I stared at her. Around the table, silence stretched uncomfortably. Rebecca looked like she'd swallowed something sour, and David was checking his phone as if to avoid eye contact.
But I felt something shift inside my chest, a recognition that was almost physical.She gets it.She understood something about my work that I'd never been able to articulate, even to myself.
"That's..." I started, then paused, studying her face. "That's exactly right. I've never been able to put it into words, but that's what I've been trying to do—help people discover who they already are, not sell them someone else's dream."
"If you're interested in the psychological aspects of clothing and identity, you should look at Joanne Entwistle's work," Vivienne said, her passion making her voice quicker, more animated. "And there's this wonderful book by Elizabeth Wilson called Adorned in Dreams that explores the relationship between fashion and culture. Oh, and if you really want to understand how clothing functions as communication, Roland Barthes wrote some fascinating pieces on the semiotics of fashion."
I found myself making mental notes, genuinely intrigued by the recommendations.When was the last time someone had given me homework? When had anyone assumed I might actually want to learn something new?
I adjusted the black leather gloves on my hands—still stiff from being relatively new, not yet broken in to my usual comfortable fit—and realized I was leaning forward, hanging on her every word in a way that would have surprised me an hour ago.
"I'll look into those," I said, and meant it.
The conversation moved on to more general topics as our meals arrived, but I found my attention repeatedly drawn back to Vivienne. The way she listened—really listened—when others spoke. How she asked thoughtful questions instead of just waiting for her turn to talk. The genuine delight she took in the perfectly prepared lamb, the way she closed her eyes briefly when she tasted the sauce, as if she were cataloging the flavors.
She was real in a way that made everyone else at the table seem slightly performative.
When the check arrived, I barely glanced at it before placing my card down. It was expected—I always ended up paying when my colleagues suggested dinner meetings like this. But Vivienne leaned forward, her brow furrowed with concern.
"Wait," she said quietly. "I should pay for my portion. I wasn't part of the original plan."
I looked up, surprised. "That's not necessary."
"But I want to," she insisted. "You already rescued me tonight. I can't let you pay for my dinner too."
Around the table, my colleagues exchanged glances. The concept of someone offering to pay their own way at one of my dinners was apparently so foreign they didn't know how to process it.
"I appreciate the offer," I said carefully, "but I've got it covered."
"At least let me get the tip then," Vivienne said, already reaching for her purse.
"Vivienne." The way I said her name made her look up, meeting my eyes directly. "It's handled. But thank you for offering."
She held my gaze for a moment longer, then nodded reluctantly. But I could see in her expression that she was keeping mental notes, probably planning to find some other way to repay what she saw as a debt.
When was the last time someone wanted to pay me back for anything?
As we finished our meals, David cleared his throat. "So, Julian, what do you say we hit that new rooftop bar downtown? I heard they have an incredible whiskey selection."
"And the view is supposed to be amazing," Jane added. "We could continue discussing the campaign strategy."
I glanced around the table at the expectant faces. They were assuming I'd pay for another round of drinks, another venue, another few hours of them telling me what they thought I wanted to hear or to force their own agenda. The assumption was so automatic, so ingrained, that they didn't even bother to make it a question.
How long have I been letting this happen?
The thought hit me with uncomfortable clarity. David had suggested The Orpheum for tonight's dinner, but of course I had to get my assistant Roy to make the reservation—I was the member, not any of them. David got the credit for choosing an exclusive venue, I got the bill. How many times had I played this role? How many people had built their social lives around my wallet, my connections, my status?
"Actually," I said, placing my napkin beside my plate, "I think I'll call it an early night. But you all should go ahead."
The disappointment was barely concealed, but they quickly rallied. Rebecca was already pulling out her phone, probably to make reservations elsewhere, and I was certain David was already calculating how to expense the evening to his company.
I stood, helping Vivienne with her chair. "Shall we?"
We made our way out of the restaurant, leaving my colleagues to their continued evening plans. The night air was cool against my face, and I realized I felt lighter than I had in weeks.When was the last time I'd left a business dinner early? When had I last chosen my own company over obligation?
"My car is just here," I said, gesturing toward where my driver waited beside a sleek black sedan. "Can I give you a ride home? You've been drinking, and I'd feel better knowing you got there safely."
Vivienne smiled, a genuine expression that reached her eyes. "That's very thoughtful, but I took a cab here. And my last drink was..." She paused, thinking. "Wow, actually about two hours ago. But I was planning to take a cab home anyway."
