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But Arabella was also right. Chiara Conti and Chiaroscuro were unquestionably hot commodities in New York these days. The sharks were circling, all wanting something. The surrounding buzz—be it for the royal Savoy gown or Neve Blackthorne’s wedding that, while officiated in private, still had massive reverberations in fashion media—felt like a category 5 storm, sweeping her up and throwing her around like a rag doll.

Perhaps that was when Vi, fresh out of walking her own gauntlet on the red carpet, as New York’s photographer and lesbian-about-town du jour, caught up to her and slowly, gently, slid her fingers in between Chiara’s. A careful gesture, so thoughtful, so grounding. Vi gave her a chance to shake her fingertips off, and she offered an anchor should Chiara wish for it.

And Chiara wished for it very much.So very much. The soft slide of skin against skin, the rough calluses on those slim hands, the tangle of fingers sliding into position as if they’d held Chiara’s for ages, as if they actually had an established place that was theirs, a key for a lock to Chiara’s sanity. They gave her a respite among the constant assault of fake smiles and inane questions and the very real avarice of the crowd around them.

“Thank you,” she mouthed the words, barely an exhalation on her lips, but Vi’s eyes still narrowed before darkening, surprise and pleasure evident in their depths. The answering squeeze of the fingertips was all the answer Chiara got before the hand in hers suddenly went limp and the languid, relaxed eyes went hollow.

A transformation unlike anything Chiara had ever seen. Or maybe she had? Except this was much more dramatic, and the sudden apprehension in Vi’s features was so obvious even her lips had gone pale. Only the ashen color of the suddenly massive eyes continued to be in sharp relief on the now translucent skin.

Chiara’s gaze followed the line of Vi’s sight, bracing for impact. It was the gown that caught Chiara’s attention first. And how could it not, when she knew it so very well? She’d been slated to model it herself once upon a time, before she took her stand and respectfully refused to deal with that particular fashion house.

It was another dress from the German Maestro’s lost Silver Collection. Chiara had seen the showing. The only one for this particular line, despite the Maestro himself declaring it perfection.

The pieces had been considered lost or discarded for years now, and whispers about them still slithered around the fashion world. That he’d sold them. That the house burned them.

But Chiara knew better. He’d loved them. She had witnessed his love when she’d watched him work, how his fingers had run over every crease and tuck.

One gown from the lost Silver Collection surfacing was a surprise. Two? And in the same hands? A curious miracle.

With those observations running through her mind, Chiara was pulled back to the present by the hand in hers going cold as two figures started on a circuitous but clearly deliberate route towards them.

That sharp tug of premonition that had been plaguing her for days now jolted her again. Her stitches pulled tight, sang. She had seen that man before. She didn’t know where, but she definitely knew him.

Chiara wanted to curse herself and her inability to, for once, remember faces. She’d gotten better with age and better with names, but faces remained nebulous, even in instances like these, instances that seemed important.

“Genevieve…”

Tall, silver-haired, and with an air of gentility manifesting itself in all that affected boredom, he didn’t come closer or exchange the air kisses so customary at these sorts of events.

“Father…”

Chiara schooled her features to hide her surprise. Charles Courtenay looked nothing like his daughter. In fact, it was possible the two of them were the least similar looking father-daughter pair she had ever seen.

The woman on his arm clicked her tongue, reminding her companion about her presence, but Charles' eyes—the only feature reminiscent of his daughter, their gray light burning low—were focused on Vi’s face. With the silence stretching, the tongue click turned into a head shake and an eye roll.

“Genevieve, where are your manners, chérie?” The rebuke grated on Chiara’s nerves, even as Vi’s hand in hers twitched as if startled.

“Apologies. Chiara, allow me to introduce the Earl and Countess of Rae. Father, Gwyneth, Chiara Conti.”

The title wasn’t a surprise. After all, Chiara had heard Aoife tease Vi numerous times with the proper address of Lady Rae. She even remembered looking it up and finding a now obscure but once-upon-a-time storied noble house. Yet, hearing it still unnerved her. Maybe it was the way Vi’s hand felt clammy and even colder in hers. Or perhaps it was the tremor that ran through it?

“My Lord. My Lady.” Chiara’s past had exposed her to the blue-blooded patrons of fashion enough to know her address was correct even before Charles’ regal nod of his head.

His eyes, so like Vi's, appraised her for a second before turning away and focusing again on his daughter, Chiara’s presence dismissed with only a quirk of his lips. Another affectation he shared with Vi. Chiara watched, fascinated, as the two Courtenays simply took each other in, oblivious to the world.

“Ms. Conti, such a pleasure to meet you. I must say, I have been quite desperate to do so ever since Genevieve made your acquaintance in Paris.”

Gwyneth's smile dripped sugar, but Chiara felt every single granule of it abrade her skin. And what a way to describe Vi’s work at Lilien Haus.

“The pleasure of having worked with Vi in Paris is all mine, I’m sure.” She countered the fake sweetness with something approaching sincerity which seemed to placate Gwyneth, who obviously wasn’t used to being ignored as both her husband and her stepdaughter were doing. Still, she didn’t take Chiara’s bait and—with an exaggerated turn towards her—continued to pursue her line of conversation, the nature of which Chiara recognized fairly quickly. Gwyneth Courtenay was a gossip and rumors were her currency.

“Is it true that you are to be featured in Poise? And with a brand new house? Finally set free from your shackles. How poetic.” All teeth and molasses, Gwyneth fanned herself with a hand adorned with no less than five rings. The light playing off the gold distracted Chiara, making her think of Kitsch art installations. All bling and no soul.

“I am unsure whether divorce is all that poetic.” Her own voice came out just a touch strained, and it was testament to Vi’s awareness of her that she was immediately drawn closer, the gesture not escaping Charles or Gwyneth. The latter's smile grew toothier, and the former’s brows furrowed.

Vi’s voice was rough when she spoke. “It’s too warm here, Chiara. Would you like me to bring you a glass of champagne? It’s excellent.”

Chiara was about to reply that she wasn’t thirsty, but Charles' gruff interruption stopped her.