I couldn't bring myself to leave the bathroom. I blamed the sudden rush of nerves for the nausea twisting my stomach, but I couldn't shake what both my brain and my gut were screaming: Something about this was off.
My melodramatic side flashed images of being trafficked, but honestly, the real unease came from Lorenski's "training." From the start, she'd drilled into me exactly what Sera Elganza adored and despised. The house was built on a slick, Kardashian-inspired aesthetic: minimalistic, neutral, calculated. Not my style at all. My designs—eccentric, bold, chaotic in ways Aunt Milly would approve—felt like the opposite of everything Sera Elganza represented. But Lorenski swore I was the change they needed. Maybe she was right. Maybe I did understand lingerie in a way Ennio Fabrizi, the elusive head of the brand, never could. Rumor had it he was gay. Others whispered creep. Honestly, what kind of man dedicated his entire life to women's underwear?
The strangest part, though, was the manual. Yes—an actual book of instructions on how to serve Ennio Fabrizi.
Rule one: wake him at exactly 4:30 a.m.
Rule two: serve him chilled Pinot Grigio with gnocchi gratinati from Il Fornaio.
Never mind that the restaurant officially opened at noon—the chef came early just for him. When I asked why, Lorenski's answer was the same as always: The fewer questions you have, the better.
Alongside breakfast, I was to present three suits, always shades of gray, along with his meticulously organized schedule—both business and personal in written form. Conveniently, Mr.Fabrizi lived across the street from Sera Elganza. Inconveniently, I had parked right in front of his house and was praying I wouldn't get a ticket. Then again, if this meeting went well, maybe I could start writing off parking fines as business expenses.
"He hates polka dots, summer colors, room-temperature tea, dogs larger than his palm, oily hair, bad posture—"
The list went on forever. And most important of all: never correct him directly. He thrived on compliments.
"If you're ever in trouble," Lorenski told me, "just say how tall and strong he looks. It won't fix the problem, but it will soften the blow."
So most of my training hadn't been about fashion at all. It had been about him—his moods, his ego, his endless rules. And I couldn't fathom why Lorenski thought I was the right fit. My style was everything he supposedly hated. And even if I had ideas, when would I ever be brave—or stupid—enough to suggest them? Still, here I was, running through the rules one last time: how to walk, how to greet, how to smile.
I took a breath, shoved the doubt down, and stepped out of the bathroom—ready, or almost ready, to meet the great Ennio Fabrizi.