Chapter3

In New York fashion, a word from Margaret Holloway cuts deeper than any blade.

She flipped through Chloe's portfolio for exactly three minutes.

"Darling, this page is McQueen. This one's Comme des Garçons. And this one… Pinterest, I'm guessing? Where are you in any of this?"

"And this seam. I taught at Parsons for twenty years. If a freshman handed me this, I'd make them redo it."

She closed the portfolio and handed it back to Ethan. "Next time, bring me a real designer."

Someone caught the whole thing on video. By the next morning, it had five million views on TikTok, captioned: Fashion's godmother exposes 'genius' newcomer on the spot.

The launch Ethan had spent six months planning turned into a punchline. By that afternoon, two boutiques that had been about to sign sent polite emails backing out.

I figured he'd storm over and scream at me.

He didn't. That evening, he rang the bell at my Upper East Side apartment holding a huge bouquet of white roses and a blue velvet box, smiling like nothing had happened.

I let him in.

Inside the box was a diamond necklace—the exact one I'd paused to look at in a Fifth Avenue window last month.

"I was out of line last night. I'm sorry." He slid the box toward me. "Can we make up?"

I didn't touch it. He sat down on the couch and reached to pull me in, and I shifted away. He paused for a beat, then seemed to decide not to notice.

"I know you put Margaret up to that. Bella, she's twenty-two. You're trying to end her career before it starts."

"All I asked Margaret to do was tell the truth." I looked at him. "Ethan, you went to Central Saint Martins. You honestly can't see what her work is? Or do you just not care?"

His jaw tightened.

"What are you implying? She's my employee. I'm investing in talent. Don't make this into something dirty."

A few seconds later, he softened his voice again.

"Look, I need a favor. Chloe needs a solo show, fast, to turn the story around. Let me borrow your family's gallery space in Chelsea for two weeks. I'll cover everything."

I stared at him for a long time. He was still so handsome. His face had barely changed since he was seventeen.

But the seventeen-year-old Ethan once got into a fight with the meanest linebacker in school for me. This Ethan was sitting on my couch, asking me for a venue for another woman.

"Ethan, she ruined our engagement party. She humiliated me in front of everyone. She cut up my dress. And now you want me to put my family's space and my family's name behind her? Are you out of your mind?"

"She apologized. I paid you. What more do you want?" He rubbed his forehead. "Bella, we were supposed to get married next month. Do it for us. Be the bigger person, just this once."

"For us?" I laughed, I was so angry. "Ethan, when you wrapped your jacket around her and left me sitting on the floor last night, you weren't exactly thinking about us."

Right then, the front door flew open.

It was Chloe. She'd been crying the whole way there, mascara smeared halfway down her face. She acted like I wasn't even in the room and threw herself at Ethan.

"Did you see the comments? Five million people are laughing at me! Five million! I won four awards at Parsons. My professor said I was the most talented student he'd ever had! I have never been this humiliated in my entire life!"

"Hey, hey, look at me. I'm going to fix this—"

She shoved him away.

"Fix it? How are you going to fix it? I quit! This whole industry, all you rich people—you make me sick!"

She shot me a look of pure venom, then screamed at Ethan, "Don't call me again! We're done!"

She ran out, slamming the door behind her.

"Chloe!" Ethan grabbed his jacket and bolted for the door.

"Ethan!" I stood up. "If you go after her right now, don't bother coming back. I mean it."

He stopped at the door and turned. His eyes were ice.

"You know what, Bella? In all the time I've known her, I've never seen her cry like that. Congratulations. You win. And think about the space. I'm not asking twice."

Then he was gone, the door banging shut behind him.

The apartment went silent. I grabbed the velvet box and hurled it at the door. The necklace hit the wood and scattered across the floor.

Then I curled up on the couch, buried my face in my hands, and sobbed until I couldn't breathe. Ten years. I'd given him ten years.

The phone buzzed on the coffee table. A text from Ethan.

Lend me the space, or I'll talk to your father's doctors.