Lili
What if she’s wasted it? All those hours, all those nights… what if none of it lands? She smooths a seam, adjusts a hem, pins another dress to the form.
“Breathe,” Gareth murmurs, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve done the work. Let it speak.”
Lili nods, more sure than she feels. Because this is it. Ashanti Mondrian—Publisher of Élan West, the last legacy fashion magazine on the West Coast. And she’s coming to see me.
Ashanti enters without ceremony, dressed head to toe in crisp, tailored Jil Sander. Her wide, feline eyes glitter behind gold-rimmed Jacques Marie Mage frames.
“Ashanti,” Gareth says, lighting up as he greets her. “You look exactly the same.”
“Oh, Gareth,” Ashanti purrs, tossing him an air-kiss. “Flattery? At your age?”
“Please. I’m just holding on to what charm I’ve got left.”
“You always were trouble,” she says, laughing, just shy of sincere as she turns. “Lili, thank you for having me.”
“It’s an honor,” Lili replies, and somehow her voice holds.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
Ashanti moves through the space in silence, unhurried. She doesn’t ask questions as she moves, lifting a sleeve, brushing a seam, pinching a hem between two fingers like she’s weighing the air.
Lili wants to explain—the moonflower motif, how it blooms in darkness, how this line is stitched with that same quiet defiance. Survival. Transformation. Softness. But she stays silent. Gareth shifts behind her. She hears the soft tap of Ashanti’s heels. Her own breath shallower than she realized.
Finally, Ashanti looks up, eyes sparking. “They’re stunning. Elegant, unexpected. And personal without slipping into sentimentality. That’s rare.” She pauses, her gaze lingering on the moonflower embroidery. “Lili, Élan West is launching a new showcase. We’re going back to our roots—emerging artists, not pre-packaged brands. Think Karl Logan. Georges Marciano. We want firsts, not follow-ups. And I think you might be next.”
She turns to Gareth, perfectly at ease. “Loop us in, will you, sweetie? We’ll need to start talking editorial direction. And timing.” Then to Lili: “Expect to be busy.”
And just like that, Ashanti’s gone, the door shutting behind her with a soft, elegant click.
Lili blinks, stunned but smiling. “Did that just happen?”
“Oh, it happened,” Gareth says.
She catches him off guard, pulling him close, fingers slipping to his belt buckle as she smiles up at him. He sees it in her eyes—permission.
“Fuck me again,” she whispers.
There’s no waiting. The kiss is urgent; sketches scatter, fabric slides underfoot as he lifts her. She wraps her legs around him, anchoring herself in the moment. When his mouth finds her neck, when she arches toward him without thinking—there it is. Not just hope, but certainty. Like light flooding a room she hadn’t realized was dark.