Noon hits, and the sales figures finally refresh.
Derek stares at his monitor, blinks, then swivels the screen toward me. "Em. Look."
I look.
Sales haven't just crept up. They’ve doubled. The *WWD* article didn't just debunk Maison Lune; it blasted my name across the industry. My inbox pings in rapid succession. Nordstrom. Net-a-Porter. Two London stockists who ghosted me last season are suddenly asking for meetings.
All because of Nick.
"We're going to need more production capacity," Derek says, already typing frantically. "Like, yesterday."
"I know."
"And a bigger studio. And a third coffee machine, because I am not surviving this on two."
"Derek."
"I'm celebrating. Let me celebrate."
I let him. The constant, low-level hum of panic at the base of my skull finally quiets. My shoulders
