Catching Up To You

MICHELLE

I was going to be late.

Not fashionably late.

Not the kind of late people politely ignored because this was Paris and everyone important

seemed to operate on a private relationship with time.

Actually fucking late.

“Come on.”

I tightened my fingers around the steering wheel as the light ahead of me remained offensively

red.

The black Lamborghini Urus idled beneath me with considerably more patience than I possessed.

According to the navigation screen, the drive that should have taken fourteen minutes was

currently going to take thirty-two.

Twenty minutes ago, it had said twenty-four.

Paris was actively fucking with me.

A delivery van blocked half the lane ahead. Scooters slipped between cars with suicidal

confidence. A cyclist sailed through the intersection while the light was very definitely not his, and

three pedestrians stepped off the curb as if the Mercedes approaching them were merely a

philosophical concept.

My phone lit up in its holder.

ÉLODIE

“Fuck.”

I tapped the screen.

“Tell me she’s late.”

“She isn’t.”

I looked at the clock.

Of course today, of all days she’s not, but I am.

“She’s there?”

“She arrived five minutes ago.”“Okay. Get her comfortable. Coffee, champagne, whatever she wants. I’ll be there as soon as

Paris releases me from captivity.”

“She’s fine, Michelle.”

“Good.”

“I’m not sure you are.”

“I’ve been staring at the same boulangerie for nine minutes.”

Élodie laughed.

“This is why normal people don’t drive in Paris.”

“I’ve never claimed to be normal.”

“That is true.”

The traffic moved approximately six feet.

I wanted to scream.

“Don’t start without me.”

“We weren’t going to.”

“Good. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

My navigation screen immediately changed.

18 min

I glared at it.

“Twenty.”

“Take your time.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Michelle, she’s relaxed. Nobody is dying.”

“Yet.”

“Drive like a sane person.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“Michelle.”

“I said I’ll consider it.”

She hung up on me.

Rude.

I tossed my phone back into the holder and exhaled through my nose.

The baby-blue leather beneath my hand was cool and ridiculously soft.Seven years later, I barely thought about the car anymore.

It was just my car.

My keys lived in my bag. My sunglasses were in the center console. There was probably a pair of

earrings in one cup holder and definitely a forgotten lipstick somewhere beneath the passenger

seat.

But there had been a time when I’d considered the entire thing fucking ridiculous.

Mostly because I’d specifically asked for normal.

I’d moved to Paris at eighteen with two suitcases, an acceptance letter to fashion school, too

many sketchbooks, and a very clear idea of what my new life was going to look like.

I wanted an apartment.

A normal one.

Nothing enormous. Nothing staffed. Nothing hidden behind gates.

A small apartment with old wooden floors and a kitchen barely big enough for one person. Maybe

a ridiculous staircase. A bakery downstairs. A café around the corner where, after a few months,

somebody might know my order.

I wanted to walk to class when the weather was nice and take the Métro when it wasn’t.

I wanted to buy groceries.

Do my own laundry.

Get lost.

Be eighteen in Paris.

My father had listened to the entire speech without interrupting me.

Then he’d smiled and said, “We already have a house in Paris, sweetheart.”

A house.

Right.

The Hamilton interpretation of that word turned out to be a four-story limestone mansion behind

wrought-iron gates, with a private courtyard, original herringbone floors, ceilings high enough to

make me feel short even in heels, a sweeping staircase, a garden hidden behind the back of the

property, and more bedrooms than any reasonable family needed in a city where none of us

permanently lived.

I’d stood in the entrance hall with my luggage beside me and stared at him.

“This is not an apartment.”

“No.”

“I said I wanted something small.”

“I remember.”I looked around the enormous entrance hall.

“Dad.”

“What?”

“This is a mansion.”

“It’s our house in Paris.”

He’d said it so matter-of-factly that I almost laughed.

That was the thing about my father.

He wasn’t trying to be extravagant.

To him, this was normal.

The house had belonged to our family for years. It was where we stayed when we were in Paris,

so naturally, when his daughter moved to Paris, this was where she would live.

The fact that I’d imagined myself carrying groceries up four flights of stairs to some charming little

apartment had apparently been my misunderstanding.

Three days later, I came downstairs and found a brand-new black Lamborghini Urus parked in the

courtyard with an enormous pink bow stretched across the hood.

For several seconds, I simply stared at it.

Then I called him.

“Dad.”

“Hi, sweetheart.”

“There’s a Lamborghini in the courtyard.”

“I know.”

“It has a bow on it.”

“I asked them to do that.”

“Why?”

“I thought you’d like the bow.”

I closed my eyes.

“I mean why is there a Lamborghini at the house?”

“For you.”

“Dad, I told you I wanted normal.”

“I know.”

“And you bought me a Lamborghini.”

“It’s an SUV.”I stared through the window at it.

“That doesn’t make it a normal car.”

“Of course it does.”

I actually pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at it.

When I put it back, I said, “A Lamborghini is not a normal car.”

“It has four doors.”

“That is not the definition of normal.”

“It’s comfortable, it’s safe, it has plenty of room. What exactly is wrong with it?”

Nothing.

That was the irritating part.

There was absolutely nothing wrong with it.

“You’re missing the point.”

“What point am I missing?”

“I told you I was going to use the Métro.”

There was a pause.

Then, with genuine confusion, “Why would you do that when you have a car?”

“I didn’t have a car yesterday.”

“You do now.”

I pressed my lips together.

“Dad.”

“Michelle, no daughter of mine is spending her mornings standing around a Métro station when

she doesn’t have to. Besides, the location of the house makes it difficult to reach the Métro

station, especially by foot.”

“Millions of people take the Métro every day.”

“I know.”

“They survive.”

“I’m sure they do.”

He sounded completely unconcerned with the argument I thought I was making.

“I wanted to live like a normal student.”

“You are a normal student.”I looked around the marble-floored entrance hall of our Paris mansion and then back at the

Lamborghini wearing a pink bow in the courtyard.

“Are you fucking serious?”

He laughed.

“Language.”

“You bought your eighteen-year-old daughter a Lamborghini three days after she told you she

wanted to take the Métro.”

“Yes.”

“And you think that’s normal?”

“For us? Of course.”

There it was.

Not arrogance.

Not even a joke.

Just my father.

His idea of normal had never included worrying about rent, public transportation, or whether

buying his daughter a Lamborghini might be considered excessive.

It was a car.

We needed cars.

So he’d bought me one.

“I raised you wanting better than standing around train stations when you don’t have to,

sweetheart. You have a perfectly good car now. Drive it.”

“I don’t need a car.”

“Okay.”

I narrowed my eyes at absolutely nothing.

“Okay?”

“I’ll get you a driver.”

My mouth dropped open.

“That’s worse.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need someone driving me to school every morning.”

“Then drive yourself.”

I stared at the Lamborghini.He made it sound so fucking reasonable.

“You realize those are not the only two options.”

“They’re the two I like.”

“Of course they are.”

“You wanted independence. I’m giving you independence.”

“With a Lamborghini.”

“With a car.”

“It’s a Lamborghini.”

“It’s an SUV, Michelle.”

I could hear my mother laughing somewhere near him.

“Mom, stop encouraging him.”

Her laughter only got louder.

My father continued as if neither of us had spoken. “Drive it for a week. If you don’t like it, call me

and I’ll find you something else.”

I looked through the window again.

Black exterior.

Baby-blue leather.

Huge pink bow.

Something else.

Jesus Christ.

“What would ‘something else’ be?”

“I don’t know. What do you want?”

“A normal car.”

“This is a normal car.”

I stared at it again.

There was no point.

I wasn’t going to win this argument.

And the most frustrating part was that my father wasn’t trying to win it.

He genuinely could not understand what was wrong with the car.

I let out a long, defeated breath.

“Thank you, Father.”My mother burst out laughing somewhere in the background.

Dad was quiet for a second.

Then, “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

“You know that was an exasperated thank-you, right?”

“I heard the sigh.”

“And?”

“You still said thank you.”

I rolled my eyes.

Of course that was what he took from it.

“I love you.”

“Love you too. Drive safely.”

“I haven’t agreed to drive it.”

“Then I’ll call the driver.”

My eyes snapped back to the Lamborghini.

“Goodbye, Dad.”

He laughed.

“Goodbye, sweetheart.”

I spent the first few weeks insisting the Urus was ridiculous.

Then I drove it.

Which had been an unfortunate development for my principles.

By the end of the first month, I’d stopped taking taxis.

By the third, Michael suggested that if I hated the car so much, Dad should ship it back to New

York.

I told Mick to go fuck himself.

The Lamborghini stayed.

So did I.

Seven years later, the mansion wasn’t simply the Hamilton house in Paris anymore. It was home.

My clothes filled the dressing room, my sketches invaded rooms they had never been intended to

invade, photographs of my family had gradually displaced carefully selected art, and I knew which

floorboard outside the library made a tiny sound if I stepped on it barefoot at two in the morning.

And the Urus?

The Urus was mine.I’d even forgiven the baby-blue leather for being fucking gorgeous.

Being spoiled had never particularly offended me.

Pretending I hadn’t been would have been ridiculous.

I had grown up with money.

A lot of it.

Hamilton Development Group had been building, buying and investing in property long before

Michael and I were born. My grandfather had built the foundation; my father had expanded it until

the family business stretched across cities and countries and into luxury residential

developments, commercial properties, hotels and resorts.

Michael loved it.

Mick had probably come out of the womb prepared to take over the company.

I hadn’t.

I loved clothes.

Fabric.

Shape.

Construction.

The difference half a centimeter could make to the way a woman’s body looked when she walked

into a room.

My parents had given me every advantage imaginable.

The one thing I’d refused to let them give me was my career.

No phone calls.

No introductions.

No Hamilton name opening a door I couldn’t walk through myself.

Fashion school had been mine.

The internships had been mine.

The impossible hours had been mine.

And Dior was fucking mine.

My phone vibrated again.

This time, Inès.

I didn’t answer.

A message appeared instead.

INÈS: Tell me you’re not still working.I laughed.

Technically, I wasn’t.

I was sitting in traffic on my way to work.

Much better.

Another message.

INÈS: MICHELLE.

Then:

INÈS: WE LEAVE TOMORROW.

And finally:

INÈS: YOU HAVEN’T PACKED, HAVE YOU?

I hit the voice-message button.

“I am currently being held hostage by Parisian traffic while a very patient woman waits for me at

Dior. Your bikini emergency will have to wait.”

I sent it.

Her reply arrived almost immediately.

INÈS: It is not a bikini emergency. It is a YOU NEED A FUCKING VACATION emergency.

My mouth curved.

Saint Martin.

Tomorrow.

Sun.

Ocean.

Alcohol.

Camille.

Inès.

And ten days during which nobody was supposed to ask me about seam allowances, fittings,

hems or whether a neckline needed another two millimeters of support.

Supposed to.

My laptop was absolutely coming.

Inès didn’t know that yet.

Traffic finally broke.

“Thank fuck.”The Urus moved.

Ten minutes later, I pulled toward the curb outside Dior, killed the engine and reached for my bag.

Another message from Inès appeared.

INÈS: I swear to God if you miss your OWN PLANE tomorrow because of a dress—

I stepped out and typed back.

ME: It’s couture. Show some respect.

Her response came before I’d even closed the door.

INÈS: IT’S CLOTH.

I stopped on the pavement.

My mouth fell open.

The fucking audacity.

ME: We’re no longer friends.

I shoved the phone into my bag and headed inside.

I was eighteen minutes late.

Not ideal.

Not catastrophic.

And if anyone wanted to discuss it, they could take it up with the entire city of Paris.

By the time I reached the fitting room, my irritation had disappeared beneath the part of my brain

that automatically took over the second I walked into work.

Élodie met me outside.

“She’s changing.”

“Perfect.”

“No casualties?”

“Only my patience.”

She fell into step beside me.

“Coffee?”

“Yes.”

“Already in there.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”I pushed through the doors.

The fitting room was bright and quiet, mirrors running along one wall beneath soft overhead

lighting. Garment bags hung neatly from a rail. Shoes had been arranged beside the fitting

platform. My sketch lay open on the worktable next to a small collection of pins, chalk and

measuring tape.

My coffee waited beside it.

I picked it up.

“Maybe I love you more than Inès.”

“Don’t tell her that.”

“I plan to.”

A few minutes later, our client stepped out from behind the screen.

And everything else disappeared.

The gown was beautiful.

Ivory silk skimmed her body from the structured bodice before falling into a deceptively simple

column, the kind of dress that looked as though someone had taken a single piece of fabric,

draped it over a beautiful woman and somehow convinced it to stay there.

It hadn’t been simple.

Nothing that looked effortless ever was.

There were weeks of sketches underneath that silk.

Fittings.

Alterations.

Handwork.

Calculations.

Discarded versions.

Arguments with myself at three in the morning.

Enough internal construction to qualify as architecture.

I set down my coffee.

She smiled.

“Well?”

“Turn for me.”

She did.

Slowly.

Front.Side.

Back.

Other side.

Beautiful.

“Walk.”

She stepped down from the platform.

One step.

Two.

Three.

My eyes narrowed.

“Again.”

She looked at me through the mirror.

“Bad?”

“No. Again.”

She walked back.

There.

Half a centimeter.

Maybe less.

The silk over her left hip lifted differently when her weight shifted.

Élodie was looking at me now.

“What?”

I walked closer.

“Do it again.”

Our client laughed softly.

“I feel as though I’m being studied.”

“You are.”

She walked.

I crouched slightly.

There.

Fuck.“Stop.”

She froze.

Élodie came beside me.

“What are you seeing?”

I pointed.

“Watch the drape when she puts her weight on her right foot.”

Our client shifted.

Élodie’s expression changed.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

It was tiny.

Most people would never notice.

A camera would.

And now that I’d seen it, there was absolutely no fucking chance I was letting her leave like that.

I stepped onto the platform.

“Okay.”

The client looked at me in the mirror.

“Okay good or okay bad?”

“Okay, you’re going to hate me for approximately twenty minutes.”

She laughed.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It isn’t.”

I reached for the pins.

“Don’t move.”

“I’m not moving.”

“You’re breathing.”

Her eyes met mine in the mirror.

“I’d prefer if you kept doing that,” I added, pulling three pins free. “Just slightly less

enthusiastically for the next thirty seconds.”

Her laugh shifted the silk beneath my fingers.I closed my eyes.

“Now you’re doing it on purpose.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

And just like that, being eighteen minutes late stopped mattering.

I had found the problem.

Now I just had to fix the fucking thing.