PART ONE
NEW YORK
Chapter 1
Tessa
Should I get bangs after this?
I study my emotional support mannequin across the floor, but the hollow expression on her plastic face is impossible to read. It’s probably too early in the day for inanimate telepathy, anyway.
Sucking in a deep breath, I will my frazzled nerves to settle. I’m one intrusive thought away from tossing my design in the shredder and fleeing the fashion studio for the salon. At least I have a backup plan.
Fail in fashion.
Cut all my hair off.
Start a new life.
I hear an exasperated sigh at my back, and I turn to find another junior designer standing behind me, breathing heavily on my soon-to-be-chopped hair. “Subway was down. But I made it!”
I glance at my watch and give her a tight smile. “With nearly a minute to spare.”
The designer chuckles, but the rest of the group hovering around the table remains silent. It appears I’m not the only one marinating in anxiety. The familiar scent of crippling fear and knock-off perfume wafts off the others as we all wait for our renderings to be assessed.
Just as I start to reach for the lip gloss in my pocket to keep my hands busy, the brand’s namesake arrives and a collective gulp echoes among us. Even the mannequins seem to be disassociating.
Lamont’s red-tinted sunglasses cast a scarlet glow across his deep brown skin as he joins us. His composed, brisk movements are a stark contrast to the frenzied, nervous shuffling of the design team. He begins lazily leafing through the submissions in front of him, pausing on a sketch of a mid-length asymmetrical dress with a green toile pattern. “If you plan to present patterns this loud in the future, do me the kindness of providing ear plugs.Undesirable, Austin.”
Our textile apprentice visibly droops like the plants I haven’t watered in my shoebox apartment. I didn’t even know succulentscouldwilt.
“Are your legs tired, Brooke?” Lamont’s voice is a hushed whisper, so Brooke leans in to hear him, her purple curls grazing the table.
“Um, from what?”
“Running away from good taste.Undesirable.”
Next to me, Peyton shifts nervously, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulders. My muscles tighten as she launches into an explanation before Lamont can say anything. “Okay, so, as you can see, I’m referencing culottesà laMiu Miu ‘02—the Fall/Winter couture? That seventies flair, but preppier and without the patch pockets, which I know you’ve been hating recently, so?—”
“Streaming services were really onto something with the ‘Skip Intro’ button, don’t you think?” he muses, not bothering to look up from the sketch containing hours of work—and probably a few of Peyton’s tears. “Undesirable.”
A secondhand pang of disappointment aches in my chest as Peyton’s face falls. As much as I want to be selected, I’d be thrilled if one of my friends’ designs were chosen. I rise on my tiptoes to check on the number of sketches left for Lamont to incinerate, and panic courses through me. Only four remain. Feeling very much like a piece of rotary sushi on a conveyer belt from Hell, I continue waiting in purgatory to meet my condemnation.
When Lamont holds up a design of a sleeveless yoke dress with a removable cape, I breathe a sigh of relief.
Not mine…yet.
Lamont sighs. “Shondra, is this your final sketch?”
I cringe at his most vicious critique yet. No designer would dare present something unfinished to Lamont. Shondra wordlessly nods, and I send up a silent prayer for her design, which will never see the light of day again.
“Undesirable.”
He always serves his critiques straight up with a shame chaser, but I’ve never heard Lamont quite this cutting. It’s been sixteen hours since an insider informed him thatPopovashowed a gown similar to our planned finale look at their private salon show. And with Milan Fashion Week looming, we only have three weeks to come up with something better.
Lamont doesn’t even bother to comment on the next two renderings, shuffling them to the side as if they’re cable bills.
Then, he pauses.
