Sarah arrived early again. Her hair was still damp at the ends. She had no makeup on, just clear eyes and a rolled-up sketch under one arm.
"You like being the first one in?"
The voice came from behind — Delia, coffee in hand.
"It's quiet."
"I like the noise," Delia said, dropping her bag noisily onto her chair. "Means people are awake. Thinking."
Sarah smiled faintly without answering. She unrolled the muslin and began pinning it to the table.
She measured without looking — her rhythm practiced, unhurried.
Her chalk made quiet, confident arcs across the fabric — no measuring tape, no printed pattern. Just the flow of thought to fingertip.
"You always start straight on the muslin?" Delia sipped her coffee.
"Only when I'm sure." Sarah leaned forward, adjusting the bust curve. "I sketch first. Then I trust the fabric."
"That's… risky." Her gaze lingered on the neckline Sarah was shaping. "If you make a mistake, there's no hiding it."
She didn't answer right away, squints as she adjusted the angle of a dart near the waist. Then she leaned in, tracing again — lighter this time, correcting only by instinct.
"Then I don't make one." She said, finally, her voice was calm, not cocky — but it landed like stone in still water.
Delia smiled tightly.
"Some of us like to refine before we commit," she said, motioning to her own drafted paper bodice — clean, precise, stiff with tape and chalk marks. "Test, adjust. Build."
"I used to," Sarah said, pinning the muslin to the dress form with quick precision. "But now I just listen."
"Where did you train, by the way?"
Sarah glanced up, surprised for a second.
"Sorry?"
"Your background," Delia said, leaning on the edge of the table like she wasn't watching her every move. "I mean — your technique's… different. You didn't come through Parsons or Central Saint Martins, right?"
"Yeah, Small place. Off the radar."
Delia's laugh was light, but the sharpness showed through. "Mysterious. That's cute."
"Not mysterious. In Italy. Near Como." Sarah's hands didn't stop moving. "It was quiet. Focused." Then she gave a small smile. "There, we were taught to feel the structure in the cloth before drafting it in paper. It stays alive that way."
Delia's jaw worked as she nodded, still smiling.
"Sounds romantic."
"It's practical," smoothing the bodice lines. "A bride doesn't stand still. The dress shouldn't either."
The studio was humming — scissors gliding, tape measures flicking, an iron hissing somewhere in the background.
Delia said nothing for a moment. Then.
"Well, I guess we'll see if the panel likes instinct over precision."
Sarah didn't answer. But she was already a few steps ahead — the form taking shape in soft lines under her hands, each pin exactly where it needed to be.
Delia turned sharply back to her own table, eyes narrowing over her ruler.
A mistake — barely noticeable — stared back at her from the curve of her neckline.
She erased it too hard, leaving a smear.
And still, she didn't look up.
Later this afternoon, Sarah sat with her tea cooling, her pencil still behind her ear like she wasn't quite off the clock.
The staff lunch nook sat behind a frosted-glass partition, tucked neatly between the tailoring studio and the archive shelves.
She pressed her thumb to the corner of a sketch, smudging it faintly — not erasing, just softening.
A blur of movement cut across the frosted glass — bold, fast, unmistakably Chloe.
She entered like a gust of perfume and headlines, heels unapologetically loud on the worn wood floor.
"You," she declared, yanking off her sunglasses like she was walking into a press conference, "are officially banned from dating any Harrison. Ever again."
Sarah didn't even flinch. She reached across the table, folded a napkin. Once. Twice. And placed it next to her cup. "Good afternoon to you too."
Chloe slid into the seat across from her, lowering her voice like someone delivering a national security secret. "Listen. I am serious. Alex Harrison's villa? Torched last night. Like boom. Gone. Smoke, flames — media's calling it targeted. Mafia-style. Like some godfather-level vendetta."
Sarah's hands stilled briefly while reaching for her tea.
"Is everyone okay?" she asked, eyes still on the page.
"Yeah. Barely. But that's not the point." Chloe turned her phone screen to Sarah — grainy footage, a charred building, a blackened mark near the gate. "See that symbol? People are saying it's a calling card. Like a secret group leaving warnings."
She leaned in, voice dipping further. "What's the name again? Tharos... Tharosin."
The name dropped like a pin in a cathedral.
Sarah's fingers stopped mid-lift. Just for a breath. Her expression flickered — the tiniest fracture — then vanished.
Something that tightened her jaw just a little, that dimmed the warmth in her eyes. She blinked once, setting the cup down a little too carefully, as if controlling something sharper.
"Sounds like a bad perfume line."
Chloe huffed a laugh. "Right? But it's real. They say it's a vigilante group or something. Total thriller stuff. Some firefighters found a black emblem at the site. Creeped me out."
Sarah finally looked at her — fully. Eyes quiet. Watchful. "That explains the morning silence from two clients."
Chloe leaned forward, elbows on the table. "This isn't about clients. It's about you. And Eric. He's a Harrison too, remember?"
A pause.
Then Sarah exhaled. "I'm not involved with him, Chloe."
"But you went on that date. Or... fake-date. Whatever it was."
"Exactly," Sarah said. "A mix-up. A mistake. I'm not interested in him. Not now, not ever. And if someone's going after powerful families, maybe people should be asking why—not gossiping over lunch."
Chloe hesitated. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out for a beat.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint hiss of the espresso machine behind them.
"Still," Chloe murmured, grabbing a button from the table and spinning it like a coin, "these people... their blood runs dark. Secret societies, black emblems... We're not in fashion week anymore, we're in a thriller."
Sarah's expression shifted. Slight. But cold.
"You do realize Zoe is a Harrison too, right?"
Chloe blinked. Her fingers stopped spinning the chalk. "That's... different."
"No," Sarah said, soft and unflinching. "It's not."
Chloe shifted in her seat. Crossed one leg over the other. "Right. Yeah. I guess I meant the male Harrisons?"
Sarah picked up her teacup, eyes steady. "Uh-huh. Let me know when you update your bloodline blacklist."
Behind Chloe, a blur moved along the frosted glass. Delia entered with her usual performance of casual grace and a pristine Tupperware in one hand.
She took her time at the espresso machine, back half-turned, listening.
"Oh," she said finally, without looking. "Didn't realize this was a private press conference."
Chloe blinked.
Sarah didn't respond right away. Just reached for her tea again, eyes still on her sketchbook.
Delia turned, smile too sharp to be warm. "You're making quite a name for yourself, Sarah. Social connections and sketching. Impressive."
Sarah met her gaze calmly. "Just lunch, Delia."
"Mmm." Her eyes flicked toward Chloe. "Funny. You don't seem like the...social type."
"She isn't," Chloe said cheerfully, biting into a biscotti. "But somehow people still talk about her. Weird, right?"
Delia didn't respond. Just took her coffee and sat at the far end of the table, her back straighter than usual.
Chloe, undeterred, leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs with flair. "Honestly, Sarah, you should start charging for making people uncomfortable. You're a natural."
"Chloe," Sarah warned under her breath, eyes still on her tea.
But Chloe wasn't done. "No, I'm serious. One minute you're quietly pinning a muslin, the next—bam, you've got people spiraling in espresso corners. It's art, really."
Sarah gave her a look now — not annoyed, just steady. A quiet press of her lips. Then a small, almost imperceptible shake of the head. Don't.
Chloe made a face. "Okay, okay," she muttered, lifting her hands. "No firecrackers in the lunchroom. I get it."
Sarah offered the barest smile, then turned back to her sketch.
Delia, on the other hand, didn't speak for the next ten minutes — but the way she chewed said everything.
Chloe leaned in across the lunch table, voice just low enough to avoid carrying.
"So that's the hurricane in heels you were talking about."
Sarah nodded lightly without looking up. "Mhm."
Chloe shook her head, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips.
"Day one, you said she eyed you like you'd stolen her sketchbook. I thought you were exaggerating."
"But nope. She's got villain origin story energy. All that's missing is a thunderclap when you enter the room."
Sarah gave a small shrug, picking at the edge of her sandwich. "She's territorial. I just walked in with the wrong face, I guess."
Chloe leaned back, watching her. "No," she said thoughtfully. "You walked in with talent — and zero need for validation. That's what's driving her nuts."
Sarah didn't respond right away — just looked out the glass partition, to the muted world beyond the boutique.
"I came here to work," she said finally. "That's all I want."
Chloe nodded. "And that," she muttered, "is exactly why they'll either love you—or want to tear you apart."