Phoenix In Prada

Chapter Three: I Had a Plan. Then He Bought Roses.

PHOENIX IN PRADA

— NATHALIE —

It had been three weeks since I died, and I was currently failing my Revenge Arc in the most luxurious way possible.

Listen. I spent twenty eight years eating lukewarm noodles, budgeting for the bus, and working myself into an early grave — twice, if you're counting the building tumble. So if the universe decided to compensate me with a doting billionaire father and a black card with no spending limit, I was going to accept that severance package with grace and zero questions.

Mr. Harrison — Dad, as my new brain files insisted — was a concept I had no reference point for. He noticed if I skipped breakfast. He knocked on my door just to check if I was getting enough sleep. When he slid that black card across the table I didn't just see a piece of plastic — I saw a lifetime of anxiety melting away. I had to look away so I wouldn't accidentally cry into my organic, cage-free eggs.

Then there was the closet.

I stood in front of it for four minutes on day one, completely motionless. Climate controlled. It smelled like Success and Expensive Leather. The entire latest Prada collection hanging there, waiting. In my old life my wardrobe was three sad drawers and a fancy dress I bought on clearance in 2019.

I picked out a coat that probably cost more than my old college tuition, put it on, and stared at the mirror. First instinct: I could sell this on eBay and live in Bali for three years. Second instinct: I look incredible. I'm never taking this off.

And then there were the brothers. The support squad I never asked for but desperately needed.

Daniel, twenty eight: serious, precise, and probably has a spreadsheet for his feelings.

Christopher, twenty five: opinionated, brilliant, and annoyingly right about everything.

Ethan, twenty two: the youngest, a total chaos agent, who had appointed himself my personal entertainment committee — mostly by trying to see how many high-end macarons I could eat in one sitting.

For the first time in my life I belonged somewhere. I wasn't an employee or a tenant. I was a daughter. A sister.

And then there was James.

The book had described him as handsome. That is like describing the sun as occasionally bright. James Morrison knew exactly how I liked my coffee. He had given me the most electric three weeks of my life. I owed my past self a formal apology for crushing on the 2D version when the 4D version was currently making me forget my own name.

The plan — follow the plot, get home, don't get distracted — was officially under threat. The plan was currently buried under a pile of Prada boxes and romantic dinners and a man who brought me coffee exactly the way I liked it every single morning.

And then it hit me.

The anniversary.

In the original story, the anniversary was the night Clara stood James up. She was too busy plotting the downfall of Emma Ashford to answer his calls. It was the First Big c***k in their relationship — the moment James started wondering if the woman he loved was turning into someone he didn't recognize.

I checked the date.

It was tonight.

* * *

My logical Corporate Nathalie brain said: stay home, be cold, follow the script. My Actually-Being-Loved-For-Once brain said: he made a reservation at a restaurant with a three-month waiting list. It is rude to waste food.

New plan. The Controlled Exit. I would go to dinner, eat the appetizer because I am not a martyr, be polite, and then leave early with a headache. Clean. Professional. Minimal plot damage.

* * *

The restaurant was on the forty second floor. Candlelight. City lights. James was standing at the balcony in a suit that should have come with a safety warning. He turned when he heard me and his expression was so open and unguarded I felt a literal pang in my chest.

"You came," he said.

"Of course," I said. My Controlled Exit plan was already starting to sweat.

I stayed for the appetizer. It was a ten out of ten.

I stayed for the main course because the conversation was a twelve out of ten.

I told myself I would leave before dessert.

Then the roses arrived.

Not just a bouquet — a literal floral assault. A mountain of perfect pink roses carried out by a waiter who understood the assignment completely. James stood up, took them, held them out with an expression so sincere my carefully constructed exit strategy physically recoiled.

And then the sky outside exploded.

Fireworks. Pink and gold, perfectly timed. Because James doesn't do low-key. He went down on one knee — not a proposal, we were already engaged, but a declaration. He said things people only say in movies. Things no one had ever said to the girl who died alone at her desk on her birthday.

The Exit Plan didn't just leave. It filed for divorce and moved to a different continent.

I pulled him up and kissed him while the city glowed forty two floors below us and my internal Plot Tracker screamed ERROR 404: SCRIPT NOT FOUND.

I didn't care.

* * *

3:17am.

I was back at my desk staring at my laptop. The Destroy Emma Ashford file was sixty percent complete and mocking me with the energy of a deadline I had absolutely missed.

In the book I was supposed to release this footage tomorrow at the freshman ceremony. I was supposed to ruin her. But my brain kept drifting back to the way James looked at me on that balcony, and I was getting soft, and I was getting happy, and in a revenge novel happy people get absolutely slaughtered in the final act.

Then a thought pricked at the back of my mind.

Emma. She had been trying to reach me for three weeks. In the book Emma didn't reach out — she was the one being hunted. But this Emma was acting strange. Going off script. Was she trying to get close to Clara for the family business? Or did she know something I didn't?

I pressed my fingers to my temples.

"What are you doing up?"

James. Standing in the doorway, hair messy, looking unfairly attractive for three in the morning. He crossed the room, picked me up like I weighed nothing, and tucked me back into bed.

"Sleep," he murmured. "Everything can wait until tomorrow."

I lay there in the dark, his arm around me, all of it still turning in my head.

Tomorrow was the ceremony. Tomorrow I had to stop being Nathalie who likes roses and start being Clara who destroys lives.

Even if it meant breaking my own heart to do it.