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Chiara’s tone was tinged with sadness again as she finally pulled all of the shimmering silver gown out of the garment bag.Yep, still silver.Still not Vi’s color. “Will you put this on for me?”

The melancholy eyes narrowed as long fingers ran over the material of the gown.

“Um..” Vi’s whole body froze at the way the words ‘for me’ caressed her skin like velvet. “I mean… Ah… It fits, I’m sure… Gwyneth gave it to me…”

“Gwyneth is your stepmother?” At Vi’s nod, Chiara sucked on her lower lip thoughtfully. “This is from her personal wardrobe, I take it?” Something in the way Chiara spoke the word ‘personal’, the tone of it, had Vi shrinking into herself.

“Yes, again, I’m sorry if this is not fancy enough for the ball—” At the intense stare, Vi closed her mouth with a snap, and her hands automatically reached for the top button of her shirt. Chiara’s lips pursed, and she just shook her head and handed Vi the gown. She could feel herself turn crimson. God, please, just once, could she stop falling over herself in front of this woman?

She hurried towards the small alcove where the divider would keep her modesty intact, only to stumble on her way, foot catching on absolutely nothing.

With her hands full of silver chiffon and as good as tied, the smooth floorboards loomed closer, and Vi closed her eyes in anticipation of a very nasty collision with the hard surface. The thought that a bruised black-and-blue face might match the accursed silver gown better than freckles and auburn flitted across her mind.

But before she hit the ground, a strong hand clenched around her upper arm, moments later the second one joined and despite her feet still being tangled around themselves hopelessly, Vi felt suspended for a second before Chiara’s strength gave out, and both of them tumbled to the floor in a heap of limbs and chiffon.

Instead of hard wood, Vi found herself face down in the warm skin and soft silk of Chiara’s shoulder. The subtleness of verbena, along with that unique glorious scent that was all Chiara, enveloped her. She took a gulp, filling her lungs with it, praying she’d never forget how it felt, and then the shoulder underneath her started to shake.

Vi lifted her head immediately, scrambling for purchase, to sit up, to lift herself off a prone Chiara who must be hurt, who must be having some kind of… fit of giggles?

Chiara was lying on the floor, surrounded by silver, and laughing, one shoulder exposed where her silk blouse had slipped down, and her hair now gloriously loose.

The sound of it filled the room with unabashed happiness. Vi’s breath caught. She felt as if the world tilted, and the muted tones of the hot and sweltering Paris suddenly burst with color and vivacity. Chiara’s laughter turned into a warm smile, and Vi’s weak, already tender heart rolled in her chest. Laughter made Chiara come alive, and that smile made her shine with a different light. One that spoke of intimacy, of promises Vi had no business wanting to hear.

But want them she did. All of them. Even if, in that moment, Vi wondered—and not for the first time—what secrets this woman kept, because her eyes were filled with truth and honesty, with such openness it was painful to behold. Especially for Vi, who held so many.

She smiled, then hiccuped, trying to reign in her own reaction, which only made Chiara laugh harder. When Vi, in an attempt to hide her embarrassment, turned away and tugged her sneaker back on, Chiara sat up and placed a cool hand on Vi’s cheek.

“Never ever change, Cinderella. Never. God, you’re adorable.” She let out another peel of laughter, watching Vi hastily tie the errant shoe.

After a while, Chiara’s face settled into an indulgent smile. “I really want to see how the dress fits, since it’s not yours. You’re going to the ball, Ms. Courtenay. We can’t have it look like you’re wearing your stepmother’s hand-me-down. Generous as it seems.”

“You like the dress?” Vi carefully held out her hand, but Chiara was already standing up in one swift, graceful movement that Vi was certain shouldn’t be possible for any regular human and was probably taught by yoga masters. It involved no hands and Chiara made it appear like the easiest thing in the world.

“I am not a fan of that brand, darling.” Chiara wrinkled her nose, and the cuteness of it had Vi shaking her head. Mostly at herself. Because this infatuation was getting ridiculous. Who was she kidding? Itwasridiculous.

“Why?”

“My, you’d think I would be used to your questions by now, Ms. Courtenay. I don’t make a habit of badmouthing fellow professionals, and many great designers worked for this particular fashion house, but I’ve never walked for them, nor did I accept their ambassadorship when they offered.”

Vi’s eyes watched avidly as Chiara tugged on the cottontails of her blouse and popped the collar to give her that wonderful debonair appearance. She opened her mouth to ask for more, for details, but Chiara’s raised hand stopped her in her tracks.

“Before you ask, Ms. Courtenay, I’ve never made any political statements in my life. Models, ‘super’ or otherwise, aren’t hired for their intellect or to take a social stand, but I’ve always felt that we glossed over the fact that the founder of this brand openly associated with Nazis right here in the heart of Paris for most of the Second World War rather quickly.”

Vi instinctively glanced at the small, classy, very recognizable tag among the many frills of the gown in her hands and gulped.

“Don’t worry, Ms. Courtenay, the actual designer of this piece was a darling of a man, and as someone who knew him personally for many years, I can confirm he had a lot of love for that particular gown you’ll be wearing. I remember the year it was shown in London. He was very proud. I was simply surprised that your stepmother is the one who owns it now.”

The sense of dread, of impending doom returned a hundredfold, hitting Vi square in the chest. Had her father given Gwyneth this gown?

Meanwhile Chiara went on, her voice devoid of any emotion, in such contrast to the disquietude wrecking Vi.

“I’m not one to keep track of these things, you might have guessed I don’t keep track of much to begin with…” Her smile of self-deprecation was more a grimace of practiced nonchalance. “But I seem to remember that whole collection meeting a rather strange fate and mostly disappearing from the public eye after a series of, shall we say,mishaps? Now run along and change, provided you’re still willing to model it for me.”

It took Vi every single last ounce of control not to gulp again, or blink, or say something undoubtedly foolish.

Mishaps. Right.

Why were there always ‘mishaps’ when it came to the Courtenays? She felt herself going pale and hoped against hope that her freckles and the diffuse evening light would not let Chiara see it.