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“Either rich or an asshole?” Aoife’s eyes narrowed for a second as she spoke, but she waved her hand at Vi not to answer and the conversation moved on. Vi tried not to exhale her relief too loudly.

“Well, enough small talk. Take a look around. You like?” There was so much pride and pleasure in the voice that Vi didn’t have the heart to tell her she had no idea where she was and what was supposed to be happening. Aoife’s brow was already furrowing.

“From the vacant expression on your face, am I to understand you have no clue what any of this is?”

Vi just nodded and wrapped her arms around herself. She didn’t even care how defensive she looked. Her fall and her lack of knowledge about anything that might remotely pertain to fashion aside, Vi still had no idea what she was doing here. Working for Frankie Lilienfeld was not exactly a dream, but an amazing opportunity for someone trying to establish a path for herself outside of the crushing thumb of her family. Observing some of the photoshoots alone would be invaluable for her.

“You’re gonna tell me you have no idea how to use a sewing machine, right, kid?”

Oh, swell, they were back to ‘kid’. She’d managed to disappoint people on her very first day. So what else was new? Except, Aoife didn’t look upset. She gave Vi one last considering look before moving farther into the massive open space flanked by columns and floor-to-ceiling windows.

“This is where the magic happens. Don’t let anyone, especially Our Lady of Conti upstairs, tell you differently.”

Before Vi could ask anything, Aoife was in motion again. “C’mon. I guess I will have to take pity on you and really show you around and explain things. Too bad, I hate talking…” Aoife gave her a long look at the end of which both of them laughed.

Vi’s shoulders relaxed again, despite still feeling like a total fish out of water.

“So this is the in-house production studio. This is what I do. I get the designs they send from upstairs and turn them into actual things. Clothes. At times, accessories.” She ran her fingers over the silvery curves and what looked like thousands of levers and buttons of the Singer sewing machine and it emitted a little purr. Vi jumped at the unexpected noise and Aoife laughed.

“I’ve got twenty years on you, gotta keep you on your toes.”

They moved farther, to a row of work benches— material and clothes strewn all over them in a state of creative chaos. Vi could respect that.

“I prefer to work alone. So this whole space is mine. But we occasionally have people from the main production building here. Yeah, you might have guessed right, here on Saint-Honoré we have the sort of business-facing side of the house. The flagship store is here. You saw it on your way in. I don’t go in there. Once the clothes are finished, they’re outside my purview.” Aoife turned on her heel and pointed up the stairs. “The financial and legal offices are on the third floor. Renate reigns supreme there. She’s the money whiz.”

Vi nodded, though most of what Aoife was telling her sounded only vaguely intelligible. Her anxiety was getting the best of her. She could feel her hands grow numb and colder with every second. Her mentor seemed to understand she was struggling. Aoife gestured upstairs and motioned with her head for Vi to follow her.

“You’ll catch on. Despite that deer-in-the-headlights expression on your face right now. You really gotta do something about that.”

“I guess my being totally ignorant might upset Ms. Lilienfeld—” Vi finally voiced her biggest anxiety.

“I assume you mean Frankie?” Both eyebrows raised, Aoife looked at Vi, who nodded before lowering her face. “Pfft kiddo, Frankie won’t care. Frankie won’t even care that you are here, to be honest. Now, Chiara might. About both. She’s thoughtful like that.”

Vi lifted her face so quickly at the name that Aoife looked blurry for a second before coming back into focus. And the eyes that fixed on Vi were knowing. But all she said was, “Frankie is of no concern to you. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Vi nodded again, deciding that silent agreement was the safest way to go since Aoife was already moving on and walking back towards the staircase leading them to the floor above. This one was divided into glass cubicles, with several people working diligently on their computers or talking on the phone, snippets of their conversation in French, English, and what sounded like Chinese, reaching Vi’s ears as she and Aoife passed through.

Vi recognized Renate in the corner office, gesticulating gracefully as she spoke to a swankily dressed man with a luxurious mane of blond hair seated in front of her desk. He winked at Vi from behind the glass wall as she and Aoife passed by, prompting Vi to stumble again. Aoife proceeded to flip him off and Vi gawked at her. In response, Renate threw a stern glare at Aoife and pressed a button on her desk, the glass instantly frosting over.

“Kiddo, what kind of lesbian are you? Don’t pay Lance any attention. He’s only teasing you, anyway. He’s Renate’s right-hand man. Great with numbers, can’t dress himself to save his or his wife’s life. Good thing Véronique, who is also our in-house attorney, does have a brilliant eye for clothes.” Aoife’s mouth twisted like she had bitten into a lemon, and Vi wisely chose to school her features and not ask questions about whatever conflict there was between her supervisor and the fashion-forward lawyer.

They walked the entire floor, with Aoife pointing at various people. Chief accountant. Chief something or other. Véronique, she-of-the-good-taste and even better legs. Marketing.

Vi valiantly tried to remember names and positions, but it appeared that Aoife had only two speeds—fast and faster—and Vi quickly figured out that the people she liked least, got the shortest amount of her time, with her basically sprinting past their offices. So Vi chose to focus instead on the ones that got a minimum of five seconds of Aoife’s attention.

“And that’s the executive floor. May we never come here again this month.” She giggled as Vi stared back in confusion, absolutely certain she would never catch on to the myriad of details, names, and tasks being thrown at her. “You’ll get the hang of it. Since you’re with me, you really won’t have much business here. Steer clear of Véronique, shysters are slippery. Renate is strict but fair, so no funny business. And that’s all the wisdom I have to impart regarding the third floor. Now onward,mon petit.”

Both the grammar and the accent were pretty bad, and Vi bit her lip. However, it seemed Aoife had eyes in the back of her head where Vi was concerned.

“Yes, yes, I see you cringing. Lived in this country for ten years now and haven’t learned any kind of passable French. I wish I had, but that ship sailed. Lilien Haus is so cosmopolitan, English is the default here. Don’t like the croissants here though. When they all learn to make decent scones, then we’ll talk.”

“I’m partial to Belgian croissants myself.” Vi raised her eyebrow in challenge when Aoife turned to her on the stairs. The stare-down lasted for a few heartbeats.

“The Belgian ones are okay, I guess. But nothing compares to scones with raspberry jam. Nothing. Cream first, then jam. I said what I said. Now, come on, Ms. Posh. Let’s go meet Frankie.”

Vi barely had time to take a deep breath as Aoife pushed open a wooden door leading into a large space that seemingly occupied the whole floor, save for a sectioned-off area in the corner, which looked like a replica of Renate’s office with its glass walls. Except, unlike Renate’s, these walls were already frosted.

“Yo, Frankie! The royal newbie is here!” Aoife’s voice rose, and a few seconds later the door opened and a cross between a fifty-year-old Brandi Carlile and k.d. lang stepped out, shutting it firmly behind herself.