Page 11 of Ruled By Rivalry

That had been my objective, anyway.

Apparently, he’d come here with a different mission. A sustainable one, if you were to believe his words. (I wouldn’t.)

All eyes were on us, accompanied by the furrowed brows, O-shaped mouths, and grim expressions of the people he’d insulted in that leaked video. If I weren’t standing right next to him, and if the looks didn’t seem aimed as much at me as at him, I’d probably think their reaction was fair enough.

The grimmest of looks belonged to Camila. “Sustainability?”

“Sustainability,” he confirmed. “Have a narrative that shows the actual impact our industry”—Camila’s brows shot skyward at his use of our—“has on the environment. Upcycled clothing, low environmental impact materials—what?”

I couldn’t help laughing, and I’d tried very hard to suppress it. To the point it sounded more like something between a cackle and a snicker . . . and like I was choking. Still, he heard it.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” But in a way, this was precisely what I’d needed. A way to publicly and loudly oppose his ideas. I needed to show the rest of the room that I did have my own opinions, and I wasn’t scared to voice them against an Ashwood. “It’s a cute idea, really. But you’ve got celebrities flying into New York with their private jets after vacationing on mega yachts in Europe. Sustainability clearly doesn’t matter to you guys. Why bring attention to the fact?”

The Ashwood Annual was a masterclass in escapism. Focus on sustainability, and all anyone would think about was how unsustainable celebrity culture was. Eat the Rich 101.

Elliot tilted his head, intrigued, amused. “You guys?”

Don’t let him intimidate you. “In Milan one day and Miami the next. People like you,” I emphasized, “don’t care about the environment. No one’s going to like it if you pretend that you do.”

“What if it makes Ashwood the first luxury designer to go that route?” He was no longer talking to me, I realized. Instead, he pleaded his case to every exec around that table. “It’ll put us”—another strange look from Camila at that word—“in front of the competition before someone else makes that step toward sustainability.”

I shook my head before they could start thinking this was a good idea. “Our target group doesn’t care about sustainability. Not like that.”

“I care about sustainability,” he argued. “Am I not the target group?”

The epitome of it, unfortunately.

It would be so soberingly refreshing to find out Elliot Ashwood was one of those rich kids with morals and values, but I highly doubted he was.

I blinked at him, running out of arguments. He knew. Raised his brows like he was certain he’d won—in front of a bunch of people who most definitely had a say in who got to stay after the program ended.

“You’re not mentioning that luxury fashion is miles ahead in that department already.” Camila. My saving grace. “Limited pieces. Made in Italy or France or right here, in this very city. With the highest quality garments. I’m not sure if you know, since you’d never touch that kind of stuff. Right?”

God, I loved her. Badassery personified and not a single filter to take away from it.

Eyes around the table widened, lips pressed tightly together. Oliver, sitting across from her, lowered his head into his hands as if he had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Like he had half expected it and hated being proven right.

“I—”

But Camila wasn’t having it. Whatever argument or excuse or, God forbid, apology Elliot had on the tip of his tongue, she didn’t want to hear it. “Let’s get back to what we’re here for. Gnomes, leaves, romance. What do you think, Maeve?”

It was another clear shot at Elliot. You had your chance; now let someone else have it. To his credit, he raised his hands and took a literal step back, leaning against the wall again to . . . give me that chance, I think?

Or maybe just because the look on Camila’s face was starting to become scary.

But I hadn’t asked for this. I’d stepped into the conference room hoping everyone around the table would immediately forget I existed. I was just here to take notes, observe, and give feedback to Camila later, once we were back in her office.

Elliot had made that feedback round public, earning himself another strike on my list.

I tried not to waver under the pressure. I’d always been opinionated enough, so speaking my mind wasn’t the problem. And I’d spent the better part of the week studying the three themes to prepare for exactly this question.

“I like all of them.” Which earned me an eye roll from Elliot. His dismissal fueled the trace of confidence in my tone, making me almost sound self-assured. My voice only wavered slightly. “Whispers of the Arcane is broad in the best sense,” I agreed with Oliver. “So much variety on the carpet, potentially really fun looks. Still elegant, though. And when I hear The New Romantics, I’m thinking airy ruffles and flirty bows and . . . well, I’m obsessed. Imagine Daphne Martin in a flowy gown like that!”

I told myself the murmurs around the room were in agreement and moved on, finally finding my rhythm. Ronnie nodded grandly, fixing her rimmed glasses.

“Meanwhile, The Spirit of Earth focuses more on the details, right? The trickle of a creek, a gust of wind. And what is Ashwood, if not attention to detail?” I hesitated. Hated giving this to Elliot, but . . . “Might tie in nicely with the sustainability aspect. Without being too on the nose about it.”

The table hummed in whatever not-convinced-but-interested sounded like. And when, twenty minutes later, I watched everyone shuffle out of the room, I still wasn’t sure if I’d said the right thing. If I should ever agree with Elliot on anything, or if doing so would ruin my chances of making it.