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The bandage on Frankie’s hand was a poignant reminder of the length the woman would go to, to show her displeasure. To again dredge up how much Frankie hated Chiara’s ideas was something Vi wanted to avert at all costs.

If Vi had had any time to ponder the ‘why’ of her wishes and actions, maybe she would have course-corrected, because Frankie had that slim band on her hand, too, and really, none of this was any of Vi’s business.

Except she couldn’t forget the shy smile and the pure happiness on the features that lit up the room every time the Wedding Collection was mentioned. Vi wanted to protect that. The collection, she quickly told herself. Chiara did not need to be saved.

Then Vi had an idea. An amazing idea. It could work, or it could get her killed. But really, what did she have to lose?

“Ah… I didn’t think the shape would matter all that much? It’s, um, just a dress?” She made herself slouch lazily and look as stupid as possible as she drawled her response, and Aoife’s jaw hit the floor. Yes, Vi knew she was deliberately provocative, but there were bigger things at stake.

Predictably, Frankie exploded.

“Just a dress?Are you even aware of what’s at stake here? My whole spring collection hinges on this gown and some seamstress…” Frankie spat the word, and Vi felt like she needed a shower, spittle flying everywhere. “Some talentless hack, some nobody, thought she could just change the concept? After Lilien Haus poured hours of work and talent into it?”

Funny, Vi thought.Lilien Haus.

“This is not just some dress. You’ve been here a week and you’ve learned nothing! For crying out loud.Nothing,” Frankie ranted on.

Vi ran her thumb over one of her fingernails in a deliberate show of calm. “Well, Aoife said the same thing this morning—”

“At least she did something right, even if she can’t control those harpies on Rue de Bretagne.” Vi managed to throw Aoife a warning glare before her mentor made filet out of Frankie, but she didn’t need to, because Aoife was watching everything with narrowed, speculative eyes.

“You must be a special kind of stupid, Courtenay.” This one stung, even if it meant Vi had reached her goal of deflecting Frankie’s ire, but it was so reminiscent of her family’s insults that the humiliation burned like acid in her throat.

Frankie didn’t care or notice. “You go back to them, and you tell them that this collection will be the absolute best thing Lilien Haus has ever produced, and they are messing it up for me! I need this piece by tomorrow. You hear me?”

Vi was about to nod, quite happy with how everything was playing out despite the humiliation, only to have the distant staccato of high heels alert her that the commotion Frankie’s outburst was causing had attracted the attention of the one person Vi was trying to keep safe and out of the fray.

Chiara’s face was drawn as she stood in the doorway to the studio, but she said nothing, amber eyes taking in the scene. Frankie noticed her too, and was already turning towards her, face red and chest heaving, and Vi’s mind just kept coming up with more and more self-destructive ideas.

“Ms. Lilienfeld, I will try, but the ladies on Rue de Bretagne are working on an order from Lucci—”

Everything else forgotten, Frankie whirled back on Vi.

“Lucci? What the hell is wrong with you? Courtenay or not, I can’t believe you don’t know these things. I don’t care about Lucci. You can tell Alberto and Romina and all those other Luccis that I run this town. They can fuck the fuck off to Italy. This is my domain.”

“Understood.” Vi lowered her head, watching the room from under her lashes.

“Understood, what?” Hands on her hips, eyebrows raised, Frankie was clearly enjoying this entire scene.

“Understood, ma’am.” The acid returned as the memories of her father’s displeasure from last night invaded. However, Vi’s mumble was drowned out by Chiara’s raised voice.

“That’s enough.” The high-heeled steps made their way into the room, and Vi could swear the air sang with electricity. Anger, resentment, fear, all flowing together into a Molotov cocktail of explosive human emotions. And Vi had been lighting matches to it since the conversation had started. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Frankie’s eyes narrowed.

“I will talk to her any way I want! You all seem to have forgotten that this ismyhouse,mybrand,myname on every wall.” Frankie grabbed the offending dress from Aoife’s hands and ground down her booted foot, snagging it on the cream fabric. Whether she noticed it or not, she worked her heel into the delicate material, and now Vi wanted to cry. Yes, the cut was all wrong, but surely the garment didn’t deserve this fate.

Chiara’s voice broke slightly as she reached Frankie and gently moved her so that she could pick up the dress. “I will fix it. And the rest is coming along well enough. We will have a collection come August. Don’t fret, amore.”

Frankie groaned, whether in acquiescence or displeasure, Vi couldn't tell, and allowed her boot to be freed from the silk. With a kiss to Chiara’s cheek and a parting glare at Vi, she swaggered out of the room.

For a few seconds, the ticking of the clock on the wall was all that could be heard. Vi was afraid to even breathe. Then a cool hand landed on her forearm.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Courtenay—”

“I swear to god, Chiara, how many times will you apologize for Frankie’s behavior?” Aoife seemed to snap out of it, her face pale and shoulders squared.

Chiara shrugged, but Aoife was not to be deterred. “If Vi hadn’t gone allmaster strategisthere fifteen minutes ago, we wouldn’t have a fashion house to work in, just rubble. And we will get back to you being this savvy in a minute, kid. Chiara, honestly—”