Filed to story: Watch Out, I’m The Lady Boss (Eleanor & Sebastian) Book PDF Free
“Hi-hello.”
He was tall, lean.
His eyes were dark, hooded by long lashes-the kind that made it hard to tell what he was thinking.
His accent curled just slightly around the edges of each word.
I stood there, suddenly unsure where to look.
“I’ve followed your work for a while now. One of our designers competed at Riverbend. We only placed third. Your piece stood out. Clearly.”
I swallowed.
“That’s very generous of you.”
He smiled again.
“I’d like to keep in touch. Would you mind if we exchanged details?”
My spine straightened on instinct.
Fabrizio Marchetti didn’t ask for contacts.
People lined up to shove theirs into his hand.
“Yes, of course.”
I reached for my phone-then remembered.
Shit. I’d only just replaced the lost one.
Half the apps weren’t installed yet.
I still didn’t have a SIM card.
I looked up.
“I just lost my phone. This is a backup. I can give you my number, or if you’d rather, leave yours and I’ll text when I’m up and running.”
I read it out.
He typed it in.
Then he pulled out a sleek black business card holder, flked it open, and handed me one with a flick of his wrist.
From the inside pocket of his jacket, he took out a silver pen and scribbled something across the back.
“That’s my direct line. The one printed is the office,”
“Thanks.” I took it.
The paper was thick and cool between my fingers.
Fabrizio capped his pen, glanced around.
Most of the guests had already left.
The rest were hovering in the background, hoping for a word with him.
The lights over the exhibit dimmed slightly, and the last bits of champagne and canap?s were being cleared from the tables near the back wall.
“They’re probably closing up,” he said.
“Walk with me?
“Sure.” I motioned toward the exit.
“After you, sir.”
He headed for the door with smooth, long strides and spoke over his shoulder.
“You’re twenty-four, right? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Twenty-three,” I corrected.
He looked back briefly.
“I’m twelve years older than you, then. You can stop calling me “sir,” you’re aging me in real time.”
I laughed.
“You don’t look it.”
“Flattered.” He tilted his head.
“Though someone said the corners of my eyes are getting lines.”
I glanced up at his face.
His skin looked taut, jaw clean-shaven, no visible creases.
“They lied.”
He gave a short laugh.
“Appreciated, Miss Vance.”
I was starting to like him.
On stage or in interviews, he always looked stiff and controlled.
In private, he was far more personable.
As we reached the doors, he said, “I meant it, by the way I think your work’s exceptional. I heard you just left your old firm. If you’re open to it, I’d like to offer you a position. Lead designer tier. Full resources, top billing. You’d have complete freedom.”
So there it was. The real reason he’d come over.
I’d guessed it the second he pulled out the pen.
Still, it felt unreal.
Valmont & Cie wasn’t just another jewelry house.
They poached the best.
Getting through their doors meant instant leverage.
Even a short stint there could rewrite your entire CV.
You didn’t apply to Valmont. You got invited.
I was tempted. Of course I was tempted.
But I’d just registered my own studio, taken on two private commissions, and agreed to a high jewelry capsule for a boutique in Midtown.
I couldn’t just drop everything and vanish to France, no matter how glossy the offer.
Fabrizio must’ve noticed my silence:
“I know you’ve started your own studio,” he said smoothly.
“You probably don’t want to give that up. So how about something looser? A collaboration, maybe. A joint line. We’ve started planning next year’s autumn-winter collection. Would you be interested?”
We reached the pavement.
The glass doors slid shut behind us, sealing off the last of the noise.
Fabrizio checked his watch, then added, “I’m only in Skyline until tomorrow. I’d love to hear from you before I go.”
I nodded.
“I’ll think it over.”
He held my gaze a beat longer than necessary.
Then, tires screeched against the curb. 1
A black Maybach rolled to a stop half a meter from my boots.
The rear door swung open.
Sebastian stepped out.
Black bomber jacket, vintage-wash jeans, dark sunglasses with thin gold frames.
His hair was messier than usual, fringe damp against his temples. 1
He moved to my side, one hand slipping into his pocket, the other adjusting his cuff.
His eyes, behind the lenses, were fixed on Fabrizio.
Cold. Measuring. Not friendly.
Sebastian didn’t remove the sunglasses.
He raised his chin slightly and said, “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“This is Fabrizio Marchetti,” I said.
“CEO of Valmont & Cie.”
Then I looked at Sebastian.
His mouth didn’t move, but I knew what he wanted me to say.