47. April

47

APRIL

Elias stares at the packed clothes in front of him. "This is all of them?"

"Yep, that's all." I feel like a little soldier reporting for duty—all that's missing is the salute. "I hope my blood, sweat, and tears didn't leak on them."

Elias lets out a booming laugh. "Oh, child. You're really something else."

We sit down for tea. That's a good idea, seeing as how the living room's started to spin again. Lately, it's been doing that a lot.

Elias shoots me a fond smile. "Is there really nothing I can do to convince you to take it easy?" he asks, concern seeping into his voice.

I shake my head. "Actually, I was going to ask you for more work."

My boss nearly drops his cup. " More work? April, you've cleaned me out for the month."

"I could get started on next month's tasks?" I venture. "Early bird gets the worm and all that?"

"If you've got all that time on your hands, you should spend it on your baby," Elias playfully scolds me. "Knitting tiny socks. Making onesies."

Wordlessly, I show him a picture of Nugget's wardrobe.

Elias's eyes bulge. "You made all that?"

"Almost. Some of it's from Matvey. And, well, the aunts and uncles," I add, which is code for Yuri and Petra. Who both separately went on shopping sprees, apparently. I don't know which one was wearing the sourest face when they dropped the gifts into my lap.

As for Charlie, well—he's still on house arrest. But he's been texting me pictures of Minecraft-themed baby shoes all week.

All in all, I could've slacked off.

Except that I didn't. And there's a very good reason for that. "I just…" I put on my best puppy eyes. "I want to keep busy. I'm going crazy in here, Elias. Please?"

The reason I'm going crazy?

Matvey.

To say he's been acting weird is an understatement. He's late to dinner, leaves at the crack of dawn, and doesn't speak a word to me if he doesn't absolutely have to. I went to pick a piece of lint off his shoulder the other day and I could swear he almost lunged for his gun.

But I can't let myself think about it. I can't let myself obsess over it; I'm gonna go insane. Frankly, I feel like I've already started.

So I'm going to do what I do best: deep-dive into my work. The more grueling, the better.

"Alright, alright," Elias relents. "I can see I'm not going to change your mind. I admit defeat."

"You're a saint amongst men, Elias. Thank you."

After getting my assignments, I hug my boss goodbye at the door.

"Oh!" Elias says. "Almost forgot." He hands me a pamphlet.

I take it with a frown. I recognize the location printed on the front: the Mallard Expo Hall. At the center, a beautiful blue gown with a matching tiara, all diamond-studded from head to toe. "Last year's winner?" I guess.

My boss nods. "The designer called it Opulence. A fitting name."

"Yeah, no wonder," I mutter bitterly. "This piece is probably worth more than all my organs combined."

"And mine," Elias agrees.

The Mallard Fashion Expo: the impossible dream of every designer out there. Every year, they hold a fashion contest for new talent. Technically, anyone's free to join.

Realistically? The winning pieces usually look like this.

In a word: expensive .

"What's the grand prize this year?" I ask anyway. Because, apparently, I enjoy torturing myself. "Tour of European fashion museums? Internship at Versace? Interview with Vivienne Westwood via Ouija board?"

"A scholarship for the Mallard Institute."

I stop snarking on the spot. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, dead serious," Elias assures me. "Three years, full ride."

The living room starts spinning again. This time, I have to hold myself up against the back of the couch.

A full ride. To the Mallard Fashion Institute. The single most prestigious fashion academy in New York City.

"That's… nice," I croak at last. "Whatever rich kid wins that is going to make their parents really happy. Let them buy the fourth mansion of their dreams."

If I sound salty, it's because I am. No one ever wins these contests who couldn't buy their way into the prizes in the first place. Touring Europe? That's the Upper East Side's run-of-the-mill summer vacation. Interning at Versace? With the right connections, you'd get a job there before you even graduate. And now, attending Mallard?

If it's a joke, it's a really poor one. Pun intended.

But Elias doesn't seem to agree. With a soft smile, he puts his hand on my shoulder. "Oh, April. Why do you never give yourself a chance?"

I swallow. Elias's words hit deeper than I'd like. "I just…" Don't want to get my hopes up. Not again. "I just have so much on my plate. You know, with the baby and all."

"Promise me you'll consider it," Elias says with a squeeze of my shoulder.

I give a small nod. "Alright. I promise."

It's a lie. But sometimes, lies are easier. Lies make everybody happier.

Elias hugs me goodbye once more. "Your grandmother would be proud, you know. Of the woman you've become."

I don't answer. I don't think I can.

As soon as Elias is in the elevator, Petra rounds the corner. "Who's that?"

"Good morning to you, too."

She drops her bag unceremoniously on the table. "And why are your eyes red?"

I rub them off with the back of my hand. "New shampoo. Wanted to test if that ‘No Tears' thing was real."

"It's a scam," Petra huffs. "It means ‘No Tearing.' As in, no tangles and whatnot."

"That's not very nice."

"No, it's not." She snatches a Greek yogurt from the fridge. "So who was that?"

"My boss." I shrug. "Clothes hand-off. Nothing exciting."

" That looks exciting," she comments, giving the crumpled pamphlet in my hand a pointed look. "Since you're trying to hide it and all."

Crap. Should've known better than to play this game with Mrs. Bond here. "It's just something Elias brought over."

"Something secret?"

I sigh. "Something ridiculous."

"Gimme." She motions for me to hand it over.

"You know, you're almost as controlling as your fiancé."

"‘Almost'? You insult me." She gives the pamphlet a quick scan. "This doesn't look ridiculous."

"It does if you're broke," I reply. "It does if you're me."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Oh, right, thanks," she drawls. "I completely understand now."

I roll my eyes. "It's the Mallard! No one from public school goes to the Mallard."

"This doesn't say anything about entry requirements."

"It's implied." I throw myself down on a chair. "Like with any other fashion school, really."

Petra puts the pamphlet down and stares me in the eye. "I think you're full of shit."

That shuts me up.

"Humor me," she presses. "What happens if you compete? What happens if you win this?"

"Well…" I try to find the words. "The Mallard Fashion Expo's like an audition. If you win the contest, you pass. If you pass, you've got your foot in the door of the fashion world."

"Doesn't sound like a total waste of time to me."

"Well, it is," I insist. "It's a cutthroat environment. The competition's insane. And everyone's filthy rich, so they've got access to the best materials: silk, cashmere, freaking diamonds . Like I said, there's no point."

"Like I said: you're full of shit. If it's so rigged, then why hold a contest at all?" Petra retorts.

I hesitate. "I guess… money doesn't always guarantee you'll make it. You also have to prove what you're worth. That's why there's an audition—lots of people want this. Lots of rich people, even. But the spots are limited. You still have to earn yours."

I watch Petra listen intently. "So if you want it, you have to take it," she summarizes.

I'm reminded of Matvey's words when we met: You saw something you liked. You took it.

And then?—

What do you want?

I sigh. "It's complicated."

For once, Petra doesn't press. "This dress," she says instead, pointing at the diamond gown. "It's impressive. Must be worth a fortune."

"They'll put it on display at the expo," I say. "Last year's winner. They'll be announcing this year's at the same event."

"So this pamphlet's for next year?"

"Mhmm. Submissions close in a few months."

Petra's eyes fix on the tiara. "Can't imagine what security's like at events like these. That alone would feed a small country."

I'm inclined to agree. "It's probably the safest place to hang out."

"Safe enough that Matvey would let you go?"

I blink. I hadn't thought of that. "Probably? I'd still need a personal guard, I think. Unless you'd like to come," I joke.

"Sure."

"Right, didn't think s—Sorry, what?"

"I said I'll come," she repeats. "That should be enough, right?"

For a second, I wonder if I've misheard. But no—Petra's actually offering to take me somewhere. Without a gun to her head. Are pigs going to start flying? Do I have to check outside for airborne pork?

"Unless you've got better places to be…?" she adds.

I quickly shake my head. This is a golden opportunity. I shouldn't look the gift horse in the mouth. "Nope," I reply. "Nowhere at all."

This should make for a good conversation with Matvey , I think to myself. I'm shivering already.