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"Got it. Thank you, Brenda!"

I practically sprinted out of the building clutching that file.

Walking the Manhattan streets at dusk, cold wind whipping through my hair, my blood was boiling. The unknown international assignment made me nervous, but more than that—I felt the thrill of touching the edge of my dreams.

This Paris trip would be a turning point in my life. I'd seize this chance and prove to that executive I was a designer with real talent.

Filled with infinite hope for the future, I plunged headlong into New York's early spring night.

Chapter 6

Ruby

"Paris? Ruby, are you sure this is really just a work thing?"

I wedged my phone between my ear and shoulder, wrestling with a somewhat presentable black backup blazer, trying to cram it into my old suitcase with its half-busted zipper. The voice crackling through the speaker dumped ice water all over my racing heart.

"Of course it's work, Mom." I froze mid-fold, forcing confidence into my voice. "The department head told me himself. Their executive's assistant got rushed to the hospital with a burst appendix, and my fabric analysis from the final interview happened to match what they need for Fashion Week. I'm the last-minute replacement. It's like winning the lottery!"

Silence stretched across the line. Just Mary's labored breathing.

"Listen, honey. I'm not trying to crush your dreams." When she spoke again, her tone carried that all-too-familiar neurotic worry. "But why would some high-powered male executive pick a girl who's been there one week to fly halfway around the world to the most romantic city on earth? Do you really know what goes through these rich capitalists' heads?"

"Mom, it's just a fabric preview—"

"Your father said the same thing when he got that promotion at the hedge fund!" Mary's voice spiked, ripping open old wounds. "He told me that young, skinny nurse was just his 'medical travel consultant'! And what happened? He kicked me to the curb—this old hag—took our joint savings and went off to live his uptown life!"

"I'm not you, and this executive isn't Dad!"

"Men are all the same, Ruby! Especially the ones with power!" Mary's tone turned pleading, but her words cut like surgical steel. "You need to face reality, baby. A girl like you... big-boned, prone to weight... you don't fit their aesthetic. No matter how you try to hide it with those weird cuts and seams, you'll never be one of those size-zero stick figures they parade around! If they suddenly show interest in you, it's not because they 'appreciate' you. They just want to try something different. Use you as cheap entertainment. And when the game's over, you're the one left bleeding."

Her warning—wrapped in the flag of maternal love—landed like a gut punch.

All the venom I'd tried to forget—Chad and that cheerleader's mockery, twenty-four years of sideways glances at this hourglass body—came flooding back from the darkest corners of my mind, shattering what little professional confidence I'd managed to build.

"I get it, Mom. I'll take care of myself."

I choked back the burning in my nose and hung up before she could drown me in more cautionary tales.

The room went dead quiet. I collapsed onto the edge of the bed and turned toward the cloudy full-length mirror on my closet door.

The girl staring back wore a deep burgundy wrap dress I'd spent two all-nighters patterning myself. Clever ruching cinched the waist. The V-neck showcased curves without crossing lines. At FIT's graduate show, my professor had praised it as the perfect interpretation of vintage sensuality.

But to Mary, it was all just a desperate attempt to camouflage "fat."

I grabbed my phone and opened my banking app. The pathetic two hundred dollars glowing on screen slapped me hard, killing any fantasy of hitting Fifth Avenue for a decent coat.

"It's fine." I sucked in a breath, forcing the tears back. "You're just going to work. You earned this ticket. Keep your eyes down and your mouth shut. This is purely business."

I slapped my cheeks, zipped the suitcase, double-checked everything, and headed for the airport.

Seven-thirty PM. JFK's Terminal 4 still buzzed with bodies.

I dragged my suitcase—its wheel making that godawful scraping sound—and stood in line at the Delta economy counter for a solid twenty minutes. My palms sweated. I rehearsed how to greet this mysterious "department VP" without sounding like an idiot.

"Next."

I stepped forward and handed over my passport and e-ticket. "Good evening, I'm Ruby Caldwell. IS·MA Group corporate booking, should be economy—"