Misery

Rent and Rivals

The ringtone of my mother’s number always makes my chest clench. It’s not dramatic, I set it that way on purpose, a muted piano chord instead of the default chime, so that I’d never mistake it for anyone else.

“Hi, Mama,” I answered, pressing the phone to my ear while balancing a cup of black coffee in my other hand.

“Angela, my baby,” she said, her voice warm and apologetic at the same time. I already knew what was coming. She only used that tone when she needed something.

“What’s wrong?” I asked softly, sliding into the only chair in my tiny apartment that wasn’t covered in sketches or fabric swatches.

“I don’t want to worry you,” she began, and immediately I felt the guilt crawl up my spine. “But the landlord here is saying we’re behind again. I told him I’d sort it out but…”

I closed my eyes. Rent. Always rent. Always the reminder that while I was chasing my dream in New York, she was still stuck in the same house, carrying the weight I’d promised to lift off her shoulders.

“How much?” I asked.

“Six hundred. I hate asking, Angela. I know you’re working so hard, ”

“It’s fine.” My voice came out sharper than intended, so I softened it. “I’ll send it tonight. Don’t worry.”

There was a pause. I knew she was about to thank me, and I didn’t want to hear it. Gratitude only made the guilt heavier.

“You’re a good daughter,” she said quietly.

We hung up, and for a long moment I just sat there, coffee cooling in my hand, wishing I could be in two places at once. Pride was my shield, pride in taking care of her, pride in not letting her see how stretched thin I really was. But pride is heavy. Some days, I didn’t know if I could carry it much longer.

With a deep breath, I shoved the thought aside. There was no time for melancholy. My collection wasn’t going to save itself.

By the time I arrived at the studio, Mira was already there, hunched over a roll of that marble-washed crepe as if she were exorcising a demon. She’d packed most of it back into the supplier’s box, her brow furrowed with determination.

“Morning, boss,” she chirped, though her tone was laced with annoyance at the fabric. “I swear this thing is haunting me. Every time I fold it, it looks uglier.”

I let out a short laugh. “At least it’s going back. Imagine if we had to actually use it.”

“God forbid.” She tugged the tape across the box, sealing it shut with a flourish.

I slipped out of my coat and perched on the edge of the cutting table, letting the silence of the studio calm me. My designs, my sketches pinned on the wall, the bolts of fabric lined neatly, it was the only place where I felt like I had some control.

The peace didn’t last long.

“Well, well, well.”

I didn’t need to turn around to recognize that voice. Suzanne.

She swept into the studio like she was entering a gala, not a workspace. Her glossy hair was pulled into an immaculate bun, her heels clicking against the floor as if she owned it.

“Angela,” she purred, drawing out my name like it was a secret. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by. You know, see what brilliance you’re cooking up.”

Translation: snoop.

Mira shot me a look, barely suppressing a smirk.

I plastered on my most professional smile. “Suzanne. Always a pleasure.”

Her eyes darted to the sketches on the wall. “Mm, very… minimal. You’ve always been into restraint, haven’t you? I’m more of a maximalist, personally. Bigger is better.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“Minimalism requires discipline. It’s not for everyone.”

Touché. Mira coughed to hide a laugh.

“Well,” Suzanne said, clearly unamused, “I just wanted to wish you luck with your show. Competition is so fierce these days, isn’t it?”

“Good thing I don’t think of you as competition,” I said sweetly, ushering her toward the door.

Her smile faltered, just for a second, before she recovered. “See you around, darling.”

The second she was gone, Mira burst out laughing. “You really know how to make her squirm.”

“I don’t try. It’s a natural talent,” I muttered, shaking my head. But the truth was, Suzanne’s little digs always stung more than I let on.

I was about to dive back into work when the studio door opened again.

This time, it wasn’t Suzanne.

It was a man.

And not just any man.

Tall, easily six-four, maybe taller. Dark brown hair, the kind that looked effortlessly tousled, like he’d just rolled out of bed and somehow still managed to look devastatingly put-together. His suit fit like it had been poured onto him, but it was the scent that hit me first. Warm, woodsy, expensive. The kind of cologne that lingered in the air and made your pulse quicken before you realized it.

Beside him was a young woman, stylish in a way that felt natural. Sister, I guessed, from the resemblance around the eyes.

Mira froze. I froze.

And then his gaze landed on me.

For a moment, the entire room shrank down to just us. His eyes were steady, assessing, but not invasive. Curious. Almost amused, like he’d stumbled upon something he hadn’t expected but was in no hurry to leave.

My heart gave a traitorous thud.

We stared at each other. Too long. Long enough that Mira, never one to resist a joke, cleared her throat loudly.

“Should we leave you two alone?” she asked, glancing at the sister with a conspiratorial grin.

The sister laughed, “Honestly, it feels like we just walked in on something.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. I tore my gaze away, busying myself with a stack of swatches on the table as if they were suddenly fascinating.

He didn’t say anything. Just kept watching, calm and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

“Beautiful space,” the man finally said, his voice low and smooth, carrying enough weight to pull my attention back to him. “How long have you been open?”

I blinked, caught off guard by the directness of his question. “Three years,” I said, forcing the words out evenly. I smoothed a hand over the edge of the table just to keep them from fidgeting. “We started small, well, smaller. It’s… grown.”

I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes again, not fully. Every time I tried, something in his gaze threatened to unravel me, and I wasn’t about to give Mira or anyone else the satisfaction of seeing me undone by a stranger in a tailored suit.

So instead, I pivoted. My attention snapped to the young woman at his side. Her energy was lighter, sunnier, the kind that made you want to relax.

“And you are?” I asked with a polite smile.

“Claire,” she said warmly, stepping forward with a hand extended. Her handshake was firm but friendly. “Michael’s my brother. I’m actually the one who dragged him here. I have a show coming up and needed something that wasn’t…” She paused, giving her brother a side-eye. “…picked off a boring rack.”

Michael’s mouth tugged in the slightest suggestion of a smirk, but he said nothing.

“Well, you came to the right place,” I replied, grateful for the chance to redirect my focus. “What exactly are you looking for, Claire?”

“Something bold,” she said, eyes sparkling. “But not loud. Elegant, but not safe. Basically, I want people to look at me and wonder who I am.”

“That,” Mira said under her breath, “is Angela’s specialty.”

Claire grinned, clearly charmed. Michael’s gaze, however, hadn’t shifted. I could feel it, like standing in the glow of a spotlight you didn’t ask for but couldn’t step out of.

I busied myself with pulling a rack closer, fingers brushing through hangers as though my life depended on it. “I think I have a few pieces you might like.”

“Perfect,” Claire said, moving closer to the rack. “I trust you completely. Michael’s only here because he insists on ‘approving’ everything I wear.”

“Not everything,” Michael murmured.

“Almost everything,” Claire corrected, laughing.

The exchange pulled a reluctant smile from me, though I kept my eyes trained on the fabrics. My chest felt too tight, my skin too aware of every breath.

Michael drifted a step closer, slow, deliberate, like he was studying the space as much as the clothes. His voice broke the air again, softer this time, directed squarely at me.

“So… do you design everything yourself?”

It was a simple question. Too simple. But the way he asked it like he actually wanted to know made my pulse jump.

“Yes,” I started, then caught myself, the word catching in my throat. I felt the heat creep up my neck, and suddenly I was aware of the way Mira was watching me like she’d just bought front-row tickets.

“Every stitch, every seam,” Mira chimed in, her smirk curling with mischief. “She’s basically a one-woman army. I’m just lucky she lets me fetch her coffee.”

I shot her a glare sharp enough to cut through fabric. She only grinned wider.

Michael’s mouth curved, but he said nothing, his gaze flicking between Mira and me, lingering on me a moment too long. Claire, meanwhile, was already tugging at a dress on the rack, a sleek slip in jewel-toned silk that shimmered under the studio lights.

“This,” she said, holding it up against herself. “This is exactly what I meant.”

“It’s perfect on you,” I managed, my voice thinner than I wanted it to be.

Claire beamed, satisfied, while Michael’s expression stayed unreadable, a study in quiet amusement.

“I’ll take it,” Claire announced decisively, draping the dress over her arm like a prize.

“Of course,” I said quickly, already backing toward the door. “Mira can ring you up. Excuse me a moment.”

I didn’t wait for a reply. I pushed out the side door and onto the fire escape, pulling a cigarette from my coat pocket with hands that weren’t as steady as I wanted them to be.

The first drag burned, the second soothed. The city hummed below, a dull roar of traffic and voices, and I let myself breathe for the first time since Michael walked in. I hated the way he’d undone me with so little effort. Hated even more that I hadn’t hated it at all.

By the time I stubbed the cigarette out and slipped back inside, the studio was quiet.

Empty, except for Mira, who was perched on the cutting table, arms crossed, smirk firmly in place.

“They left?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Mira nodded, lips twitching like she was fighting the urge to burst out laughing.

“Don’t even,” I warned, holding up a finger.

Her grin spread anyway.