Page 177 of Bride By Coronation

I can't blame her. It's the busy season, and I know how much work is involved. But I miss my career, the people in the office, and all the shows.

I keep going online and looking at different posts. All it does is make me feel worse.

Kirill keeps encouraging me to start my own line. At first, I said I could never put myself in a position to compete with Skylar. But the more time passes and I don't hear from her, the more I realize I might need to take matters into my own hands.

Before Kirill left this morning, he looked at my sketchbook. It has dozens of designs I've doodled over the last month. He'd set it down and adamantly stated, "You have talent, Fiona. And it's obvious this is your passion. Don't sell yourself short to be loyal to someone who isn't loyal to you."

I'd sighed, replying, "It would be easier if I didn't feel like a traitor."

He'd scoffed and said, "You aren't a traitor. You worked tirelessly for Skylar for years. Maybe this is happening for a reason."

I'd been unable to deny he had a point.

He'd kissed me, then said, "We have resources to make this happen. Think about it."

He'd left, and I'd turned on the TV, only to see more fabulous things I was missing during fashion week.

Then I'd gotten pissed. It'd mixed with my guilt and confusion over how to make things right with Adrian and Skylar. No answers had come, but more anger did.

Kirill is my husband. They've known me for years. It's not fair they won't even hear me out or give me the benefit of the doubt.

So, my rage turned into productivity. I've spent the day drawing designs, on a roll, with my brain seeing the next new outfit before I finish the one I'm working on.

I shade the top I'm working on and then put my pen down. I sit back, stare at the design, then flip through the notebook.

Kirill's right; I have talent. Maybe I should start my own line.

The more I review my designs, the more my confidence grows. Then I turn on my computer and compare what the reviewers are raving about compared to what's in my sketchbook.

My designs are better.

I'm not being disloyal to Skylar and Adrian.

They've shut me out.

I click on my mouse, and another review comes up. It's for Skylar's main competitor, and I roll my eyes. It's just another throwback from the '80s. I mutter, "They're so unoriginal."

The doorbell rings. The hairs on my arms rise, and a shiver runs down my spine.

I don't have plans with Zara, and Kirill didn't mention anyone else coming over.

The doorbell rings again.

Stop being silly. If they're in the foyer, they have security clearance.

I release an anxious breath and rise. I leave my office, go through the penthouse, and open the front door.

A young man with greasy, long locks and a scar on his neck, whom I've never seen before, stands there holding a yellow envelope. He raises it toward me, declaring, "This is for you."

My hands are clammy, and nerves erupt in my stomach. I don't know why my internal alarm bells are going off.

I ask, "Who is it from?"

"I'm just the messenger," he states, adding, "Here." He thrusts the envelope closer to me.

I grab it. "Thank you."

"It's urgent. You need to pay attention to it now," he declares.

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