The truth of her words struck harder than any insult. She was right. Camille was merely the symptom; I was the disease. I had handed her the exclusive gown—a design Isabelle had spent three weeks helping me refine three years ago—because I had become addicted to the intoxicating high of being adored by someone who didn't know how small I used to be. Camille loved Gabriel Laurent, the fashion titan worth nearly six billion dollars. Isabelle had loved Gabriel, the boy who cried in a 388-square-foot walk-up on 10th Street when the radiator broke and ruined forty yards of cheap silk.
"The meeting is canceled," I said, shutting the cream paper into my leather folder.
"You can't cancel Vance!" Camille’s voice rose, losing its polished strain. "They control forty percent of the European distribution network! If you don't sign today—"
"I said, leave."
She stared at me for a long, quiet moment, her chest heaving beneath the expensive cashmere. "You're ruining everything we built," she whispered bitterly.
