Chapter 8

Looking straight into her eyes, Sophie said each word slowly and clearly. "She said this person's designs have a soul. To be able to draw something like this after three years away from fashion means she isn't out of touch. It means she chewed up her whole life, swallowed it, and turned it back into design."

Charlotte's tears fell at once.

Sophie reached over and grabbed her hand. "Charlotte, you're not unwanted. You just haven't met the right person yet."

Charlotte nodded hard and wiped away her tears.

"I'll go," she said.

Reed Atelier was located in a creative park converted from an old factory in the old part of town.

When Charlotte arrived, she was half an hour early. She stood at the entrance and looked through the glass doors. The space inside was huge, with high ceilings, exposed pipes, and white walls. Dress forms, bolts of fabric, and sketches were everywhere. More than a dozen young people were busy inside, some cutting fabric, some sewing, some editing designs on computers.

The air smelled like fabric and coffee.

This was exactly the kind of place she had dreamed of.

She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

The girl at the front desk led her through the workspace to an office at the back. The office had glass walls. Inside sat a woman in her early forties with short hair, wearing a loose black shirt with the sleeves rolled to her forearms. She was focused on something in front of her.

Olivia looked up, saw her, and got to her feet to open the door.

"Charlotte Nolan?"

"Hello, Ms. Reed."

Olivia looked her over once, her gaze moving from Charlotte's face to her clothes and back again. Charlotte knew she wasn't dressed well today. The faded sweatshirt was the best thing she had.

But Olivia didn't say a single word about her clothes. She just stepped aside and said, "Come in. Sit."

The office was simple. One large desk piled with sketches and fabric swatches. On the walls were rows of photos from past fashion weeks. Olivia sat back in her chair, holding Charlotte's portfolio, the same one Sophie had helped print out.

"Have a seat," Olivia said, pointing to the chair across from her.

Charlotte sat down, placing both hands on her knees and trying not to look too nervous.

Olivia opened to the first page of the portfolio, one of Charlotte's award-winning college designs. She looked at it for a few seconds, then turned the page.

Second page. Third. Fourth. They were all college pieces. Olivia flipped through them quickly without any change in expression.

Her hand stopped on the fifth page.

It was the first sketch from the Metamorphosis series, a black dress with a tight corseted top, a torn-open skirt, a flash of red lining, and irregular fringe along the hem.

Olivia looked at it for a long time.

Then she turned to the sixth, seventh, and eighth pages. There were six pieces in the Metamorphosis series, and she studied every single one carefully. After finishing, she flipped back to the first and looked through them all over again.

Charlotte's heart was pounding.

She had no idea what Olivia was going to say. Charlotte knew her designs were good, but knowing wasn't enough. In this industry, if someone like Olivia Reed said they were good, then they were really good.

Olivia closed the portfolio and looked up at her.

"Sophie told me you haven't designed in three years."

"That's right."

"What were you doing in those three years?"

Charlotte paused. She had expected this question. She had even prepared an answer. But sitting here in front of Olivia, she suddenly didn't want to dress it up.

"I got married and became a full-time housewife," she said. "I bought groceries, cooked, did laundry, cleaned. Every time I asked for money, I had to read someone's face first. Every dollar I spent had to be written down."

Olivia watched her calmly.

"And then?"

"Then I found out he was cheating. I found out he stole my designs and used them for someone else. I found out my mother took his hush money and helped him keep it from me." Charlotte's voice had gone hoarse, but she kept going. "Then I got divorced, moved out, and started over."

The office went quiet for a few seconds.

Then Olivia smiled. It wasn't mocking and it wasn't pity. It was a strange smile, one with real appreciation in it.

"Do you know what I was thinking while I looked at your work just now?" Olivia asked.

Charlotte shook her head.

"I was thinking this person must have suffered a lot." Olivia tapped the sketch where the skirt was ripped open. "This kind of tearing doesn't come from technique. You don't draw something like that unless you've actually been ripped apart and stitched yourself back together piece by piece. Only then do you know what a wound looks like."

Charlotte felt heat rise behind her eyes.

"Your technique is rusty, no question," Olivia said. "Three years away and your lines aren't fluid enough, your detail work isn't mature enough either. But..."

She paused.

"With design, technique can be practiced. Taste can be learned. But there's one thing no one can teach, and that's the ability to turn your whole life into design. You have that. Once you have that, everything else matters less."

Charlotte opened her mouth, wanting to say thank you, but her throat was too tight for a single word to come out.

Olivia picked up a file from the desk and handed it over.

"I've got a project here, a spring-summer line for a niche brand. First draft is due in two weeks." She met Charlotte's eyes. "Do you dare take it?"

Charlotte stared at the file, her heartbeat so loud it felt like it might burst out of her chest.

Two weeks. One full collection.

She hadn't touched design in three years, and now she had two weeks to finish an entire line.

"I do," she said.

Olivia smiled, took out a business card from her drawer, wrote a line on the back, and handed it to her.

"This is your desk assignment. Come in tomorrow. Two-week trial period. We'll talk again after the project's done."

Charlotte took the card and looked down. On the back, Olivia had written one line:

"You deserve to be seen."

Holding the card, Charlotte's fingers trembled slightly.