It had been a week since the Avengers Tower visit, and my life had turned into an unrelenting blur of fittings, fashion shows, mood boards, and clients who couldn't tell the difference between ivory and pearl. I'd barely slept, lived off double espressos and protein bars, and my sketchbook had started to look like the inside of a madman's mind. But this was the life I signed up for, and I was good at it.
Too good, apparently, because every client suddenly needed me like their lives depended on it.
Today alone, I had back-to-back meetings from 8 a.m. to 7 p.m., two showrooms to visit, and a last-minute alteration for a VIP client who "forgot" her event was tomorrow. The studio was buzzing with the usual chaos: interns darting around like caffeinated mice, rolls of fabric spilling off tables, sewing machines whirring like angry bees. I was caught off guard when my phone buzzed.
Normally, I ignored texts during work hours. If the world was ending, someone would call. But my eye flicked to the screen out of habit.
"Spider-boy loved your sketch. Try not to let the fame go to your head." It was Tony.
I blinked at the message.
Of course he would text now, in the middle of me reconsidering my life choices.
Still, a smile tugged at my lips. I hadn't eaten all day, hadn't even had time to breathe properly between tasks, but somehow I found the energy to tap out a reply.
"It already did, wonder boy."
I tucked my phone back in my pocket and refocused on the fabric in front of me.
By noon, I had consulted with a celebrity's assistant who talked like she invented silk, ran across town for a boutique preview, and managed to patch up a gown disaster that would've made lesser designers cry. Somewhere between the boutique and my Uber ride back to the studio, I caught my reflection in a window.
Yikes.
Mascara smudged, hair slightly windblown, my blazer slightly wrinkled. Unacceptable. I quickly fixed my hair in the backseat with a hair tie I found in my bag, smoothed down my clothes, and reapplied some lipstick. If I was going to die of exhaustion, I was at least going to look good doing it.
Back at the studio, CJ met me at the door, holding a clipboard and a smoothie.
"My savior," I said, taking the smoothie and chugging half of it before he could even speak.
"You've got three more fittings today and one client on the phone waiting to confirm if the 'custom neckline' means they can show cleavage without judgment," he said flatly.
I raised an eyebrow. "Tell her cleavage is always judged, just silently and with envy."
CJ chuckled and walked away to deliver the message. I sank into my chair at the edge of the fitting room, barely feeling my legs.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of pins, zippers, and way too many people. By the time the last client left, I slumped against my work table and considered sleeping right there on the floor.
CJ walked over, holding a bottle of water. "You know, for someone who claims to hate rich people, you sure do a lot for them."
I took the water and groaned. "I'm not a hypocrite. I just enjoy their money more than their personalities."
He snorted. "All of them? Or just the ones who flirt via text?"
"Don't even." I said, chucking a fabric swatch at his head. "He's not flirting. That's just...how he communicates. You know his reputation with women.."
"Uh-huh." CJ grinned and backed away. "Sure, boss."
Once he was gone, I glanced at my phone again.
Another message.
"Let me know when your schedule clears. I've got another 'I don't need your help but Pepper won't let me breathe in peace unless I call you' situation"
I typed and retyped a dozen sarcastic responses before finally landing on:
"My schedule clears when the fashion gods say it does. But I'll try to pencil in your ego."
I replied, a smile tugging on the corners of my mouth.
His text came instantly.
"Oh please, my ego is too big to be tangible"
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly strained something. But I was still smiling.
God help me, I might be in trouble.