Winning the Heir Who Bullied Me novel Chapter 172

Winning the Heir Who Bullied Me

Chapter 172

It’s raining.

Not a storm, not a drizzle–just that soft kind of Parisian rain you’d expect from a black–and–white movie.

Even though I’m not in Paris. Not yet.

20

I’m in Lily’s office in the Ellington Mansion–and I’m about to meet the woman who will decide whether or not I get the opportunity of a lifetime.

My leg bounces under the glass coffee table as I stare at the silver laptop in front of me. The Zoom window is open, and the screen says: Waiting for the host to start this meeting.

Lily sits beside me on the velvet sofa, her posture impossibly perfect. She looks stunning in a navy pantsuit with a silk cream blouse and matching gold cufflinks, like she’s ready to chair a board meeting or walk down a runway–whichever catches her fancy.

She notices my fidgeting and places a hand on my knee.

“Breathe, dear,” she says calmly.

I try. The breath sticks in my chest.

“I feel like I’m about to be judged by the fashion gods,” I whisper.

“You are,” she replies, without a trace of irony. “But that’s not a bad thing.” She winks. “They’re not as heartless as you think.”

I shoot her a side–eye. “Says the woman who’s the Zeus of fashion gods.”

She smirks. “And you already have my approval. That should count for something.”

Before I can respond, the Zoom screen changes. The waiting screen disappears, replaced by the face of a woman so striking I almost choke on my own saliva.

Her platinum blonde hair is in an intricate braid crown around her head, adorned with golden accessories like little stars.

She has the bone structure of a marble statue–sharp, refined, elegant. The kind of beauty that belongs in a museum.

“Bonjour,” she greets smoothly, her red lips pulling into a smile.

Lily straightens. “April, this is Margaux Laurent. Margaux, this is April Farrah.”

Margaux Laurent looks exactly how you’d imagine a high–ranking board member of Institut Français de la Mode to look–effortlessly elegant. She leans back, revealing the sharp, sophisticated lines of her red suit.

Behind her is a wall of books, fabric swatches, and sketches pinned like organized chaos.

She studies me through the screen, and I immediately feel underdressed in my modest black wrap dress and low bun.

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“It’s lovely to meet you, April Farrah,” she says, her French accent curling around the syllables of my name.

“You too, Madame Laurent,” I reply, surprised that my voice comes out steady.

She smiles. “No need for formalities. Margaux is fine.”

I nod, my shaky hands clenched tightly in my lap.

“I’ve heard many things about you,” she continues, glancing at something off–screen.

20

“Oh?”

“Lily is not easily impressed,” she says. “But she has used words like ‘visionary,‘ ‘exceptional,‘ and ‘rare.‘ That got my attention.”

My cheeks heat up as I glance at a smirking Lily. “She’s very kind.”

“No,” Margaux says. “She’s very honest. And she says you are largely self–taught?”

“Yes,” I nod. “I started sewing when I was fifteen. I didn’t have access to lessons, but I learned from books, YouTube videos, and trial and

error.”

“Your sketches are rough,” she says, not unkindly. “But full of emotion. That’s what we look for.”

Emotion?

“You think fashion is about clothes?” she asks, noting my surprise. “It is not. Clothes are vessels. Fashion is about translation. Who are you? What do you feel? How do you want others to feel? This“-she taps a finger against her chest, over her heart-“must speak before the

garment ever does.”

I swallow. “I guess I just never thought of it that way. Designing makes me happy, that’s all I know.”

Her eyes narrow in thought. She leans forward as if she wants to crawl through the camera and scrutinize me in person. “Tell me a story, April.”

I blink. “What kind of-?”

“Any kind. Design me a dress right now. One you’d wear if your heart had just been broken, but you still had to walk into a room full of people who once doubted you.”

Oh.

Her words ring like a gong through me. Does she know–is it possible that she’s aware just how on the nose that statement is?

I glance at Lily, but she just smiles at me encouragingly.

I close my eyes and picture it. The image comes as easily as breathing.

“I’d start with a clean silhouette,” I start, eyes still shut. “A column dress. Black. Simple from the front, because people expect me to be simple. But the back would be sheer. Exposed. Vulnerable. With beading that shimmers only when the light hits it–like hidden strength. The neckline would be high, but the sleeves would be slashed open, like scars. Like I’ve bled to get there.”

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The crowd would look at me in awe as I walked past, stunned that little nothing April could put this together.

“Orphaned, impoverished, uncouth.”

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