Page 31 of Her Every Fantasy

That when I declared my intention to model at age twenty, my ethics professor father, after a shot of single malt, had pondered out loud why his daughter was interested in flaunting herself wearing nothing but several pieces of silk and satin stitched together instead of utilising the business degree he’d paid for.

The English professor mother who could barely meet her own daughter’s eyes over the dinner table because of those same deplorable life choices.

And the stick-thin older sister, who taught disabled children and volunteered without fail at the homeless shelter every Sunday, never failed to voice her opinion about her younger sister’s failings in life in general, while the whole ensemble unerringly plied her with their thoughts on her plus-size weight in particular.

Bryce had never witnessed any of it. While he’d heartily scoffed down my mother’s shrimpjollofrice and charmed everyone with his sharp wit and Mortimer pedigree, I’d been busy biting my tongue against telling him that I’d felt like a stranger in my own family almost from the day I was born.

That hearing my mother scathingly berate my father for his insistence on a second child when she’d wanted to stop at one, thereby landing me in their illustrious midst, had broken something inside my twelve-year-old self I wasn’t sure had ever healed properly.

And I’d been too ashamed to set Bryce straight on his misconceptions about my family. Perhaps that had been where I’d gone wrong. Did I secretly blame him for not seeing beneath the surface?

My lips twisted as I sipped my bottled water. Would he even have seen my attempts? When we’d crossed paths at the posh school my parents had enrolled me in after we’d relocated from Denmark to London for my dad’s new posting, Bryce had been busy dividing his time between playing rugby and dating stick-thin girls who’d looked like replicas of my sister, Willow.

How he’d managed to extricate himself from the latest limpet-like groupie long enough to make conversation with me that day outside the school library remained one of life’s great mysteries.

That flash of old jealousy and insecurity threatened to rise again.

I sighed, drained the last of my water before marching purposefully back to the centrepiece I’d been working on with my small crew all morning. The wide, revolving platform made of black granite would hold the crowning jewel of my new season’s designs.

Without the chandelier in place I wouldn’t see the full effect of the trellised metal mannequins, but that couldn’t be helped until it was installed on Monday.

The matching hanging baskets from which a few of the models would be suspended from the ceiling before the runway show commenced were still to be put up.

My monumental to-do list seemed insurmountable but I’d risen to bigger challenges. After all, if I could withstand harsh, esteem-shredding barbs from my own family and ex-husband, then—

Nope. Not going there today.

Resolutely, I opened the first box bearing my company’s logo.

Voluttuoso.

Voluptuous.

The name always drew a smile. The moment I heard the name drop from the Italian photographer coordinating pre-show clips for my third runway show in Milan, I knew that would be the name of my company.

It had been one more tiny step on the long journey to financial independence and emotional self-sufficiency after it’d become clear my family didn’t want anything to do with me or my career choices. While it’d hurt, it’d made me more determined to turn my back on the trust fund my parents had attempted to use to keep me in line, each pay cheque I’d earned from modelling a much-needed salve to my pain and pride.

Both goals had faltered along the way thanks to Dan and his greedy demands during our divorce, but I was on my way to reclaiming the former.

As for the latter...

Determinedly, I grabbed the black-and-purple box holding my merchandise and headed for a quieter corner of the showroom.

My colour theme for the spring/summer season was deep purple with teases of bright and dark fuchsia. I opened the first box newly delivered from my manufacturer and felt a fierce bolt of pride as I pulled away the delicate decorative tissue paper and lifted out the first item. Pride steadily sustained me as I sorted through the pieces and jotted down where each item would be displayed for maximum exposure in the store, only stopping when my phone pinged an hour later.

My heart skipped three vital beats as I saw the name displayed:Bryce.

Done with my meeting. Fancy taking a break?

I had several more boxes to sort through but the urge to say yes immediately pummelled me. Would he think I was easy? That I’d drop everything for him the way I used to?

The loud growling in my stomach mocked me, reminding me that it was lunch time and I could do with the break. I hit reply.

I could be persuaded.

Think fast. I’m three minutes away.

The tingling in my body ramped up at the thought of seeing him again.

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