Page 78 of Laced With Secrets

“So the scans look good?” I’d accompanied him his last appointment, sitting in the waiting room, anxiously counting each minute he spent inside that humming metal tube.

He nodded. “The weaning process will take months, but it’s progress.”

“That’s wonderful,” I said, reaching across the counter to squeeze his hand. “When would you start?”

“Next month, if those scans are clear.” He set down his water glass and moved closer, pulling me into a kiss.

“I’m so proud of you,” I said against his lips.

“Had good motivation,” he said, his hand settling possessively on my lower back. “Needed to get healthy for my mate. For our baby.”

We finished breakfast quickly, both aware that Penny was waiting. As we headed for the door, Dominic caught my hand.

“I meant what I said.” His hand tightened on mine. “About you being my motivation.”

I didn’t say anything in return. Instead, I wound my arms around his waist, rose onto my tiptoes, and pressed my lips against his.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Fairfax Mansion had been transformed for the centennial celebration. The grounds were dotted with workers setting up lighting, constructing temporary structures for outdoor events, and coordinating what looked like an elaborate sound system. Catering trucks lined the circular drive, and I spotted Adelaide with her infamous clipboard as Dominic found a spot to park the car.

Inside, the grand ballroom was a flurry of organized chaos—mannequins in various states of dress, racks of carefully preserved vintage clothing, and Victor directing it all. But it wasn’t just family and Historical Society volunteers anymore. The space buzzed with an entirely different energy.

Fashion people.

I spotted them immediately—impossibly elegant individuals speaking rapid French, examining vintage pieces with critical eyes, consulting tablets and sketches. A tall man with silver hair and an impeccably tailored suit was holding court near the windows, surrounded by younger assistants hanging on his every word.

“That’s Philippe Beaumont,” Penny’s voice said from behind us, making me jump. He sidled up beside me, his voice dropping. “The Philippe Beaumont. Like, Vogue cover Philippe Beaumont. Paris Fashion Week Philippe Beaumont. I think I’m going to throw up.”

My friend looked simultaneously thrilled and terrified. He wore a vintage 1920s outfit that looked amazing on him—high-waisted trousers, a crisp white shirt with subtle details, a fitted waistcoat in deep burgundy.

“You look stunning,” I said honestly.

“I look like I’m about to pass out,” Penny corrected, but his eyes were bright. “Sebastian’s parents arrived yesterday with their entire entourage. There are actual fashion journalists here. Fashion Week scouts. Models who survive solely on rations of boiled eggs and wine. People who could make or break careers with a single Instagram post.” He lowered his voice. “And I’m modeling. Me. Penny Lee from Vintage Vogue in Millcrest’s Historical District, population twelve thousand, is going to model for people who’ve dressed royalty.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, genuinely perplexed. My brain struggled to connect the dots between a simple, small town exhibit and whatever this spectacle was turning into. “I thought Victor and Sebastian decided to just go with the fashion exhibit?”

“They did, but I meant Fashion Week.” Penny’s fingers fluttered through the air, his gaze darting toward the group of fashion elites. “Never mind, I’ll catch you up later.”

“Leo!” Sebastian swept over to greet us, somehow managing to look elegant despite obvious stress. His amber eyes were brightwith creative fervor, his movements quick and purposeful. Today he wore black from head to toe—fitted trousers, a turtleneck, designer loafers. “Thank God you’re here. Penny’s been spiraling for the past hour.”

“I havenotbeen spiraling,” Penny protested.

“Mon ami, you asked me seventeen times if your hair looked okay.” Sebastian’s voice was fond despite the exasperation.

Adelaide suddenly appeared with her clipboard. “Where’s Victor?” She asked, eyes scanning the busy room.

Her gaze landed on me, eyebrows lifting behind her vintage cat-eye glasses. “Oh! Hello, there.”

“Hi Adelaide,” I replied, my lips curving upward.

“Vic’s coordinating with the lighting designer. Again.” Sebastian sighed. “They’re both perfectionists, which means they’ll argue about every spotlight placement until someone commits murder.”

He tilted his head toward Victor, who stood near an elaborate light setup, deep in discussion with a woman holding a color meter. His ice-blond hair was perfectly styled as always, but there was tension in his shoulders.

“And Richard?”

Sebastian’s expression shifted, something complicated crossing his face. “I saw him earlier, heading toward the west wing.”