Chapter 121: She Hasn’t Given Up Yet
She’d stared at that line for ten minutes before sending it. Sarah didn’t need to know that.
"I didn’t say it was going to be easy," said Vanessa. "I said it was important."
"Same thing sometimes," said Sarah.
A knock at the office door.
Both of them looked at it.
A young staff member opened it a careful inch. "Ms. Chen. Mr. Miller has just arrived."
The room went slightly quieter in the way rooms went quieter when something arrived that had been anticipated for a specific amount of time.
"Tell him I’ll be right out," said Vanessa, with complete professional calm.
"Of course," said the staff member, and disappeared.
The door closed.
Vanessa and Sarah looked at each other.
Then Vanessa stood up, opened her desk drawer, and produced the perfume she kept there for occasions she wouldn’t have been able to clearly name if asked but which she had apparently anticipated at some point because it was there and she reached for it without hesitating.
She sprayed it once. Considered. Sprayed it a second time.
"Two sprays," said Sarah, from her chair.
"Notes," said Vanessa.
"I’m not writing anything," said Sarah. "I just noticed."
Vanessa checked her reflection in the small mirror she kept on the inside of the drawer, which she also would not have been able to clearly explain owning if asked directly. Her hair was fine. Her blouse was fine. The collection piece she was wearing today, one of the Paris designs, was exactly right for this, though she had not chosen it this morning with any particular purpose in mind.
She closed the drawer.
"How do I look," said Vanessa.
Sarah looked at her employer, who had faced deputy mayors and fashion house directors and difficult conversations about ceiling heights in international venues without once asking anyone how she looked.
"Like someone who designed eight months of the most sophisticated collection this store has ever represented," said Sarah. "And who also has very good taste in perfume."
Vanessa pressed her lips together.
"Two sprays," said Sarah, completely innocently.
"You’re fired," said Vanessa.
"You’ve fired me eleven times," said Sarah. "My record is still perfect."
Vanessa looked at the door that led to the store floor, where Sean Miller was presumably standing near the front, probably in something that cost more than Sarah’s monthly salary, probably looking exactly like someone who had no idea what he was about to be invited to.
She smoothed her blouse once.
"Wish me luck," she said.
"You don’t need luck," said Sarah. "You have two empty seats and the best ceiling height in Paris."
Vanessa walked to the door.
—-----------------
Sean pushed open the door of Élite Fashion at three forty-seven in the afternoon.
The store had a different quality from his previous two visits. Both of those had been him walking into a space cold, the energy of a new customer, the staff calibrating from scratch. Today felt different. More attentive without being obvious about it. Three staff members who all happened to be doing something near the front section when he walked in.
He looked around briefly. No Vanessa.
The young staff member who’d told Vanessa about his arrival appeared from near the accessories wall. "Mr. Miller. Ms. Chen will be right with you. Can I get you anything while you wait? Water, coffee—"
"I’m fine," said Sean. "Thank you."
He stood near the central display, looking at the new pieces that had appeared since his last visit. Something had changed in the collection. The pieces near the back wall were different from the usual inventory, more architectural, the kind of garments that were making a statement about something beyond just clothing.
He was looking at a deep charcoal jacket with structural shoulders when he heard her come out.
He turned around.
Vanessa Chen walked across the store floor with the specific composure of someone who had made a professional decision about their posture and was committed to maintaining it. She was wearing something from what appeared to be the new collection, a fitted blazer in a deep bronze that caught the store’s lighting in exactly the way it was clearly designed to, and she looked, as she always did, completely in control of every variable in the room.
Except her hands.
Her hands were very slightly clasped in front of her, the specific grip of someone who had decided to keep them occupied so they didn’t do anything unrehearsed.
Sean noticed. He didn’t mention it.
"Mr. Miller," said Vanessa. "Thank you for coming in."
"You said it was important," said Sean.
"It is," said Vanessa. "Please, come through."
She led him toward the private consultation area at the back of the store, a space he hadn’t been in before, separate from the changing rooms, set up with two chairs and a low table and the kind of lighting that made everything look like a decision rather than an accident.
They sat across from each other.
"Can I get you—" said Vanessa.
"I’m fine," said Sean.
"Right," said Vanessa. "Yes." She opened the folder she’d carried out with her, which gave her hands something to do, and produced three photographs. She laid them on the table between them. "The something I needed to show you first."
Sean looked at the photographs. They were from a social event, some kind of industry gathering, the kind of photographs that appeared in the coverage of rooms where significant money and significant fashion overlapped.
"Three days ago," said Vanessa. "A private collectors’ dinner. I attend every year. The woman in the third photograph, standing near the venue entrance."
Sean looked at the third photograph.
He went very still.
Vivian Castellan. Younger-looking than across a candlelit dinner table, the photograph catching her slightly off-guard, but unmistakable.
"You know her," said Sean carefully.
"By reputation," said Vanessa. "Not personally. She moves through certain circles adjacent to the fashion world, primarily through property acquisitions in areas where luxury retail operates." She looked at him steadily. "She was asking about you. At this event. Three days ago."