His car was waiting outside. The night was cool, stars obscured by London's perpetual glow. I slid into the backseat and he followed, and for once I didn't mind the closeness.
We drove in comfortable silence through the streets of London. His hand found mine across the leather seat, and I let him hold it.
When we pulled up to my house, he walked me to the door and I was suddenly nervous in a way I hadn't been all evening.
"Thank you," I said. "For coming. Even though I told you not to."
"Thank you for letting me stay." He stepped closer, and I braced for the kiss.
Instead, he leaned in and pressed his lips to my forehead. Soft. Gentle. Almost chaste. The kiss you'd give a child, or someone precious you were afraid of breaking.
"Goodnight, Isabelle."
I blinked, confused. "That's it?"
"That's it." He stepped back, hands in his pockets. "I told you. I'm doing things properly this time. No rushing."
"Femi Davies, patient and proper.” I shook my head in disbelief. “The world really has changed."
"Only where you're concerned." His smile was soft in the dim light. "Sleep well. You've earned it."
He turned and walked back to his car. I stood on my doorstep, watching until the taillights disappeared around the corner.
My phone buzzed in my bag. I pulled it out, already knowing who it would be.
Tonight was perfect. Thank you for letting me be part of it. —F
I stared at the message for a long moment, standing on my doorstep in the cool night air. The forehead kiss. The patience. The complete lack of pressure or expectations.
This really was a different Femi. Or maybe it was the same Femi, finally showing me sides he'd kept hidden before.
I didn't know which option scared me more.
4ISABELLE
"Hold still."
"I am holding still."
"You're breathing too much."
"Isa, I have to breathe."
"Not that deeply. You're throwing off my measurements."
Naomi stood on the pedestal like a living statue, draped in champagne silk that caught the afternoon light and turned it to liquid gold. I circled her with predatory focus, pins clenched between my teeth, my eyes cataloging every microscopic imperfection.
She made a sound of exasperation but held herself still. Three months I'd spent on this gown—the centerpiece of my Milan collection—and the draping still wasn't right. A centimeter too much gather at the waist, bunching where it should flow. The hem pooling instead of whispering against the floor.
It was driving me insane.
Across the room, three other models waited on a velvet settee, scrolling through phones, sipping mineral water. Lucia, my wardrobe assistant, moved between garment racks, steaming tomorrow's pieces. Meg sat in the corner with her tablet, fielding the calls I didn't have time to take.
"The Milan contractor wants final approval on the display cases," Meg announced without looking up.
"Tell them the originals were fine."
"They said the new ones have better lighting."
