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“Those are my designs,” I whispered under my breath. With my portfolio in hand, I moved toward Rochelle’s office as if in a trance. I had no plan. In fact, hardly anything bounced around my head. Except for a singular focus.
Those were my dresses and I deserved credit.
Like a woman possessed, or more accurately a youngish adult bent on throwing away everything she’d worked for, I knocked twice on Rochelle’s door and shoved it open.
“Michaela!” Rochelle glared at me for my intrusion. “This is a closed meeting. Someone had better be hemorrhaging—“
I wasn’t listening. Seven. I counted seven of my sketches brought to life in gowns.
“Those are my designs.” I pointed at the model closest to me wearing the buttercup dress. “They’re in my portfolio.” My horrified stare turned to Violette. “You stole my designs.”
Rochelle’s face turned beet red. “Michaela, I won’t have you making baseless accusations—“
“I can prove it.” Cracking open my portfolio, I turned the pages, looking for my buttercup sketch, but when I came to the correct section, the pocket sat empty. I looked up at Violette, more ill than ever. “It’s not here.”
Violette’s laughter made my skin crawl. “Likely story. Rochelle, can we get back to it?”
“No,” I said firmly, determined not to be ignored. “You stole it.”
I flipped through the pages, horrified at the gaps she’d left. Eight, nine, ten. I couldn’t breathe. She’d stolen my best work. Throat tight with unspent emotion, I stared at Violette. “How could you? I trusted you.”
My accusation aroused Rochelle’s suspicion. “Michaela, are you sure you’re not mistaken?”
“I gave her my portfolio to look over during the weekend because she liked some of my designs, but clearly,” I motioned to the models, “she stole them, and she plans to do it again.”
Violette set her hand to her chest. “Rochelle, have you ever known me to be lacking in ideas? I think not. Only time.” She pointed at the model closest to me. “And how on earth could I create a gown like this in seventy-two hours, let alone everything else?” She stepped closer to Rochelle and dropped her volume. “I looked at her portfolio, but if you must know, I found her to be regurgitating my work. I didn’t want to embarrass the mail girl—“
“Liar!” Over the last year, every spare moment of my free time had gone into creating unique designs I was proud of. “You’re lying so that I look crazy—“
“That’s enough.” Rochelle cut me off. “Michaela, this behavior is unacceptable. You can either apologize to Ms. Hushley or you can resign.”
“Are you kidding me?” This couldn’t be real. “She steals from me and you think I should apologize? Of all the pea-brained, backroom dealing, idiotic—“
“That’s it.” Rochelle’s voice thundered over mine. “You’re fired. Pack up. Security will escort you out.”
The silence in the room seeped in around me like hot tar. What had I done? Apologies lingered on the tip of my tongue, eager to be spoken, but nothing could fill the vacuum that remained. Defeated, the air eased out without protest, and I turned and left.
She didn’t even bother to gloat. Violette didn’t bat an eye as they escorted me out like a criminal. She could teach lessons in gaslighting, because by the end, she had me questioning whether I’d ever designed anything in my life.
But I had. And those ideas were mine.
That was a huge part of my draw toward pageants in my teen years. I loved designing and sewing my own dresses. At first, I did it because I simply couldn’t afford the gowns in the professional shops, but after a while, I found a passion for it. My love of fashion had prompted me to chase a job at Reverie. Working at a fashion magazine meant making contacts and learning from the masters in the industry. One day, once I saved up enough cash, I wanted to start my own line of clothes.
But that dream crumpled at my feet as soon as I lost my job.
I stopped in the nearby park to try to find my bearings. Without my job, what did I have left? I wouldn’t last long without a second job. Professional princess-ing didn’t pay as well as I wished it would. Holidays were coming. Mom kept bugging me to come home. Maybe I would surprise her and show up with everything I owned.
Even as I thought about it, I discarded the idea. Moving home would mean I’d failed. No more dreams of my designs walking the runway. No more plans for a cute boutique in San Francisco or New York. Instead, a monotonous life in a small town in the middle of nothing. Marry some guy I went to high school with, have two point five kids, and install the picket fence to go with it. The only thing up in the air was whether we’d have a cat or a dog.
My phone buzzed in my purse. A part of me wondered if Mom had felt my psychic distress call. I dug around until I found my cell, but the international number definitely didn’t belong to Mom.
“It’s probably Fitz,” I whispered as I stared at the screen and debated answering. On one side, I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but on the other, I knew no one could cheer me up like he could. If he was putting in the time and effort to call, I could set my own troubles aside for a little while.
I answered the call and put the phone to my ear. “Coco Incorporated. Coco speaking.”
His snicker filled the line. “What? No jingle? Where’s the catchy tagline?”
“Your wish is our,” I winced at my lack of creativity, “coco-mand.”
