Caroline felt a nudge of concern. “You’re not clumsy,” she said, exchanging a glance with Daria, who looked on, wide-eyed. “You’re one of the most graceful models in the business. Did someone hurt you?”

A production assistant with a headset and clipboard brushed past. “Two minutes,” she said to the group.

“I told you, I fell,” murmured Angelique.

Caroline was at a loss. Her hands worked independently of her mind, quickly altering the armhole even as she studied her friend’s bruises. “That’s not what this looks like. Talk to me.”

“Finish the draping,” said Angelique. “Do not make this into something that it’s not.”

Maybe it was nothing, Caroline told herself. Extremely thin models tended to bruise easily, which was another thing to worry about. But maybe she should heed what the subtle quiver of instinct was telling her—Angelique was in trouble.

“If you ever need anything … maybe just to talk—”

“I hate talking.”

“I know. I talk all the time, though.”

“I know,” Angelique echoed.

“Just … I’ll help, whenever you need me. I mean that. Any hour of the day or night. You can come to me anytime.”

Angelique offered a swift eye roll. “Listen, I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen. Taking a fall down the stairs is the least of my worries.”

“Places, everyone,” someone said. “Line up over here.” An assistant organized the models at the side entrance.

“Remember what I told you,” Caroline said. “If you ever need anything, if I can help—”

“Nom de Dieu, just stop.” Angelique’s face froze into a regal mask as she prepared to walk. A pro to the last inch of her shadow, she squared her posture, getting into character for the show. “We have work to do.”

“We’re not done with this conversation,” Caroline said.

“Yes, we are.” Angelique stepped down and followed a PA to the runway, gliding effortlessly to her place at the head of the line.

Music floated in from the runway area, and the backstage monitors showed a packed house. Caroline’s gaze was glued to a monitor.

“I’m worried about her,” she said to Daria as she tracked Angelique’s progress through the shifting sea of people to the head of the line.

“Me too. Was she in a fight? Did someone hit her?”

“I immediately thought of Roman Blake,” Caroline said. “They broke up, but what if he didn’t take it so well?”

“In that case, it’s good they’re history, then,” Daria said.

Caroline flashed on a memory from a few weeks back. A group of friends had met at Terminus, a club favored by actors and models. She’d spotted Angelique and Roman on the rooftop terrace, their postures tense as they spoke heatedly. Roman had grabbed her arm and she’d flung him off and walked away. Caroline hadn’t said anything that night. Now she wished she had.

“Guess so,” she said.

“And we could be totally wrong,” Daria pointed out, organizing a suitcase-size makeup box. “One time, I fell off a horse during a shoot and I looked like the walking dead for days. What are the chances that it might be exactly what she said, that she fell down the stairs?”

“When was the last time you fell down the stairs?” Caroline stepped back as more models made their way to the lineup. Another of her designs drifted past, but she was too distracted to inspect it. “I hope we’ve seen the last of Roman.”

Daria nodded. “Could it be someone else? A new guy? Someone from her past? What do you know about the father of her kids?”

“She once said he’s not in the picture and never mentioned him again.”

Daria gestured at the backstage monitor. “Look at her now. My God, Caroline.”

The screen displaying the action on the runway showed Angelique at the height of her powers, leading off one of the most important collections of the season. The dramatic lighting and the haunting music by Sade surrounded her angular, gliding form as she conquered the runway. Onlookers held still, leaning forward, their gazes devouring her.

“She looks like a fucking queen,” Daria whispered. “And that outfit …”

Caroline couldn’t suppress a smile as the look she’d designed created a stir in the audience. The top fashion critics and bloggers furiously scribbled or tapped out their notes as the camera flashes detonated.

Angelique did look like a queen, the controversial serape floating behind her like a royal robe. The last thing she looked like was a victim.

On the day she was set to exhibit her original line for adjudication, Caroline stepped outside her apartment in the Meatpacking District. The crisp air had the kind of brilliant clarity that caused even the most jaded New Yorkers to lift their eyes to the diamond-sharp blue sky.

The light of late afternoon painted the entire landscape with layers of rare and shimmering gold. The temperature was exactly right for jeans and boots and a cozy sweater. Under such conditions, it was impossible not to appreciate the world’s most exciting city. She took the weather as a sign from above. People tended to romanticize New York City in autumn for good reason. When the weather gave the city a gift, it was spectacular.

Rolling her shrouded garment rack down the sidewalk, she buzzed and hummed with anticipation. Beside her—dwarfing her—were two towers of runway expertise: Daria and Angelique. Her friends were going to help showcase her designs for the panel of judges tasked with selecting the next candidate for the Emerging Talent program. As they passed the flagship store of Diane von Furstenberg, with spotless windows framing her iconic designs, Caroline felt a wave of nerves.

“I’m dying,” she said. “What if they hate my stuff?”

“They will love it,” said Angelique. Without the artifice of hair and makeup, she was still striking, long-necked and graceful, her bold features intense. “These people have taste.”

Caroline sent her a grateful smile. “I couldn’t do this without you,” she said.

“You could, but I am happy to help.”

“How are you doing?” Caroline asked. Tentative, not wanting to pry, but unable to forget the day she’d seen her friend’s body ripe with bruises.

“I’m brilliant,” Angelique said with a breezy smile. “I am ready to watch you blow the panel away today with this collection.”

“They’ve never seen anything like it,” said Daria. She was eight months pregnant now, and until today had been sidelined by the pregnancy. But with her full-moon belly and soft features, she was exactly what Caroline needed.

She was too broke to pay her models, but they had made a swap. She’d made school clothes for Angelique’s kids, Flick and little Addie. For Daria, she’d created a six-piece maternity wardrobe, and Daria swore that every time she wore something from the collection, people asked where she’d bought it.

“Did you get leg cramps?” Daria asked Angelique as they walked along. “When you were pregnant, I mean.”

“I did, yes, with Flick especially. When I was carrying my little boy, the cramps would keep me up at night. Try eating a banana at bedtime. The potassium might help.”

Caroline tried to picture her friend pregnant. Angelique would have been just sixteen or seventeen, already on her own in Haiti. Flick came along, and less than a year later, Addie—no partner to help. It almost made Caroline feel guilty about her freakishly normal family back in Washington State.

“Did you find yourself getting up every couple of hours to pee?” Daria asked. “That’s all I’ve been doing lately.”

“Welcome to the third trimester,” said Angelique. “Consider it training for getting up for night feedings.”

“You both make childbearing sound so pleasant,” Caroline said.

“What hospital did you use?” Daria asked.

“It was in Port-au-Prince.” Angelique cut her glance away, stepping around a crack in the sidewalk. “We came to New York when they were babies. Addie was still nursing. I remember that, because of leaks during one of my agency interviews.”

“Oh, man.”

“You should have seen their faces. They signed me, though, and because of Mick I didn’t have to go through casting.”

“They would have been crazy not to,” Caroline said. “You’re incredible.”

The venue for the design challenge event was a cavernous, light-filled old building that had once been a meat warehouse. Now it was at the center of the design district, a gathering place exploding with creativity. Caroline slowed her pace as they approached the big double doors.

“You seem nervous,” Daria observed, helping to navigate the rolling rack past a busy food cart and angling it into the staging area.

“What if they love something else more?” Caroline said, eyeing the other hopeful designers waiting to present their styles. She knew most of them, at least in passing. The world of design was a small one, and the pool of talent made for intense competition.

“You can’t think that way,” Daria said.

“Am I awful for wanting this so much?” asked Caroline. The event was renowned in the fashion world, and the stakes couldn’t be higher. She had entered the competition before but had never made the cut. Her collection was not edgy enough. Not tasteful enough. Not bold enough. Too bold. Incoherent. Unmanageable. She’d heard it all.

“Just awful, chérie,” said Angelique.

“This is my sixth attempt,” she said. “If I fail this time …”

“You’ll what?” Daria demanded.

Caroline took a deep breath. She remembered advice she’d read somewhere: Don’t ask who is going to let you. Ask who is going to stop you. “I’ll try again.”

“You never give up,” Daria said. “I like that. This is it for you. Sixth time is the charm.” She patted her pregnant belly. “This is our shot, and you’ve worked your ass off. It’s a can’t-miss. What’s this fabric?”

“It’s a silk jersey. Gets its shimmer from copper thread.” Caroline busied herself with the chosen looks on the rolling rack. The samples had to be flawless and pristine. Not a stray thread or fleck of lint. She had poured hours into these designs, and she wanted them to shine on the runway.

While she styled her models in the staging area, she couldn’t help having her doubts. There was so much talent crammed into the space, it was ridiculous. Several of the designers had attended the Fashion Institute of Technology, same as her. Others she knew from jobs at the big design houses. And they were good. She saw spectacular gowns, palazzo pants, dramatic sheaths, hand-painted fabrics, and shapes that draped the models like living sculpture.

She could feel the attention on her as well—for good reason. It wasn’t every day a designer showed up with a pregnant model and someone as well-known as Angelique. But Daria’s pregnancy was key to Caroline’s exhibit. Creating a collection like this was a huge risk. She knew that. She also knew that the biggest achievements of her career so far had resulted from risk-taking. Two years before, she’d landed the contract job with Mick Taylor by showing a collection of rainwear that changed color when it got wet.

Daria and Angelique were behind a folding screen, putting the finishing touches on their looks. Angelique stepped aside for a moment. “I want you to have a token—for luck.” She held out a triple-strand bracelet of small shells expertly strung together. “When I was a girl, I gathered cowrie shells on the beach and made bracelets to sell to tourists. The shell is a symbol of the ocean spirit of wealth and earth, and it offers goddess protection—very powerful, because it is connected with the strength of the ocean.”

Caroline held out her arm so Angelique could tie on the three strands. “You’re going to make me cry,” she said. “What did I do to deserve a friend like you?”

Angelique didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped back and said, “There, you’re fully protected. Now go and show off your hard work.”

Caroline rolled the garment rack into the showroom. The five-judge panel sat at a draped table littered with papers, cameras, smartphones, and coffee cups. The adjudicators were bright lights of the fashion world—a magazine editor, a fashion critic, and three top designers, all eager to find new talent. So many ways to fail, thought Caroline, hoping they couldn’t see her sweat.

She stood in front of her garment rack and unzipped the covering. Maisie Trellis, the critic, perched a pair of reading glasses on her nose and consulted the screen of her tablet. “You’re Caroline Shelby, from Oysterville, Washington.”

Caroline nodded. “That’s where I grew up, yes. It’s about as far west as you can get before falling into the ocean.”

“Tell us a bit about your career so far.”

“I went to the Fashion Institute of Technology and I’ve been doing contract work. My first job out of school was refurbishing vintage couture. I did alterations, piecework, anything that would help me pay the rent.”

“And now you’re designing for Mick Taylor.”

“Just finished working on a ready-to-wear collection.”

“Tell us about this.” Maisie peered over her glasses at the rack.

Caroline paused. Drew a breath. This was her moment. “I call this line Chrysalis.” She unveiled the rack. Fabrics in a palette of earth and sky tones shimmered in the autumn light through the windows. Daria emerged from behind the folding screen, her pregnancy eliciting murmurs from the panel. The fabric draped her ripe belly like a cocoon of gossamer, floating with every step she took. Next, Angelique stepped out, a willow-slim goddess, wearing a similar look.

“My garments won’t be obsolete after the baby comes,” Caroline said, encouraged by the expressions on the people’s faces. “Like a chrysalis, the top transforms.”

With a sweep of drama, Angelique demonstrated the conversion. The gorgeous tunic draped upward, fastening at the shoulders. “It creates a sling for the baby, and a modesty shroud for the nursing mother,” Caroline said. “It’s a piece that will last beyond the pregnancy, and even beyond nursing.”

She showed the rest of the collection, piece by piece. Each garment had a secret conversion achieved by different ways of draping and fastening. The fabrics were all sustainable and organic, with bright accents shot through with mother-of-pearl, a nod to her childhood home by the sea. She had created a signature grace note at the shoulder of each piece, a stylized nautilus shell highlighted with shimmering thread.

“What was your inspiration?” asked one of the judges. “Do you have children?”

“Oh my gosh, no.” In a moment of stark honesty, she added, “I doubt I’ll ever have kids. I’m the middle child of five, and I kind of got lost in my busy family. I do like other people’s kids, but I love my independence. My inspiration comes from people like Angelique and Daria. They’re working moms, and they deserve to wear beautiful things every day, through pregnancy, nursing, and beyond. And it’s also my commitment to sustainable practices. I imagine you hear that a lot. It’s a buzzword—what to do about textile waste created by discarded garments. My maternity tunic can live on as a nursing top and carrier sling, and the fabric source I used was CycleUp for most of the pieces.” It was the industry standard for recycled fabrics.

The panel inspected each garment while she watched, her heart in her mouth. Her craftsmanship was impeccable, every stitch in place, every edge and pleat knife-sharp. She knew this was her finest work. And when the demonstration ended, she felt a wave of pride. “This is the best I’ve got. I hope you like it. Thank you for the opportunity.”

The judges consulted one another, asked more questions, made more notes. Then Maisie dismissed her with an impenetrable look. “We’re intrigued, Caroline Shelby. But we have a long way to go today. We’ll let you know.”

Caroline bumped her way down the stairs of her apartment, lugging an overstuffed suitcase. She always brought extra supplies to a show—fabric and thread, pins, scissors, touch-up for makeup, towels, a flashlight and double-sided tape, and wipes in case of model meltdowns … or designer meltdowns.

She was not going to have a meltdown today. Totally the opposite. Today was going to be a huge leap forward in her career. Finally, after so many abject failures and near misses, her Chrysalis line had been selected for the Emerging Talent program. The collection bearing her name would be showcased on the runway in front of all the fashion elite in the city.

If she impressed the right people, she would get her shot at creating apparel under her own name.

That, she knew, would be life-changing. People back home had never quite understood her aspirations. They had been kind enough. They were quick to say they appreciated her creativity. Yet they’d always been mystified by her life and work. Her entry-level jobs, most of them involving long hours and low pay, had struck them as thankless and unrewarding. Which was quite an indictment, coming from her family of restaurateurs.

But a line of apparel—that would be concrete proof that she’d set out on the right path. A ready-to-wear collection was a tangible achievement, something everyone could see. That alone was thrilling. It also gave Caroline the kind of fulfillment she’d always sought—the satisfaction of a particular creative hunger.

She had been focused on this goal for eight seasons of working for Mick Taylor. She’d learned a lot, but it wasn’t her dream. The dream was what she did after she went home, after she’d spent uncounted hours designing season after season of cutting-edge fashions under the keen eye of Rilla Stein. She’d learned to subsist on microwave burritos and too much caffeine, staying up long into the night to create something wholly her own, an exuberant expression of her unique aesthetic.

She pulled her gear along the sidewalk toward Illumination, dreaming of a day when she’d have assistants and stylists to help. Today’s show venue had a long runway and brilliant lighting, a waterfall backdrop, and tons of backstage monitors so she wouldn’t miss a moment. Every time she pictured her collection on display, she had to pinch herself.

She hoped her outfit was okay. She had opted for stark black and white, her usual work attire. The skinny black pants and boxy white top, chunky jewelry and flat shoes were well suited for rushing around the city.

The backstage was divided into two wings, east and west, separated by a folding wall. Caroline was assigned to the east side. In the staging area, a buzz of excitement vibrated through the air, which smelled of hair spray and aniline. She joined the flow of rushing designers, dressers, assistants, models, producers, photographers and their entourages, bloggers, and reporters. It was a ballet of barely controlled chaos as showtime approached. The established designers would show their collections, and Caroline’s debut would come at the very end.

She wove a path through the racks and found her station. She checked her notes and spotted Angelique standing on a riser and chatting with Orson Maynard, who was furiously taking notes.

“I heard a rumor that you’re responsible for all this lovely,” Orson said, regarding the fantasy ball gown Caroline had designed for Mick Taylor’s line.

“The garment’s my design, but all the lovely comes from Angelique.” Caroline noticed a raw edge peeking out of the bodice. “Hold still,” she said, swiftly threading a needle to tack it into place.

Daria arrived, huffing and puffing as she set down a box of accessories. She stepped back to admire Angelique. “Wow.”

“How are you feeling?” Caroline took a chunky cocktail ring from the box and tried it on Angelique.

“I’m good,” said Daria. “I’d rather be out on the runway, but you’re the only designer in need of a massively pregnant model.” She selected a makeup brush and touched up Angelique’s cheekbones.

“You both looked incredible at my presentation,” said Caroline.

Orson bustled forward with his notepad. “And …?” he asked.

Caroline had forgotten he was there. She ducked her head and busied herself by sorting through the accessories.

“You’re not supposed to have heard anything.” Caroline suppressed a riff of excitement.

“You know how the rumors fly,” he told her.

“What did you hear?”

“That your originals have been selected for the Emerging Talent program.”

She tried not to react. Tried not to hyperventilate. “Oh?”

“Stomp your foot once if it’s true, twice if it’s not.”

“It is true,” Angelique murmured between strokes of Daria’s makeup brush. “But you cannot say anything about it yet.”

“She’s right,” said Caroline. “This whole conversation has to be off the record.”

“Of course.” Orson put away his notes. “So I take it you’re stomping once.”

Caroline couldn’t keep the grin from her face. “The whole world will see at the end of today’s show.”

“It’s so awesome,” Daria said. “When I saw the work she submitted to the panel, I knew they’d pick her.”

“Now I’m salivating,” said Orson.

“I’ve barely been able to sleep or eat since I got the call.” Caroline was bursting. The moment she’d heard the news, her entire world had shifted on its axis.

“Can you set my phone by me?” Angelique asked. “I need to call my kids.”

Caroline propped the phone on a rack close by, and Angelique made a video call. Her daughter picked up, poking her face in close. “Maman,” she said in her little Minnie Mouse voice, and then asked something in Haitian Kreyòl.

“At the show, ti cheri mwen. Tell your brother to come.”

The picture tilted as Addie called for Flick. The two of them leaned in close, chattering to their mother in a rapid patois of French and English.

“Her kids are so danged cute,” Daria said.

Caroline poked her face next to Angelique’s. “Hi, guys! Remember me?”

“Caroline!” Addie clapped her hands. “You made me a hood with a mask.”

“That’s right. For when you need to hide from the paparazzi.”

“What’s paparazzi?” asked Flick.

“All the people who want to take your picture when you’re getting coffee,” said Caroline.

“I don’t like coffee,” Flick said.

“Then you probably don’t have to worry about the paparazzi,” said Angelique.

“When are you coming home, Maman?” asked Addie.

“After the show. After you’re asleep. Be good for Nila, okay?” She added something in French and blew them a kiss.

“They’re wonderful,” Caroline said.

Angelique smiled. “They’re my life.”

“I don’t know how you do it all, being a single mom and having this amazing career.”

Daria nodded. “It must be really hard. No idea how I could make it work if I didn’t have Layton.”

“I don’t wonder about these things,” said Angelique. “I do what must be done.”

Daria’s hand drifted to her distended belly. She gasped and moved her hand lower.

“Are you all right?” asked Caroline.

She nodded. “Braxton-Hicks contractions.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep. Saw the doctor this morning.”

“Here we go,” a production manager called. “Five-minute warning!”

Caroline had to set aside her worry through the backstage frenzy of the show. Everyone pitched in to style the models and send them out to the percussive soundtrack that flowed through the speakers. Between hurried wardrobe changes, Caroline and Daria watched on the live-feed monitors set backstage. The buzziest stars and media types sat in the front rows along the runway. Plugged-in bloggers commented on the show in a constant stream, and the feed scrolled along the bottom of the monitors.

Even on the screens, the scene looked incredible. The theme of water and light worked beautifully. The models appeared to float along with the current projected on the surface of the runway.

“God, I love my job,” she murmured, watching a gaucho pants and midriff blouse ensemble she’d designed for Mick Taylor shimmer past the admiring crowd.

The accolades for the entire collection were enthusiastic, judging by the popping of cameras, the eruptions of applause, and the sight of critics and bloggers madly live-tweeting and broadcasting the show. She checked her phone’s live feed. The list that scrolled up the screen was filled with words of praise.

Daria high-fived her. “That was incredible. And we’re done here. The finale is coming from the other side of the stage. After that, it’s your moment.”

She shuddered with pleasure and nerves. “Cool. Let’s watch.”

Jostled by models hurrying to and fro to change, they found a spot by a large screen just as the final collection came from the opposite side of the stage. The soundtrack shifted to a haunting electronic version of Handel’s Water Music.

The lead model emerged, and a collective gasp issued from the audience. The live feed at the bottom of the screen immediately lit with comments. Caroline tilted her head up to watch. She blinked, then frowned in confusion. What the hell …?

The model, visibly and dramatically pregnant, was wearing a tunic. And not just any tunic. It was a piece Caroline had designed for her original line.

She grabbed Daria’s arm and dug her fingers in deep.

“Ouch! Hey—”

“Look at the runway,” Caroline said in a strangled whisper. At the far end, the model demonstrated the garment’s conversion from maternity tunic to nursing top, and the audience went crazy.

“Holy crap,” Daria said. “Is that …? Oh, God.”

“It’s my collection.” Caroline felt nauseous as her clothes paraded down the runway, garnering looks of admiration and bursts of applause. The garments were virtually indistinguishable from her designs. Her original designs. The samples were made from slightly different fabrics. More expensive headwear and footwear. Models she’d never seen before.

But the unique aspects of the clothing—the conversion from maternity to nursing to fashion, and even the stylized nautilus motif at the shoulder—had been lifted straight from Caroline’s own designs. A blatant, outright theft.

The collection was touted as Mick Taylor’s innovative new line called Cocoon.

Caroline crossed her arms in front of her middle as a wave of nausea reared up inside her. The sense of violation was as overwhelming as a physical assault, invasive and shocking. The live tweet feed at the bottom of the screen lit with more praise: Mick Taylor is back with a stunner of a collection.

Daria was saying something, but Caroline couldn’t hear through the roar of outrage in her ears. Her gaze stayed glued to the monitor, which now showed Mick Taylor at center stage, accepting accolades like a conquering hero.

All through the backstage area, the post-show rush continued to swirl like a tornado, but still she didn’t move. Yet her thoughts whirled around and around. Mick Taylor had copied her original collection, the one that was meant to launch her own career. The man she worked for, the man to whom she’d given her loyalty and hard work, had stolen her designs.

She staggered, dizzy with outrage. Angelique appeared at her side, bringing her to a stool. “Did you see?” Caroline asked, still too shocked to feel anything but numb disbelief.

“I’m so sorry. Come sit,” Angelique said.

“How completely shitty,” Daria said. “What an underhanded thing to do.”

Caroline took a deep breath. The numbness was wearing off and giving way to something more awful. Everyone knew what stealing looked like, but nothing could have prepared her for the shock of it. “I’m shaking. God, I feel so violated.”

“He is terrible,” said Angelique. “I’m ashamed to even know him.”

Caroline had to remind herself to breathe. This was a common occurrence in the fashion industry, happening at all levels. No one was safe. This particular situation was a virtual case study of a major label appropriating designs from an independent artist. Students in design school were told to expect it, and maybe on some level she had. The practice went by different names—“referencing,” “inspired by,” “an homage.”

Trying not to puke, she rocked back and forth on the stool. “No one is dead or injured,” she muttered. “No one has been given a cancer diagnosis. It’s not the end of the world.”

“That is right,” Angelique said. “You’re strong. You’ll get through this. You will go on to do great things.”

She tried to shake off the nausea. Tried to pull herself together. Her phone vibrated, the screen crowded with messages and notifications. After a few minutes, a new sensation coursed through her—a slow burn of anger. “Right,” she said. “I never got into this field because it was easy, did I?”

“Exactly,” said Daria.

“I’m going to go find him.”

“No,” said Angelique, her eyes widening. “Don’t do it, Caroline. Mick will—”

“He’ll what?” Caroline stood. The anger simmered like a fever, heightening her senses. “What will he do? Destroy my career? He’s already done that.” The reality shuddered through her: “I can’t show my collection now. I literally have nothing to lose.”

Daria and Angelique looked at each other. “I’m sorry,” Daria whispered.

Mick had planned the theft just right, Caroline realized. He had preempted her debut and sabotaged any attempt she might make to launch her line—with these designs, anyway. “I’ll survive,” she said with quiet conviction. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll go without a fight.”

To her utter mortification, an announcement was made, and her collection was sent out on the runway. The audience was expecting a big reveal of the Emerging Talent recipient. Caroline couldn’t bring herself to look at the monitors. She didn’t want to see the expressions on the faces of the attendees. Didn’t want to see them pointing and whispering, speculating about the rampant similarities between her designs and those of Mick Taylor. As far as the audience knew, she was the thief, not him.

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