Page 32 of Everything About You

When Sophie and I get to Maison Dauphine, I expect a reception from hell after the Instagram Story debacle at the gala. Even

if they think Rhodes posted it, the embarrassing photo is of me. But nobody pays me any attention at all.

It’s just a normal day.

Rhodes isn’t in the fashion closet, and Yvette is nowhere to be found either. I slide down in my chair, brain going a million

miles per minute, unable to focus on the inbox of requests waiting for me. I pull out my phone.

Me: where are you?

Rhodes: Ah sorry! Didn’t want to bug when you were with Sophie. I’ve been sent on a wild goose chase. La Défense. Yvette seems to

have quite the list of tasks for me today. I reckon it’s my punishment.

Me: Oh, okay. Let me know if you need any help!

Rhodes: How did it go with Sophie? What did she want to talk about?

This is kind of a major thing, so I figure it’s best to have this conversation in person, not over text.

Me: It was good! I’ll update you in person - a lot to text

Rhodes: Glad it was good. That sounds like a plan

Rhodes: I hoped we could have dinner tonight, but I might have to meet with one of Mum’s pals who doesn’t know her way round Paris...

not sure why I’ve been assigned to be her tour guide tbh

I groan. Not because he’s got plans, but because this means our conversation will be delayed even more.

Me: lol sounds like quite an evening

Rhodes: You could always join if you want. But I don’t foresee it being fun. And you probably want to get ready for Celeste’s arrival,

right?

Me: Yeah, I probably should. I wanted to get her some flowers and things to make it a bit nicer. I imagine she’ll be sad about

her grandma and I want to try and help how I can

Rhodes: That’s very considerate. I have your address, but not the apartment number? I want to send some flowers as well

Me: You don’t have to!

Rhodes: Ofc. But I’d like to

I blow a raspberry. Why would the universe do this to me?

First we’re competing, and then we’re going to be separated by the Atlantic Ocean. I can’t imagine what could possibly be

next.

I send him the full address, and then I turn my attention to some of the emails I have to answer. I’m always very on top of

our editorial requests and returns, so there’s nothing out of the ordinary, and the ease with which I am able to clear the

inbox helps me to breathe more like a normal person and less like a chronically anxious one.

And then, of course, the doors swing open and Yvette is standing there with her thick-framed black sunglasses and black cape

over a black dress with black shoes. She looks annoyed, and she holds her palms out.

“Well?”

I blink. “Bonjour?”

She sighs, and I can imagine she’s rolling her eyes behind those glasses. “Are you ready?”

“Am I ready...?”

“Mon dieu , Milo. Avez-vous des nouvelles d’Haydée ? épuisant . Nous devons être quelque part et nous ne pouvons pas être en retard.” She lifts her brows. “Dépêche- toi !”

I can put together that she’s annoyed, I should have heard something from Haydée, we are going to be late, and that I need

to hurry up. My computer is locked and I’m out of my chair in record time.

“I’m so sorry.” We’re sprinting down the hallway and Yvette seems disinterested, if she’s even listening at all, but I ramble

on for whatever reason. “I had no idea we were going anywhere. I would have prepared if I’d known. Is this a meeting? If there’s

anything I can—”

“No, you do not need to prepare anything,” Yvette says.

We walk out a back exit to a black car, and when the driver opens the door and Yvette slides in, I follow suit. This is all

very mysterious and very stressful, but part of me is excited—this could be an adventure.

Or Yvette could know Rhodes took the blame for me, and she’s taking me to an undisclosed location where they will dispose

of my body.

We’re driving for six very long, silent minutes before Yvette removes her sunglasses and looks over at me.

“We’re going to a closed set, so you will need to give me your phone when we arrive.”

I nod. It’s not something I’m thrilled about, but there isn’t even the slightest suggestion that this would be optional.

The Palais Garnier comes into view, and I marvel at the majesty of the Beaux Arts facade that the boulevards seem to culminate

in—an abundance of arches and windows and balconies and columns. There are sculptures on seemingly every level, with golden

busts looking out over the streets of Paris. Atop the building, on either end, famous symmetrical statues of Harmony and Poetry

stand tall, like gilded guardians of the opera house.

“Are we going to the Palais Garnier?”

Yvette nods. “We are shooting some of the creative to accompany the resort show. Billboards, bus wraps, some digital advertisements.

We’ll use some of it organically, as well. The opera house is the perfect place to exhibit L’or des Fous resort.”

“So I’m going to see some of the resort looks?”

Everyone on the PR team has seen the line... except for me and Rhodes.

“Yes, you will see all of the resort looks,” she says, taking out her phone. “Some will be on the models, but I will have

Haydée send them to you now so you can review. When we get these photos, we will need help tagging them in the database. You’ll

mark them with highest security restrictions until the embargo lifts.”

“Wow.”

I cringe, not sure where “wow” even came from, but it’s too late.

Yvette locks her phone. “You should get a pdf shortly. Milo, it is of the utmost importance that you do not share this with

anyone. Do you understand? Not a single person.”

There’s something specific she’s saying. Don’t share this with Rhodes .

“Of course. I understand.” My fingernail digs into my thumb. “Though... I guess I was under the impression—rather, I had

assumed...” It’s no wonder I can’t speak French when I can barely speak English. “I thought the resort assets were off-limits

for the apprentices.”

“They are. But if you are going to be working the resort show, you will need to be acquainted with the ins and outs of the

line and all the moving parts of the event and campaign.” Yvette puts her sunglasses back on.

Before I can respond or even really comprehend what she’s just said, the car comes to a stop.

We walk along the sidewalk to the entrance, but Yvette just sort of announces herself and says “ Pardon ” quite assertively so that everyone moves out of her way. Once we’re inside, while other visitors wait in line, a man in

a navy T-shirt and jeans unclips the rope for the queue and lets us pass through before quickly ensuring that no other guests

follow us.

He leads the way until we are huddled between two marble staircases, beside a sculpture of a woman with such incredible detail

it actually appears she is frozen in motion.

“Bonjour, Yvette.”

They exchange kisses on the cheek, and when she introduces me, he does the same. I do my best to not be visibly startled,

but I think he senses my discomfort, which only makes him laugh and lightly touch my shoulder.

“This is Jean Paul,” Yvette says. “He is a brilliant art director.”

“I do my best,” he says with a thick French accent. “Come along. You are going to be astounded. Everything has come together so perfectly. It is as if some little fairies plucked the vision from my brain and brought it to life.”

Yvette snorts . I’ve never heard her make such a noise, but as we follow this man up the staircase, I am distracted by how overwhelming

the opera house is. Everything is so ornate and massive, with a sense of timeless luxury emanating from the baroque detailing

that adorns the entire building. Among the arches, with their intricate ornament-like carvings, there are more sculptures

and candelabras, more domed ceilings with colorful embellishments and paintings.

We end up at a door where two security guards talk to Jean Paul in French before letting us in.

For how impressive the grand stairwell was, the auditorium we’ve just walked into is a fever dream. It’s all deep shades of

red and gold, with the bright famous fresco painting on the ceiling, anchored by a truly massive chandelier.

The auditorium is closed to guests for the time being, and sultry, synthy music is pumping through the room. The stage has

been transformed into a lavish beach resort. Like a classic stage play, there are layered wooden ocean waves in the background,

while a facade of gold makes up the foreground—palm trees, sand, surfboards, a cabana. There are Maison Dauphine logos placed

strategically throughout, and there are also added stage lights that seem to give a behind-the-scenes feel to the image.

“The concept has come to life wonderfully,” Yvette says. “And you were right, it’s not too much gold.”

“Just enough.” Jean Paul nods. He looks to me. “She thinks sometimes I will go overboard, but I never do.”

“It kind of reminds me of home.” I say it without thinking, and Yvette and Jean Paul both look to me with quizzical brows. “The palm trees and the surfboards. All the beach stuff... it’s like a much more luxurious version of Citrus Harbor.”

Yvette offers a pinched smile.

Some models are sitting in the front row of the theater, and they are called up, one by one, until five or six of them are

situated throughout the scene like Barbie dolls. One leans against the cabana as if ordering a drink, while one sunbathes

and, beside her, one pretends to prop up the Maison Dauphine surfboard.

It’s incredible, seeing these pieces that are going to soon become famous and sweep the editorials. Gold is present throughout:

threaded through an ivory tweed suit and bucket hat in a subtle way that makes it sparkle when it catches the light; painted

on one model as a one-piece beneath a billowing sheer white kaftan; hammered onto metal in the form of hardware on rattan

bags.

Jean Paul hurries up the aisle and starts to shout something in French, which causes the photographer and a few set assistants

to go wide-eyed and rush over to him.

Yvette is surveying the auditorium. “We will be debuting a new line of the Dauphine’s Jewels along with this resort show,

which is unprecedented. The house hasn’t had a new addition since the fifties. We anticipate this will eclipse the new Darling

Dauphine bag and the finale gown. If you work the resort show, I want you to create content around them. Something fresh that

the house hasn’t done. Something other houses aren’t doing either.”

I stand up straighter and focus on the models, who look so glamorous.

It’s in these moments that I realize what a gift this entire experience is.

Even a few months ago, I never would have thought I’d be standing in the Palais Garnier watching the Maison Dauphine resort campaign photoshoot.

I never thought I’d have access to confidential documents or information about the Dauphine’s Jewels, one of the most famous collections of rare, fine jewelry in the entire world.

“I’m sorry if this is a dumb question.” I scratch at my palm. “It sort of sounded like... you’ve decided I’m working the

Resort show?”

Yvette purses her lips and clasps her palms together. “Not officially. I know the New York office wants you to transfer, but

we will need someone here we can trust. Someone who won’t make mistakes. I might be more inclined to let New York have Rhodes.”

My heart nearly stops.

Oh, god . This would be a great time to be a good, honest person, Milo. This is your chance to come clean.

But Rhodes was the one who took the blame.

And now you’re going to take this opportunity from him without him even realizing the full implications of what he’s done.

Except he must have known there would be consequences? He wouldn’t have done it if not?

It’s not like he’d have done it if he knew it would mean the resort show. Or that he might get transferred to New York!

“Rhodes doesn’t—”

“I know you two have formed a friendship,” Yvette says, seemingly very proud of herself for being so astute. “While I appreciate whatever it is you’re about to say, as it is, I’m sure, very chivalrous or loyal or good , it won’t make a difference in whatever decision I make.”

I nod, a bit relieved by that wording. “So you haven’t made the decision yet.”

Yvette shakes her head. “I haven’t made a final decision.”

Okay, this is good. So from now on, we play fair and square, and things will be fine.

“But...” she says. “One of you is here, with access to the resort lookbook, and one of you is decidedly not.”

Fuck.