Ever if She Runs

Grace “Do you ever sleep?” Mia’s voice floated through the speaker, barely audible over the hum of clinking glasses and pulsing music. I could picture her exactly perched at some candlelit rooftop bar, wine glass in hand, glowing under city lights, while I sat cross-legged on the floor of my apartment, surrounded by scraps of muslin and unraveling thread. I pinched the bridge of my nose, stifling a yawn, my eyes fixed on the half-finished sketch in front of me. “Sleep is for people who aren’t trying to meet their deadlines.” “Is my aunt paying you overtime, or is this self-inflicted madness?” I laughed under my breath, nudging a spool of thread away from my coffee mug. “More like emotional damage. Murine doesn’t believe in mercy. If I don’t show up with three completed designs and a concept board by Monday, I’m pretty sure she’ll just make me disappear.” “She probably would,” Mia said, clearly tipsy, her voice slurring into a grin. “You know she once made a girl cry because her hemline was off by half an inch?” “I know. I was that girl. First day of my internship. I sewed the sleeves backwards.” “Oh my God! I forgot about that.” She let out a giggle, breathless. “You poor thing. You called me from the stairwell, sounding like a ghost.” “Well, the trauma-built character.” “And look at you now,” she said, warmth in her voice. “Two years in, building your brand from scratch, drowning in fabric, still somehow alive.” I looked around at the beautiful mess that was my apartment, thread spools littered the floor, pattern pieces pinned to every available surface, garments draped over chairs like forgotten ghosts. It wasn’t polished or perfect, but it was mine. My chaos. My dream. “‘Drowning’ is the right word,” I muttered. “You need a break. Come out. One hour, tops. It’s a rooftop thing in Tribeca—live music, cute people, free drinks…” “Free because your ex is hosting and still trying to win you back?” I raised a brow at the phone. “Details,” she sang. “You’ve been locked in there for days.” “Because I have a deadline, Mia.” “You always have a deadline.” “That’s what happens when you build something from scratch instead of having it handed to you in a gift-wrapped Chanel box.” My voice was quiet, not bitter, just honest. A pause stretched between us. Then, softer: “Okay. I deserved that.” “No, you didn’t. I’m sorry.” I sighed, brushing glitter off my sleeve from that cursed sequined jacket. “I’m just tired.” “Fine,” she relented. “Work now. But after this madness, we’re doing brunch. Real brunch. No greasy spoon diners or chipped plates.” “Deal.” “Love you, Grace.” “Love you too.” I ended the call and let the silence settle. Outside my window, the city thrummed with life, horns in the distance, laughter echoing from the sidewalk below, a siren weaving through it all like a ribbon of sound. But inside, it was just me, the needle’s hum, and the steady ache in my shoulders from hunching too long over my sewing machine. My life had rhythm. Not glamorous, not headline-worthy. But it was mine. Early morning lectures, part-time shifts at the boutique, and nights like this alone, tired, fingers pricked raw but still moving forward. And somewhere in all of it, there was Mia. Despite everything, our differences, our opposite worlds, she’d never left my side. She was born into a life of penthouses and private jets, trust funds and effortless beauty. Her world glittered like a never-ending gala. Mine was stitched together with calluses, textbooks, and small, hard-won victories. We should’ve drifted apart years ago. But she stayed. And I never stopped being grateful. A sharp buzz pulled me from my thoughts. A calendar alert. Monday. Final Presentation. 3 Designs + Concept Board. My chest tightened. I set my phone down and leaned back over the sketch. There was still so much to do. *** Saturday. The one day I was supposed to breathe. I was on the floor again, hunched over my project, fabric pooled around me, pins clenched between my teeth, the hum of the needle pulsing like a heartbeat. “Grace!” Mia’s voice burst from the phone the moment I answered. “Tell me you’re not working.” “I’m working.” “Perfect. Because you’re coming out tonight.” Here it comes. “My cousin Julian is throwing a party at his penthouse. Super exclusive. You’ll love it. Everyone who’s anyone will be there.” I froze mid-stitch. “I don’t know…” Before I could protest, a message lit up my screen, an invite already sent. The words PRIVATE EVENT ONLY gleamed in gold over a photo of a skyline that looked almost too cinematic to be real. Everyone who’s anyone, she’d said. And I was neither. Still, some small part of me, some flicker of curiosity I hadn’t quite killed, wondered what it would be like. To see the world from the other side of the glass. “Alright,” I said, almost to myself. “I’ll come. Just for a little while.” “Yes!” she squealed. “Wear something fabulous.” I hung up, heart thrumming. What the hell was I doing? By eight, I was stepping into the one dress I’d made purely for myself, sleek, black, open-backed, with hand-stitched detail only I would notice. My hair twisted up, nerves tight as thread, I made my way to the building Mia had texted. A skyscraper that glinted like a promise. When the elevator doors opened, the penthouse stretched out before me like something from a dream. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in gold. The skyline beyond sparkled like crushed diamonds on black velvet. Every surface gleamed with marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and polished brass. Laughter rippled through the air like champagne fizz, smooth and effortless. I stepped in slowly, my heels soft against the stone. It was too much. All of it. Too curated, too expensive, too perfect. A world of sharp suits and air-kiss smiles, where every glance felt like a silent test. And then I saw her. Mia, shining in a dress that clung like molten gold, surrounded by people who orbited her like she was their sun. Her laugh was music, her presence magnetic. But when her eyes found mine, her whole face lit up. Mia guided me through the room like she was parting the sea, laughing, radiant, utterly in her element. I followed, conscious of every click of my heels on the marble, every glance that flickered in our direction as we moved toward the bar. “Grace, that’s Julian, my cousin,” she said, tipping her chin toward a man with his back to us. Even from behind, he looked like he belonged to this place—shoulders broad beneath a midnight navy suit, hands tucked casually into his pockets, his stance easy yet deliberate, like the city itself had been designed around him. Julian Carter. Of course, I’d heard of him. Everyone had. CEO. Old money heir. The kind of man who appeared on the cover of Forbes one month and in Page Six the next. I’d always imagined him as someone polished and distant, untouchable in that effortless, infuriating way men like him often were. He turned at the sound of his name, and just like that, the room seemed to tilt. He was... sharp. Clean lines and quiet authority. The kind of man you didn’t just look at, you noticed. His presence filled the space before his words did, commanding attention without demanding it. His suit looked custom; of course, it was tailored to perfection, the dark fabric catching the soft chandelier light like silk. A subtle hint of cologne drifted in the air between us, expensive and understated, all woods and spice and winter air. His jaw was sharply cut, his mouth curved in a half-smile that looked equal parts charm and calculation. But it was his eyes that caught me, gray, cool, intelligent. Not warm, not flirtatious. Observing. Studying. I knew the look. It was the same one Murine gave to fabrics, appraising, assessing, searching for flaws and potential at the same time. “Julian Carter,” he said, extending his hand. The gleam of his cufflinks caught the light platinum, not ostentatious, but precise. Every detail about him was that way. Nothing accidental. Everything chosen. I stared at his hand for a moment, then met his gaze. “Grace, Nice to meet you,” I said quietly, my voice steady. I didn’t shake his hand. The smallest shift passed across his features. Barely perceptible, but I caught it. A flicker of surprise. Amusement, maybe. Like I’d just done something mildly unexpected at a dinner party, he thought he had choreographed down to the last toast. Behind us, laughter swelled. A champagne cork popped, the band at the far end of the room launched into a breezy jazz number, and the entire penthouse shimmered with warmth and wealth and unreality. I felt like I was standing on the edge of a world I didn’t belong to. Not really. Not in the way Mia did. Not in the way he did. I was here to watch. To learn. And then go back to my world, the one I was building, stitch by stitch, on my own terms.