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“That wasn’t what I was saying, no.” The nonchalance was gone from the achingly familiar voice. Wariness remained. Vi looked at her as if Chiara was about to lose it at any moment, and she was trying to figure out what would set her off further. Chiara instantly hated that measured, appraising gaze. Maybe even more than the neutral one from before.
“In all honesty, I was making conversation. Small talk, if you will. And you and I established a long time ago that I’m not very good at it. When the silence lingered, I figured I had to fill it. I apologize. I realize now how what I said could be interpreted and that I offended you.”
Ah, an actual apology. A good one, at that. And the famous foot-in-mouth? Chiara didn’t think the new Vi, the confident, debonair New Yorker, was still prone to it.
She wanted to smile. It had been such an endearing quality five years ago, when every other word that would tumble out of that sensuous mouth was so out of place. Funny or embarrassing or suggestive. Now, despite that very good apology, the words sounded offensive. Even belittling. And did she just think Vi’s mouth was sensuous?Dio mio…
She thrust her chin out and raised her eyebrows.
“You didn’t offend me, Ms. Courtenay. I’d have to care for your opinion to find you offensive.”
Chiara saw that she had scored a direct hit, because something flickered in those deep, calm eyes, and for a second she regretted her words. She felt she’d crossed a line, inflicting that tangible hurt. But then the eyes lost their fire, and the swagger was back, even as a corner of those red lips lifted in a self-deprecating smirk.
“Indeed, Mrs. Conti-Lilienfeld. Miss? Just Conti, these days? I admit, I haven’t kept up.”
Chiara’s answering smirk was sincere. Vi’s attempt at parrying her earlier shot had missed entirely. And all because she knew it was a lie on all levels. No, Vi may not have kept up with her endeavors, but she’d known her well enough to realize that Chiara wouldn’t have kept the name.
“Oh, you know better than that. And since I never played games with you, maybe you shouldn’t either. For old times’ sake?” She straightened her shoulders, and from two steps below, Vi gave her the best dismissive glare she could.
She knew she’d scored another direct hit, even as she felt the same shame again. Damn her for being weak. She should be happy, celebrating taking jabs at this woman who’d hurt her so badly. And yet, here she was. Vulnerable and foolish. ‘For old times’ sake,’ indeed.
They entered her atelier and Chiara put as many steps as the space allowed her between them before turning around. “Anyway, Ms. Courtenay, you’re here to do a job. What do you need?”
Even as she said the words, she immediately lamented her choice. But this time, it was for an entirely different reason. One that had been dormant in Chiara for five years. Because now the fire in Vi’s eyes scorched her with the shared memory of the last time Chiara had uttered them. Whispered them. Moaned them.
Now what little of their respective self-preservation was left seemed to be pulling, tugging at the remnants of control they still possessed over themselves. And if it snapped? If this last line of defense fell? What would she do? And exactly what would she want Vi to do? What did shefearshe might do?
Too many questions. Too much resentment. And all these words. All these words that said nothing and only filled the time with useless minutiae when the tragedy of them was right here in this room, watching them warily from the corner they both tried their best to steer clear of.
“I need…” Vi’s throat worked, a down and up bob of skin and muscle that Chiara followed avidly, then Vi seemed to compose herself. She drew a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and when they opened, there was nothing of Vi in them. Empty. To her horror, Chiara felt the sting of tears. What was happening to her? She hated this woman. Vi had betrayed her. Used her. And now she felt brokenhearted at seeing Vi disappear into herself?
Even as Chiara lowered her head, Vi cleared her throat and that dreadful, empty tone was back.
“I need to look around. Then I need to see what stock you have on hand. How many gowns, accessories. For the logistics and calculations involved in some of the lines you have planned, I’ll have to sit down with Aoife and Renate, provided they’ll tolerate me long enough...”
Vi trailed off and picked at the hem of her shirt, her expression slightly lost, as if she was sorry for her true but offhand remark. Chiara had to smile. An ugly smile.
Ugly, because they both knew Chiara didn’t do the planning and had no say in any of the collections’ logistics. That she wasn’t any good at it. That she’d get lost in some tiny, useless detail, hyper-fixate and spend days on it, maybe even end up designing a brand new concept instead. And that eventually, Renate would come in and make all the executive decisions. Well, Vi knew her that well. After all, Chiara had shared that much of herself all those years ago.
Chiara set her jaw, venom masking the hurt in her voice. “I’m sure both of them will be accommodating. I would be, but we both know I’d be useless.” She stepped away even as Vi made a step towards her.
“Chiara—”
If Chiara detested the nonchalance and the swagger and the newly acquired self-confidence, she had no idea how she’d react to the old misery, the naked sincerity, the shy apology of the old Vi. Well, now she knew. She hated it even more.
Because despite the tattoos, the refined clothes, the air of power and competence projected by this beautiful face, it was still a glimpse of the girl who’d loved her and saved her and then used her. The same girl.
And Chiara had to turn around and look out into the bright and shining light of the Manhattan sun, because the tears that stung the back of her eyes threatened to spill any second now.
God, five years of guilt, of pain, of anger. How she hated herself for using Vi. How she hated Vi for using her.
Behind her, the steps grew closer, and then she was enveloped by the subtle scent of verbena, so like the one she used to wear years ago. Before she could feel the touch on her shoulder, she recoiled, whirling around with enough force to knock the hand away in midair.
“Ms. Courtenay—”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Stop.” The low whisper escaped her, and Vi nodded and lowered her face. “Two weeks. Four, if you have your way, Vi.” She swallowed around the name, at once too short, but like a prick of the needle, too painful nonetheless. “We just need to make it through a few weeks. Any insults, any insinuations, all the things you can throw at me can surely wait that long? And when the weeks are up, maybe there will be no need for them, since I probably have more of them—for both myself and you.”
