Emma
My fingers traced the brass nameplate on Laurent's studio door, hardly believing I was here. Inside my bag, the finalist notification letter crinkled – I'd read it so many times the paper was soft as fabric.
The elevator dinged behind me. I turned, smile freezing on my face.
Camille.
She wore white – of course she did – a designer suit that probably cost more than my rent. Her lips curved in a familiar sneer.
"My, my." She clicked across the marble floor. "Did you take a wrong turn? Servant's entrance is around back."
I smoothed my skirt – thrift store find, carefully tailored by hand. "Funny. I was about to ask if you'd borrowed your mother's outfit again."
Her smile sharpened. "At least I have clothes worth borrowing. Unlike some people who shop at..." Her eyes swept over my
