d fight for me. That he’d do anything to make things right, and to hell with his marriage contract or his dad’s expectations.
But I’m not that girl anymore. I won't wait. I don’t need rescuing, and I can’t afford that kind of weakness—not in a world that’s already shown me how easily it chews you up, strips you bare, and spits you out like its nothing.
“Lily!”
I barely have a chance to turn before Isabella wraps me in a hug, air kissing my cheeks, her perfume enveloping me. She pulls back, quirking a razor-thin eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips.
“Busy girl,” she purrs. “How was your weekend?”
I arch a brow. “Productive.”
She laughs, linking her arm through mine. Isabella is a poster child for old money—razor-thin, immaculately styled, always sporting some new piece from a designer’s unreleased collection. She’s also my closest friend here, and from the moment we met on our first day of classes seven months ago, she made it her mission to help me adapt to Lyon.
Luckily, choosing one of the few international universities saved me the embarrassment of completely butchering the language. Still, having Isabella to teach me the basics—and occasionally drag me out of a café before I ordered something unpronounceable—has been a godsend.
“You should’ve come to Club Nouveau. The DJ was mediocre, but the boys?Magnifique,” she teases, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder.
“Oh, darling, you wouldn’t have stood a chance if I had.” I sip my coffee as we stride through the wrought iron gates of the university.
She gasps, playfully scandalized. “Rude.”
As she chatters about some model-turned-DJ she nearly went home with, I only half-listen, still caught on images of Matt and how easily he slips under my skin.
“Are you even listening to me?” Isabella groans, tugging my wrist just before we enter the design studios.
“Of course. You almost went home with a walking red flag in vintage Versace. What’s new about that?” I retort playfully, dodging her bony elbow and tossing my empty cup in the bin before heading into our first class. Spying Jamie, the missing third of our trio, we make a beeline to his table.
Madame Adele André is already at the front of the studio, heels clicking, eyes sharp beneath her signature blunt fringe. She’s only a decade older than us and already a legend in the fashion industry—a woman who can silence an entire room with a single flick of her perfectly manicured hand.
“Today we finalise the designs,” she announces, her clipped French accent making every word land with surgical precision. Her gaze sweeps across the tables, measuring, assessing, cutting through excuses before anyone can breathe them into existence.
“After today, there is no more time for re-dos. I want clean, complete base patterns. Pieces you are confident enough to begin manipulating next week.”
A couple of students straighten instinctively. Someone swallows hard. Her words settle over the room like a deadline made of stone.
This is my favourite part—the quiet arithmetic of creativity, the geometry of design.
By the end of the two-hour class, my fingers are raw from tracing seam allowances and redrawing darts, but my pattern is perfect. The back has a single bias-cut panel that’ll skim the model’s spine like a whisper, and I’ve draped it to move like water. I can already see it in duchess silk—champagne pink, maybe with a matte finish to contrast a pearl-threaded bustier.
“You’ve got a look like you’re in love,” Jamie drawls as we spill out into the courtyard, the sun bouncing off pale stone buildings, scooters whining in the distance.
“Just imagining the design brought to life,” I confess, sliding my sunglasses into place. The late afternoon warmth settles over me like silk. “Though it does mean I need to sort out a model.”
“You still haven’t picked your model?” Isabella demands, clutching her sketchbook to her chest as her eyes go wide. “Lily, it’s beenweeks. The showcase is less than two months away. We should have measurements by now. At this point, you’ll end up with some kid who doesn’t know which end of the runway is which.”
“I had someone and I started making it with her measurements in mind,” I say carefully, fingers fussing with the frame of my glasses. “But Adele vetoed it.”
“Who?” Jamie leans closer, his voice dropping, and his eyes glinting with mischief beneath artfully mussed blond hair.
“Moi.”
Isabella lets out a strangled noise and immediately launches into a passionate rant about how designers should create the fantasy, not become it.
Jamie, however, only smirks. “She’s not wrong. But… if anyone could pull it off, it’s you.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Especially in champagne silk. Thigh slit?”
“Mid-thigh, corset bodice, with a structured hip detail.”
