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“I don’t know,” I admit, not liking how any of this makes me feel. It’s like a weight pressing down on my chest.
I’m let out in front of Bellamore headquarters. On my way to my office, my assistant hands me a double shot of espresso. I thank her and move into the waiting room, glancing over my sculptures.
“Do you think these resemble dicks?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “The truth, please.”
Her brows pop upward, and she swallows hard. “Are you going to fire me?”
“No,” I tell her.
“Yes, they do,” she says with a small smile.
“Please have these moved out and donated to the Calloway Fine Art Museum by the end of the day. My brothers can decide where they’ll be displayed.” I wave my hand dismissively, as if that will make the sculptures disappear faster.
“Yes, right away,” she says.
I move into my office, sinking into my chair behind the desk.
I glance over my shoulder, catching sight of Asher’s building with blinds erected to block my view. It’s okay because I know he’s not there—he hasn’t been since we returned from the Hamptons.
Things are changing so fast that my head is spinning. I won’t complain though because I don’t feel as lost as I did a month ago. Thanks to Asher, I’m hopeful for the first time in years.
The day drags on, filled with grueling hours of meetings with designers. Harper and I are pushing forward with our plan to fake out Josh with our designs. Did he figure it out?
Conference rooms and calls blur together, voices fade into thebackground, and I randomly remember the threat that was texted to me this morning. It haunts me, lurking like a shadow.
“You okay?” Harper asks, leaning against my office doorway, her expression filled with concern. “You’ve looked rattled all day.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace.
She sighs knowingly, stepping in and gently closing the door behind her. “Billie, you can’t pretend with me. What’s going on?”
I close my eyes briefly, then admit quietly, “I got a threatening text message this morning. I know it’s from Josh, Harp. I don’t know what dirt he has on me, but?—”
Her jaw tightens. “Don’t let him do this. Don’t give him that power. You’re Billie Calloway. He can threaten all he fucking wants.”
“You don’t know what he’s capable of,” I whisper, gathering strength from her words.
“I do.” Harper squeezes my shoulder reassuringly. “You’ve got Asher on your side. He won’t let anything happen, babe. Now, show me what you’ve been working on.”
I unlock my iPad and hand it to her. She swipes through the different outfits I’ve designed. It’s how I’ve kept my mind busy, pouring my feelings into fabric and sketches.
“Wow,” she says, and wiggles as if trying to shake off the goose bumps covering her arms. “This gave me chills. This is it. This is what we showcase in London.”
“Harp,” I whisper, anxiety creeping in, “we have a little over three weeks. There’s no way I can get it all together.”
“Listen to me. You’re Billie fucking Calloway. Make it happen,” she insists, her tone fierce. “I’ll compile a team of our very best seamstresses. Do you have a model in mind?”
“Of course I don’t. I was messing around with this,” I say. “It wasn’t serious.”
“It’s incredible,” she tells me, pointing emphatically. “You walk this design on the runway.”
I shake my head vehemently. “Harp, I haven’t done a show since I was a teenager.”
She licks her lips and smiles. “Guess that’s changing.”
“Please don’t pull rank,” I whisper, half joking, half serious.
“You are the right height and build. You’re confident and commanding. Shine like a diamond,” she says.