Chapter 6 - The Iron Contract
The terms Eleanor Vance laid out on my cutting table were unlike anything Brad’s financial team had ever constructed for me.
There was no "management oversight fee." There was no clause allowing a board to review my aesthetic direction. There was a budget of three hundred thousand dollars for the inaugural capsule collection, full access to her private mills in Como, and a thirty-percent equity stake in the trademark Sullivan for Vance.
"The catch?" I asked, leaning against the edge of the table with a cold cup of coffee in my hand.
"The catch is speed," Eleanor said, tapping her gold pen against her leather case. "The West Coast Preview in three weeks is no longer your focus. You will withdraw from that showcase."
I straightened up instantly. "Withdraw? Mrs. Vance, I've spent six months securing that slot! It's the only regional buyer preview that can keep my studio open through the winter!"
"The West Coast Preview is a local market for country-club boutiques and mid-tier Westside influencers," Eleanor said with a flat, dismissive flick of her wrist. "Brad Miller’s sister sits on the host committee. His mother bought three tables near the runway. You go to that event, Catherine, and you will spend the entire evening being treated as a fallen favorite who was invited out of charity."
My jaw tightened. She was right. Maya had shown me the tentative seating chart two days ago; my brand was assigned to a secondary side runway near the exit corridor, while Vanessa Carter’s gallery was sponsoring the main VIP lounge.
"If I withdraw, the local press will say I couldn't afford to produce the line," I said.
"Let them say whatever they want for twenty-one days," Eleanor replied, her eyes narrowing with cold satisfaction. "Because twenty-two days from now, you will fly to Paris with me. We will present Sullivan for Vance at a private salon during Paris Fashion Week at the Hôtel de de Crillon."
The breath caught in my throat.
The Crillon salon was one of the most exclusive presentation spaces in France. It wasn't for mass-market buyers; it was for international department store directors, haute couture clients, and editors from Vogue Paris and Harper's Bazaar.
"And if the collection fails?" I asked.
"It won't fail," Eleanor said, standing up and smoothing her navy cashmere coat. "Because you are going to spend the next three weeks cutting twenty pieces out of my private reserve silk, and I am going to make sure every buyer who matters in Europe understands that the woman Charles Miller’s family dropped was the only person in Los Angeles who actually knew how to hold a needle."
She reached into her case, pulled out a second document, and laid it beside the swatch books.
It was a check for seventy-five thousand dollars—the advance on my design fee.
"Sign the contract, Catherine," she said. "Or stay here and sew resort wear for Brad Miller’s cousins."
I picked up the pen from the table.
My hand didn't shake. The ink dried black and clean against the cream parchment of the contract.
When Eleanor left the studio twenty minutes later, Maya stepped out from the back room where she had been eavesdropping behind the hanging pattern rolls. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, her hands trembling as she grabbed my shoulder.
May you like
"Tell me I didn't just hear what I think I heard," Maya whispered.
"Cancel the West Coast Preview registration," I said, handing her the seventy-five-thousand-dollar check. "And order four flight cases for heavy garment transport. We're going to Paris."
