The gala was Saturday evening, held at the Victoria and Albert Museum because apparently my life had become the kind of absurdity where I launched fashion collections in museums. Naomi was walking the show—she'd insisted, even though she'd technically retired from runway work two years ago.
"It's for charity," she'd said. "And also, I look incredible in that emerald dress. You can't waste that on someone else."
She wasn't wrong.
I arrived three hours early to oversee the setup. The space was stunning—vaulted ceilings, marble floors, my pieces displayed on platforms like sculptures. Each one lit perfectly, each angle considered. My team moved around me with the precision of a military operation.
"The caterer wants to confirm wine selection," Meg said, appearing at my elbow with her tablet.
"Tell them whatever they chose is fine. I don't have time for wine opinions."
"They're insisting someone approve the vintage. Apparently, the supplier is very particular about his wines being presented correctly." She emphasized the word 'particular' in a way that suggested she'd already had this conversation multiple times.
I sighed, long and suffering. "Fine. Where are they?"
She pointed toward the far end of the gallery, where a makeshift bar was being assembled. I walked over, mentally running through my checklist—lighting, music cues, model lineup?—
And stopped.
Matteo Rossi was standing behind the bar, examining a bottle of red wine. He was wearing a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark trousers, no tie. Casual but elegant.
He looked up when he heard my heels on the marble. Surprise flickered across his face, then warmth.
"Bella." He set the bottle down carefully.
I glanced at the wine cases stacked behind him. "You're the particular supplier?"
"Guilty." He spread his hands in a gesture of amused surrender. "I was told this event was for a fashion charity. I did not realize it wasyourfashion charity."
"It's not mine. I'm just one of the designers."
"Ah, yes. 'Just' one of the designers.” He smiled, and it transformed his face, made him look younger. "Very humble. I'm sure that humility is why your name is on all the promotional materials in letters larger than anyone else's."
Despite my stress, I laughed. "Fair point."
"You look stressed." His eyes moved over my face with concern. "Is everything all right?"
"I'm launching a collection in three hours.” I pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to ward off the headache I could feel building. “Everything is terrible."
"That bad?"
"The ivory is wrong, the lighting keeps flickering, and my best seamstress has the flu." I rubbed my temple. "Also apparently, I need to approve wine, which is why I'm here instead of fixing actual problems."
"Then let me make this easy for you." He pulled a bottle from the case. "This one. It's elegant, it photographs well, and it won't overpower whatever tiny food they're serving. Trust me."
"You're very confident."
"I have good wine. Confidence is easy." He poured a small taste and held it out to me. "Try it. You'll see."
I took the glass, and our fingers brushed in the exchange. I brought the glass to my nose first, the way I'd seen wine people do. The smell was rich, complex—dark fruit and something earthy underneath. Then I tasted it.
The wine was excellent. Of course, it was.
"Fine," I said, handing the glass back. "This one."
"You see? Easy." He took the glass back, set it aside with a small, satisfied smile. "Now. What else can I help with?"
"Can you fix flickering lights?"
