BOUNDLESS: A Heart With No Boundaries

*Chapter three*: The Fitting

I was there at 5:00 AM sharp on Tuesday.

Not 5:01. Not 5:02. Five o'clock exactly, when the sky over Brooklyn was still purple and the trains smelled like cleaning chemicals.

The security guard downstairs was now my friend. "Coffee Girl is early today," he said, buzzing me in without even asking. "Mr. Black came in at 4:30 today. You have competition."

4:30 AM. Who even lives like that? What kind of man comes to his office at 4:30 in the morning?

The same kind of man who remembers your $112 and that you are from Ottawa and checks security cameras to defend an intern he barely knows.

I got to the 42nd floor and everything was dark again except his office. But today there were also lights on in the main atelier. Someone had already started working. Fabric rolls were out. Music was playing low — classical piano that sounded sad.

Ethan Black was standing in the middle of the atelier, not in his office. He was in a dark gray suit today, sleeves pushed up, measuring tape around his neck like a necklace, pinning fabric onto a mannequin himself. No other designers were there yet. Just him.

He looked up when he heard my cheap heels on marble, and his eyes did that slow sweep again, from my face to my shoes. I wore the same Zara dress because it was the only good dress I had, but I had washed it and ironed it so hard it was almost shiny. My hair was longer today, I let my curls stay long and curly instead of straightening them. My mother always said my curls are my crown.

"You are on time," he said. "And you fixed your sleeve."

He remembered the thread from yesterday. Of course he did. This man remembers everything.

"Yes, sir. Thank you for the gloves and bandage yesterday."

"Your finger. Let me see."

I held out my hand. The small cut was healing. He looked at it for exactly one second and nodded.

"Good. Today you will not sort fabric. Today you will assist the fitting."

My heart jumped so loud I thought he heard it. Assist the fitting. That is a real designer job. Not intern job. That means being in the room where models try on dresses for Fashion Week.

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"

"Don't thank me yet," he said coldly, turning back to mannequin. "Vanessa is leading the fitting. If she complains about you once, you go back to closet."

Of course Vanessa was leading. Of course.

At 5:55 AM, Vanessa arrived in a black tight dress that looked painted on. She saw me standing near Ethan holding pins and her perfect face twisted.

"What is she doing here? She is supposed to be in storage sorting buttons. We have three thousand buttons arriving."

"She is assisting today," Ethan said without looking at her, his hands still pinning. "She sorted a thousand scraps in two hours. She can handle pins."

Vanessa's eyes shot daggers at me. "Mr. Black, with all respect, she is an intern from—" she paused, smiling fake, "—from nowhere. She doesn't know fittings. She will embarrass us in front of the model."

"The model is from nowhere too. From Ohio. She will be fine. Miss Cole, get the Boundless sketches from my office. The white dress folder. Top drawer. Bring it to me."

Boundless. The white dress folder. The dress with no hem. My dress.

My hands shook as I went to his glass office. His office smelled like him — expensive cologne, coffee, and something cold like winter. His desk was perfect. No papers out of place except one folder with my name on it in his handwriting.

LENA COLE — BOUNDLESS SKETCH.

He had kept my sketch. He had put my name on it. He had put it in his top drawer.

I carried it back like it was gold.

At 6:30 AM the atelier was full. Ten senior designers, five juniors, three assistants, and one very tall, very skinny blonde model from Ohio named Madison who looked bored and cold. She was wearing a robe and scrolling on her phone.

Vanessa clapped her hands loudly. "Okay everyone, today we fit Look 1 through Look 7 for Fall Fashion Week. Mr. Black wants structure, boundaries, armor for powerful women. Not feelings. Not endless white dresses with no hem."

She looked directly at me when she said that. Everyone laughed a little. I felt small.

Ethan didn't laugh. He opened the folder I brought him and pulled out my sketch — the white dress with no hem that flows forever.

"This was in intern pile," he said, holding it up. The room went silent. "Who drew this?"

No one answered. Vanessa's face turned pale.

"I drew it," I whispered, voice tiny.

Ten designers turned to look at me, the girl in Zara dress with taped portfolio, standing in corner holding pins.

Madison the model looked up from her phone and said, "That dress is pretty. Is that for me? It looks comfortable. All these other dresses feel like cages."

Ethan's storm-gray eyes met mine across the room. For a second, just a second, he smiled with his eyes. Almost.

"It was Lena's concept," he said to the room, his voice loud and clear. "Boundless. A dress with no hem, no boundary, no end. She said it's about endless love. Her words."

He remembered my words from Saturday. When I cried about my design. He remembered every word.

Vanessa laughed nervously. "Mr. Black, it's beautiful for a sketch, but it's not BLACK. BLACK is about boundaries. This dress has no boundaries. It's too... emotional. Too soft."

"Maybe BLACK needs softness," he said, looking at Vanessa coldly now. "Our last three collections were all armor. Sales dropped twelve percent. Women are tired of armor. Maybe they want to feel endless. Maybe they want to breathe."

The room was so quiet I could hear the piano music and my own heart.

He walked to me and handed me the sketch. Our fingers brushed again, longer this time. Warm.

"You will drape it," he said quietly, only for me. "On Madison. Today. Now."

I thought I would faint. "Me? But I've never draped on a real model, sir. Only on mannequin at school."

"Then today you learn on real model. Take the white silk from storage. The Italian one. The one you bled on yesterday. Use it."

The Italian white silk that costs probably $200 per yard. He wants me to use it.

Vanessa stepped forward, panicked. "Mr. Black, you cannot let an intern cut our expensive silk! She will ruin it! That roll is $3,000!"

"If she ruins it, I will deduct it from her $112 and she will work for free for a year," he said, but his voice had a hint of teasing. "Miss Cole, you have thirty minutes. The rest of you, continue Look 1 to 7."

Everyone went back to work, but they were all watching me from corners of their eyes. Whispering. Jealous.

I ran to storage closet, my closet, and pulled the huge roll of white Italian silk. It was heavy, soft like water, shining like moonlight. The most beautiful fabric I ever touched. It was the pile Vanessa kicked yesterday. It still had a tiny spot where my blood had touched, but I had cleaned it.

I brought it to the empty mannequin near the window, hands shaking.

Madison walked over, now interested. She was nice. "Are you Lena? I love your sketch. Can I really wear it? All their other dresses are so tight I can't eat lunch."

"Yes, please," I said, smiling for first time that morning. "But I am scared. I've never..."

"Girl, I have been model for six years. I have had interns poke me with pins many times. Just don't poke my butt and we are good."

We both laughed.

I started draping. No pattern, just feeling. I let the silk fall from her shoulders, no seams on sides, no hem at bottom, just endless flow that touched the floor and kept going, pooling like water. I pinned carefully, my hands remembering what my mother taught me in Ottawa when I was ten years old, making doll dresses from leftover silk.

Time disappeared. I forgot Vanessa. I forgot designers watching. I forgot I was Coffee Girl. I was just Lena again, the girl who loves fabric with no boundaries.

At some point I felt someone behind me, close, watching over my shoulder. I knew it was him before I turned. His cologne. His presence that makes air heavier.

He didn't say anything. He just watched my hands work. I could feel his breath near my neck. My long curls brushed his arm when I moved.

"Your hands are shaking less now," he whispered, low, so only Madison and I heard.

"Because I'm not scared anymore," I whispered back. "I'm happy."

"Good. Keep shaking less. Designers who shake too much cut fingers."

Madison winked at me.

After twenty minutes, the dress was done. It was not perfect. The drape was a little uneven on left side. But it was beautiful. It was endless. It moved like air when Madison walked. White silk with no hem, no boundaries, no end.

The whole atelier stopped working and stared.

Vanessa's mouth was open.

Ethan walked around Madison slowly, once, twice, his hands behind his back, his face cold and unreadable. He touched the silk where it fell to floor, lifted it, let it fall again.

Then he looked at me, his storm-gray eyes darker than usual.

"Why no hem?" he asked loudly, so everyone heard. It was a test.

I took deep breath. My voice shook at first, then got stronger.

"Because love has no hem, Mr. Black. In my country, my mother said when you love someone with no boundaries, you don't know where you end and they begin. You just continue. Forever. Like this dress. It doesn't stop at the floor. It continues. It's boundless. That's why I called it Boundless."

Silence. Complete silence. Even the piano had stopped.

Madison had tears in her eyes. "I feel beautiful," she whispered. "I feel free."

Ethan stared at me for a long time. Long time. Like he was seeing me for first time, not as Coffee Girl, not as intern from Brooklyn with $112, but as designer.

Then he said three words that changed my life.

"Make it again."

"What?"

"Make it again, but in black silk this time. And in red. For closing look of Fashion Week. Your design will close our show. If you can make three in two days."

My knees almost gave out. Close the show? At New York Fashion Week? For BLACK Atelier? Me? Lena from Ottawa living in Brooklyn with $112?

Vanessa screamed, actually screamed. "Mr. Black! You cannot let an intern close Fashion Week! I've been here four years! My dress was supposed to close!"

"Your dress will open," he said coldly, not looking at her. "Lena's will close. Because fashion needs to feel something again, not just look expensive. Meeting over."

He walked back to his glass office, leaving chaos behind him. Designers whispering loudly, Vanessa crying red mascara, Madison hugging me.

I stood there in middle of atelier, holding pins, wearing Zara dress, long curls messy, finger still bandaged from yesterday, and everyone was looking at me.

For first time, not as Coffee Girl. As competition. As threat. As designer.

At 8 PM that night, I was still in atelier, cutting black silk for second version of Boundless dress. My back hurt. My eyes hurt. But my heart was flying.

Ethan was still in his office, working. He never leaves before nine.

At 8:30 he came out with two cups of black coffee. He set one down on my cutting table, next to my scissors. In black mug with EB.

"You didn't take lunch again today," he said.

"I forgot. I was draping."

"Rule number four," he said, standing close, watching me cut. "Designers eat. Even ones with $112."

"There are only three rules, Mr. Black."

"I just added fourth one. For you."

We looked at each other, black silk between us, scissors in my hand, coffee steaming. His face was close enough I could see tiny scar near his eyebrow. I wondered how he got it.

"Thank you for today," I whispered. "For letting me drape. For defending me yesterday. For the bandage."

"You thanked me yesterday already," he said.

"I will thank you every day then."

He looked at my long curly hair, my fairer skin glowing under atelier lights, my tired eyes.

"Your curls are better long," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Don't straighten them again. They suit you. They have no boundaries either."

He reached out like he wanted to touch one curl, then stopped himself, hand in air for second, then pulled back.

"Good night, Lena," he said, his voice softer than I ever heard.

"Good night, Mr. Black."

He went back to his office, leaving coffee.

I drank his black coffee even though I hate black coffee, because it was from him. It was bitter and hot and kept me awake until midnight cutting black silk that felt like night sky.

Sophia called at 11 PM. "Girl, where are you? Are you dead?"

"I'm closing Fashion Week," I whispered, crying happy tears onto black silk.

She screamed so loud the guard downstairs probably heard.

When I finally left at 12:30 AM, his office light was still on. He was asleep at his desk, head on his sketches, black suit jacket off, white shirt wrinkled. He looked younger when asleep. Less cold. More human.

I wanted to wake him. I wanted to cover him with fabric so he doesn't get cold.

Instead I left my white silk scrap — the first Boundless drape — folded neatly on his desk next to his coffee mug, with a small note I wrote quickly:

_Thank you for seeing me. Not as Coffee Girl. As Lena. — L_

I ran out before I could regret it, my long curls bouncing, heart beating like drum.

I was in love with my boss.

And tomorrow, at 5 AM sharp, I would see him again.