Urban God of Rebate: Infinite Returns Of Women And Powers

She was already moving toward her desk, already pulling open the drawer with the sketchpad. ”The Italian wool. The structured weight. And bring the charcoal samples, the full range, I want to see them next to the navy.”

”Already getting them,” said Sarah, standing up and moving toward the fabric storage without needing to be asked twice.

She came to stand beside Vanessa at the desk, the first samples already in her hands, and looked at the sketch beginning to take shape on the page.

She recognized the lines immediately. Clean. Architectural. The kind of design that knew exactly who it was for.

”It’s going to be beautiful,” said Sarah quietly.

”It’s going to be perfect,” said Vanessa. Not arrogantly. Just with the specific certainty of someone who had been doing this long enough to know the difference between something good and something right.

”It’s been a long time,” said Sarah, settling the fabric samples on the desk beside the sketchpad, close enough that Vanessa could reach them without looking up. ”Since I’ve seen you like this.”

”Like what,” said Vanessa, her pen moving.

”Excited about something that isn’t work,” said Sarah. ”Properly excited. The kind that makes you jump when nobody’s watching.”

”Nobody was watching,” said Vanessa.

”I was pre-filing,” said Sarah.

Vanessa didn’t look up from her sketch. But something in the line of her shoulders was different from usual, the specific ease of someone who had stopped carrying something they’d been managing for longer than they’d realized.

Sarah looked at the design taking shape on the page and smiled to herself.

—----------------

Outside Élite Fashion

Sean stepped out of the store into the afternoon air and walked to where James was waiting at the curb.

James opened the rear door. Sean got in.

”Home, sir?” said James.

”Home,” said Sean.

The car pulled into the afternoon traffic, the city doing its usual things around them, indifferent and ongoing. Sean looked out the window and let the Vanessa meeting settle in his mind. The Paris invitation sitting in the future somewhere. The Vivian photographs sitting in a more immediate present.

Three days ago. A private collectors’ dinner. Asking about Sean through a mutual contact.

He thought about their agreement. About the signed document in his jacket that night. About the specific language she’d used at dinner. We don’t make threats, Mr. Miller. We make observations.

Apparently she also made inquiries.

He sat with that for a moment. Then he pulled out his phone.

He thought about the few days he hadn’t seen Makima. He’d been at the hospital this morning. The showcase before that. The Lockhart resolution before that. He wanted to get home in a good mood. He wanted the Vivian call done before he got there.

He dialed.

She picked up on the second ring.

”Mr. Miller,” said Vivian. The usual smooth composure. ”I wasn’t expecting to hear from you quite this soon.”

”I have a source,” said Sean. His voice was quiet but there was something in the quality of it that hadn’t been there at their dinner or either of their previous calls. Something flat and very precise. ”Who told me you’ve been making inquiries about me through social contacts. Three days ago.”

A silence on Vivian’s end.

Not the comfortable, considered silence she usually used. Something shorter. Sharper. The silence of someone who had just recalculated something faster than they expected to need to.

”Do you take me for a joke,” said Sean. Not loudly. The quieter version was always worse and he understood that.

”Mr. Miller,” said Vivian. Her voice had changed, the smooth composure carrying a different weight now, something more careful in it. ”I can explain—”

”I’m not interested in an explanation,” said Sean. ”I’m telling you what I know. You went to a collectors’ dinner three days after we signed an agreement and asked someone in your social circle what they knew about me. Through a contact who knew you’d interacted with me recently.”

Another silence. Shorter this time.

In her mind, Sean could almost hear the question she wasn’t asking out loud. How does he know this. How does an eighteen year old know this within seventy-two hours of it happening. Who is his source and how far does it actually reach.

”I owe you an apology,” said Vivian. And the specific quality of her voice when she said it was different from anything she’d said in their two dinners, stripped of strategy, carrying something closer to genuine. ”I acted outside the spirit of what we agreed. I should not have done that.”

”No,” said Sean. ”You shouldn’t have.”

”It won’t happen again,” said Vivian.

”I know it won’t,” said Sean. ”Because I’m telling you directly. This is your second chance. The next time I find out you’ve moved in my direction in any way that isn’t through me directly, I won’t call. I’ll act. And you will regret it.”

He said it without heat. Without drama. Just the flat certainty of someone who meant exactly what they said and had no interest in performing either the threat or the delivery of it.

A long silence.

”Understood,” said Vivian. Very quietly. ”Completely understood.”

”Good,” said Sean.

He ended the call.

He put his phone in his pocket and looked out the window.

He thought about Makima.

”James,” he said.

”Sir?”

”Are we close.”

”Two minutes, sir,” said James.

Sean looked out the window and thought about nothing in particular and let the last of the Vivian call settle somewhere it didn’t take up space anymore.

—--------------

”We’ve arrived, sir,” said James.

The Rolls Royce stopped at the curb outside the building. Sean reached for the door handle.

Then something caught him before he could open it.

A hug.

From behind him, through the door James had already opened, arms coming around him the moment he stepped out, soft and completely certain of themselves, not the tentative hug of someone unsure of their welcome but the hug of someone who had been waiting and had decided waiting was finished.