No More Hiding
1101 Words
It's my second week here, and I'm still sewing buttons, attaching jewels, and fetching coffee. The boss has been out of town for Paris Fashion Week, which ends today. Half of me is there, honestly. Too bad this job keeps me from following it properly. I might hate my life. At least I didn’t get fired.
As I finish securing the last of the tiny, stubborn jewels onto a delicate bodice, a voice pulls me from my thoughts.
"Dayna, the boss wants to see you."
I freeze. He's back already? I thought these fashion moguls stayed longer—private jets, soirées, tête-à-têtes, croissants after the shows. Christ.
I take a deep breath, rehearsing my speech. "Sorry, I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to be in there. I already took down everything."
The walk to his office feels like a runway—long, intimidating, with every step echoing in my ears. I smooth my skirt, suddenly hyper-aware of how it clings to my hips. I knock, and his deep voice beckons me in.
The office is expansive, minimalist, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of the city. He stands by the window, silhouetted against the afternoon sun. Tall, impeccably dressed, exuding an air of effortless authority.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
He turns, his gaze locking onto mine. His eyes, a piercing shade of gray, drift slowly down my body, then back up. It's not lewd, but assessing, as if he's committing every detail to memory. My skin heats under his scrutiny.
"Dayna, is it?" he says, his voice smooth, with a hint of curiosity.
"Yes, sir."
He gestures to a seating area. "Please, sit."
I obey, perching on the edge of the leather couch, knees together, hands clasped.
He remains standing, studying me for a moment before speaking. "I understand you took the initiative to style a mannequin in one of our studios."
My stomach drops. "I... I apologize, sir. I didn't mean to overstep. I was just—"He holds up a hand, silencing me. "I'm not interested in excuses. I want to see what you did."
I blink, unsure of how to respond.
He moves to a side table, picks up a remote, and presses a button. A panel slides open, revealing the very mannequin I had styled, now concealed beneath a protective cloth. He walks over, grips the cloth, and pulls it away with a flourish.
"Show me," he commands.
I hesitate, my heart pounding. "Sir?"
"Style it. As you did before."
I stand slowly, approaching the mannequin. My fingers tremble as I reach for the fabrics draped nearby. I glance at him; he's watching intently, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Taking a steadying breath, I begin.
I drape a deep emerald wrap over the mannequin's shoulders, adjusting the folds to create a cascading effect. Next, I cinch the waist with a beaded sash, the intricate patterns catching the light. As I work, the initial fear ebbs, replaced by a familiar rhythm. The fabrics speak, and I listen, letting intuition guide my hands.
Minutes pass, and I step back, assessing my creation. It's simple yet elegant, a harmonious blend of textures and colors.
Silence stretches between us.
I turn to face him, pulse racing.
His gaze lingers on the mannequin before meeting mine. His expression remains impassive, revealing nothing.
He doesn’t say another word, just studies me—eyes dragging slowly from my collarbone down to my waist, pausing at the hem of my skirt, then crawling back up. My breath catches. It’s not lecherous. It’s calculating. Like he’s scanning for flaws… or details. I can’t tell which unnerves me more.
“I was the one working on the mannequin,” he says flatly. “Before you decided to play dress-up.”
I almost flinch at his tone. But I hold my ground.
“I didn’t know it was yours. I— I didn’t mean to overstep.”
A pause.
Then he pulls the cloth off a second mannequin I hadn't noticed, revealing a blank slate—no pins, no drape, just bare form.
“Show me,” he says, stepping back.
Show him? My mind stutters. Right here? Now?
He doesn’t ask again. He just waits. Daring me.
I take a breath, walk toward the mannequin, and begin. My hands tremble at first, reaching for the fabrics like they’re judging me. But the minute I start layering, folding, pairing—something clicks. The trembling fades. I get lost in it. The silence stretches thin, taut like thread.
When I step back, the air between us feels charged.
Still, his face is unreadable.
I stand in the tension. I don’t shrink.
He nods, once.
A thrill shoots through me despite how maddeningly detached he sounds. “Not bad”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling like an i***t. “Thanks, I think.”
He turns. “Gina will brief you.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
A moment later, Gina enters with a brow raised like she’s seen something interesting but isn’t quite sure what to call it.
“Well,” she says, arms folded. “I suppose that went better than expected.”
I blink. “That was… better?”
“Trust me. For him? That was practically a love letter.” She doesn’t wait for my stunned silence to wear off before continuing. “There’s a campaign we’re working on. High stakes. The mannequin you so boldly borrowed? That was part of his prep. You just earned yourself a slot.”
“A slot?”
“To help. Assist. Maybe even design something. If you don’t screw it up.”
My mouth goes dry. “And if I do?”
She shrugs. “He’ll erase your existence faster than you can say mood board.”
I nod slowly.
“He wants you in that room by three,” Gina says, turning to leave. “And Dayna?”
“Yes?”
“Late nights. No whining. No slacking. He won’t say it, but he needs someone on this. Someone… hungry.”
I square my shoulders. “I signed up for this, didn’t I?”
Her mouth twitches.
“Meet him in the room by three. I’ll update the receptionist on the status of your role.”
When she leaves, I stay frozen, pulse thudding in my throat.
So I hadn’t imagined it.
This was just the beginning.
- Writer
