Disclaimer: Characters belong to Cecily Von Ziegesar.
Coincidences
Paris, March 16, 2015, 6:26am
Admiring the features in the Latin Quarter, Blair greeted the morning with a small smile. She leaned over the balcony watching the early risers prepare for the market. The smell of flowers and dew confirmed that spring had finally come to Paris. Raising a glass of champagne in toast to the season, Blair also silently prayed for a successful season.
The runway show had been a stellar success. Critics had been even more generous in their writing than with spoken words. She had yet to read a negative comment about the latest line. Jenny and Blair . . . no, she mentally chided herself . . . Genevieve and Nicolette were the current toast of fashion week in Paris.
When they agreed to open a clothing store in Paris three years ago, they also agreed to change their professional names in order to avoid any connection to Waldrof Designs. They opened the store to showcase the work of small independent designers while specifically highlighting the work of Genevieve Rey, formerly Jenny Humphrey. Through word of mouth via the upper scale circle that Blair ran around with, word spread quickly that their store was the trendiest place to secure the hottest fashions. Eventually, Genevieve's pieces were the top selling items. Demand for a line was inevitable. Securing a loan from Harold, N&G Fashions was conceived. After two years of planning, scheming, and destroying competitors, they opened a new store next to Dior and down the street from major players like Armani and Valentino. Last night cemented their status as a major fashion label.
Next week would be consumed by calls from all the major fashion capitals. Macy's, Dalton's, and Harrod's were already asking for a secondary line that was available to the public masses. Jenny had already produced a handful of outfits for the buyers. If things continued at this pace, Genevieve Rey and Nicolette Cornelia would be toasting backstage at their next fashion show during fashion week in New York. Back in Manhattan, where they belong . . .
Manhattan . . . the brief thought of the place was always accompanied by a wave of anxiety and hope. That place carried her deepest wishes, even the ones that she could barely admit to herself. An island that was covered by the pillars of man's ingenuity and a secret garden hidden at its center held her mother's approval, the embrace of true friends, the flicker of first love, and the comfort of home. Paris represented a challenge, a place of conquest. It was here that her natural ability as a conqueror flourished into that of a successful businesswoman. Ironic, in her moment of triumph, all she wanted to do was go home.
As she wandered back into her apartment, the hollowness of it hit her. This wasn't home. It never really was. Her eyes took in each object in the room. With the exception of the painting that she bought from some street artist on the Seine and the series of interlocking photographs that Serena had given her before her departure, everything else could remain in this pseudo-home she created.
The only other object that held any familiarity was the man stretched out on her bed. The dark locks brushed across his forehead, which were slicked back during the day. The high cut of his cheekbones sharpened the features of his face. Underneath the black rim of eyelashes, his eyes were as dark as the richest soil the earth had to offer. They grew even darker almost as black as the holes in space when they were intimate. Suddenly, her melancholy grew into frustration. Since when did she have a type . . .
New York City, March 16, 2015, Four hours later
Fighting the impulse to destroy the alarm bleeping on his right, he silently cursed the ungodly hour of the morning. Not just any morning, it was Saturday. While the rest of the corporate world enjoyed the hallows of the weekend, he was forced to attend to the demands that came with being the master of the multinational conglomerate. In a few hours, a small band of fellow kings and he would conduct conventional dealings that moved more money in that time than some small nations would ever dream to see in the span of a decade. At least, the president of the latest investment incarnation played a decent squash game.
He turned off the infuriating noise and reached for his phone. Gazing over his schedule for the day, he noted every hour of his supposed day off was again consumed by business meetings that were disguised as social affairs. Last night was no exception. While young mares hung to the arms of gentlemen, of course using the term loosely, he stood amongst them sharing the current achievements of Bass Industries. The only difference between him and these men was age and the women. They wore their eye candy like it was just another tailored suit. He was the lone wolf or the young mustang that all the young mares would eye appreciatively. Once the business dealings were handled, the lone wolf would prowl for a lost sheep.
Flexing his feet, he looked down at the thin arm thrown across his waist. His eyes drew an invisible path up the arm to the shoulder. She was lying down on her belly with her face facing away from him. A mass of dark chocolate curls were draped on the pillow. Just below the halo of curls, the creamy whiteness of her neck was exposed. For an instance, he considered attacking the tasty piece of flesh remembering the flash of fiery passion that erupted in her dark orbs last night. Then, he grimaced realizing that the last string of beauties pulled into his lair had shared a certain combination of features. Since when did he have a type . . .