“You should leave now,” said Mick. “And it’ll be easier if you’d also walk away from whatever you think you have going on with Eau Sauvage.” Once again, he offered her his mild-mannered smile, a smile she now knew concealed a pit viper. With a relaxed air, he leaned back and crossed his ankles on the desk.

As she regarded his posture, something niggled at her. A memory flitted through her mind and disappeared. Then it flitted back, hardening into sickening suspicion. “You came to my apartment the day Angelique died.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “And now it really is time for you to leave.”

Caroline stood her ground. “She died of an overdose in my home.”

Mick got up and came out from behind the desk. “A tragedy that has nothing to do with me.” He strode to the door and gestured for her to exit. “Find your way out. Now.”

She noticed tiny beads of sweat on his brow and upper lip. She noticed his hand-tailored untucked shirt and his ultracool couture half boots from the Apiary Shoe Company. The tread on all their shoes had a honeycomb design. On the day Angelique died, Caroline had seen a piece of mail with the imprint of that distinctive shoe tread, a detail only someone in the fashion world might recognize. “You were the one who abused her,” she said, her voice low and trembling from the stunning realization. “After you got out of rehab. I saw what you did to her.”

He took a step toward her, his eyes like shards of ice, and she felt a moment of panic. She flashed on Angelique’s bruises. He grabbed the door handle. Those hands, thought Caroline. Were those the hands that had battered her friend? Was that the anger that had sent Angelique fleeing in the night?

“Get the fuck out.” The low command dug into her nerves.

“Oh, I will,” she said. “I’m going to make a report.”

“To whom? About what? You’re a liar, bitter against your employer. Who are they going to believe? Jesus, the whole city knows me. I’m Mick fucking Taylor.”

He was too close now, crowding her against the door. “And I’m your worst nightmare. I said that before, but then I walked away. I’m not going to walk away this time.”

He smiled—the mild-mannered smile of the Mick Taylor everyone knew and loved. “You do not want to fuck with me,” he continued in a friendly, conversational tone. “Try it, and you’ll be so fucking sorry—”

“What are you going to do?” she demanded. “Hit me, too?”

Daria greeted Caroline with a “Shhh—the baby’s asleep,” followed by a hug and a pantomimed squeal. “Oh my gosh, it’s wonderful to see you,” she said. “I can’t wait to catch up!”

“You look amazing. Motherhood agrees with you,” Caroline said. Daria wore a Chrysalis tunic, one of the prototypes from Caroline’s ruined collection. The shimmery fabric encased her now-slender figure like a cocoon, and the nautilus shell detail on the shoulder concealed a fastener for nursing access.

“I love it,” Daria said. “I’m exhausted all the time, but I couldn’t be happier.” She brought Caroline over to the tiny kitchen bar, which was cluttered with teething toys, packets of wipes, boxes of organic baby snack food, and stacks of unopened mail. “I have bottled water or . . . bottled water. Sorry, Layton’s out of town and I haven’t been to the store.”

“In that case, bottled water.”

“At least it’s the bubbly kind.” Daria poured while Caroline gave her some little gifts for the baby.

“A rain fly jacket and her own superhero T-shirt.” Caroline held up the shirt. “She’ll grow into it soon enough.”

“These are wonderful. I wish I had a superpower of my own—the ability to clean the house while I sleep.” She lifted her glass of bubbly water. “To you, my friend. I’ve been following C-Shell Rainwear online. No surprise that it’s fabulous. That piece that ran in Vogue—Cat Willoughby. Come on.”

“Yeah, that was such a lucky break. Now we’re scrambling to get the garments made as fast as they’re being ordered.” She told her about the deal with Eau Sauvage, earning a quiet high five from her friend.

“Take that, Mick Taylor,” said Daria. “You know, I never worked for him again after what he did to you.”

“Funny you should bring him up,” Caroline said. “He has a collaboration with Eau Sauvage, too. Bags he claims he designed, but who knows? One of the things about laboring in obscurity and being under the radar is that he thought I was gone. And he can’t steal what he can’t see.”

“Now suddenly you’re in the spotlight again. I bet it’s making him completely mental. That’s the best revenge.”

“I don’t want revenge. But here’s the thing. There’s something else I discovered about Mick Taylor. Something a lot worse. He’s the one who was abusing Angelique, and I’m pretty sure he had something to do with her drug use.”

Daria’s jaw dropped. “Mick? Seriously? I don’t know, Caroline. He’s a dick for stealing designs, but hitting a woman? Angelique, of all people?”

“That’s why I didn’t realize it until now. We all assumed it was Roman or some other guy she refused to talk about. But guess what? I went to see Roman and figured out some things.” She explained about the meetings at the church and what she’d learned from Angelique’s sponsor.

“God, that’s so sad. I feel horrible for not figuring it out. How do you know Mick was with her that day?”

“It was the smallest thing. His shoes.”

Daria frowned.

“He was wearing shoes from Apiary. They’re, like, a thousand dollars a pair. The day Angelique died, someone in Apiary shoes was in my building—I saw the tread marks on my mail and on the stairs going up. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it, but today I saw him in those shoes, and I thought about the fact that no one in my building ever wore thousand-dollar shoes. And then I remembered that Mick had been to rehab. He denied everything, of course. Even tried to gaslight me. He said I’d be regarded as a liar, trying to spread rumors about my former employer.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“I called them and made a report. But since I didn’t witness anything directly, they’re limited as to what they can do. No victim, no crime. And it’s Mick Taylor. ‘Mick fucking Taylor,’ as he called himself as he was throwing me out of his office. He can afford any legal team in the city.”

“He’s a nightmare, and you’re right—worse than I thought. But what can we do?”

Caroline told her about the Sewing Circle and the things she’d learned. “Guys who abuse women don’t stop at just one. It’s a habit, ingrained, especially in a guy with so much power and status, a guy who’s been getting away with it probably for decades.”

“So you’re saying there are other women?”

“With Angelique gone, he’s torturing someone else. Other models. Other designers. Interns and assistants. If I can find someone, talk to her, maybe it’ll start something.”

“I don’t know, Caroline. Sounds like a long shot.”

“It does. But maybe I have a superpower, too—knowing how to organize a group of women.”

Chapter 29

Will missed Caroline like hell, and she’d only been gone a few days. Christ, he missed her when they were apart a few hours. It was bad. And it was so, so good. In the aftermath of the long, sad failure of his marriage, Caroline was doing the impossible. She was making him feel that kind of soaring, head-in-the-clouds love a teenager felt, but this was better, because he knew exactly what it was and what it wasn’t.

It was the kind of genuine, deep relationship he’d craved all his life, maybe without even knowing how much he needed it.

It wasn’t a crush. It wasn’t what his grandma used to call a passing fancy.

No, this was as real as the ground beneath his feet. It wasn’t going to go away. It was going to get stronger and deeper, day by day. Knowing this was sweet relief, because after Sierra had left, he’d had his doubts that he would ever find a love like this, or that it even existed outside of starry-eyed books and movies.

Looking back over the years, he marveled at the long and twisty road their story had taken. He remembered every moment with Caroline, beginning when they were kids. The memories were as bright as the sunrise and gilded with happiness. Sometimes he looked back over those days and wondered why he hadn’t seen it, the fact that he had loved this girl beginning with the very first day they’d met.

After the incident in Africa, a trauma counselor had said—in a different context altogether—that things happen in their own time. Could be that was the reason the love of his life had been right in front of him for decades, and he simply hadn’t recognized it.

Her trip to New York solidified something he’d been thinking all along. When she sent him a text message saying she was back, he left his assistant coach in charge of practice and went straight to her parents’ house. She came outside as he was getting out of his car and flew into his arms.

“Hey,” he said, his heart filling up as he inhaled the scent of her hair. A second later, he realized she was crying. “Hey, what’s the matter? Didn’t the meeting in New York go well?”

“It did. And it didn’t,” she said. “Long story.”