STELLA
I finishedthe first piece of my collection four days after Josh and Jules’s housewarming.
It hung on the back of my door in a spill of silk and sinuous lines, its golden color a stark contrast to the dark wood background.
It wasn’t perfect, and the fabric was expensive, which meant I needed a better wholesale option if I wanted to scale up production, but it was done. The first tangible evidence my dreams weren’t just dreams and that I was finally taking concrete steps toward making them reality.
A complete draft, no matter how imperfect, was still better than no draft at all.
And this was my own pattern, own design. This wasn’t just a quick Simplicity Pattern dress I’d made over Christmas break one year. This was mine.
Too much planning is a form of procrastination. Lilah’s words from our coffee date echoed in my head as I ran my hand over the dress’s bodice. The smooth glide of it against my skin sent a thrill darting through my blood. If you want a brand, you need a product. Create a great product, then worry about everything else.
The “everything else” encompassed pricing, sourcing, outreach to retail buyers, and a thousand other details that overwhelmed me every time I looked at my to-do list, but I had a product and a plan.
Everything else will flow from there.
A strange emotion welled in my throat, so unfamiliar it took me a minute to identify it: pride.
I hadn’t felt it when I hit a million followers or when I woke up the next day to a flood of brand collab offers. But now, standing in front of a dress that’d taken me a day to sew and a lifetime to create, the warm glow of pride crested over me.
My entire life, I’d created for other people. My blog posts were for my audience, my photos were for my followers, my grades had been for my parents, and my ideas had been for D.C. Style when I worked there.
This was the first time in a long time that I’d done something for me, and honestly? It felt damn good.
Weightlessness expanded in my chest and pulled a huge smile out of me. I didn’t even care that my monthly family dinner was that night. Nothing could bring me down—
My phone lit up with an incoming call from Natalia.
…except for a conversation with my sister.
My smile dimmed, but enough giddiness remained that my voice came out chirpier than usual when I picked up.
“Hey, Nat.”
“This is a reminder that Mom and Dad are expecting you to bring your boyfriend tonight.” Natalia dispensed with the niceties. “Remind him to come prepared with an accomplishment to share.”
Yes, guests were expected to share their accomplishments at an Alonso family dinner. How else would my family judge whether they were worthy of another invite?
“Christian can’t make it.” I put Natalia on speakerphone so I could finish getting ready. I’d lost track of time ogling my dress, and I was due at my parents’ house in an hour. “He wants to be there, but he got sick last minute. Fever, chills, the whole thing.”
It was scary how easily the lie spilled from my tongue.
It clattered to the ground with a soft plink, joining the dozens of other untruths I’d uttered over the past few months.
“Really.” Natalia’s tone went flat with suspicion. “How convenient.”
I twisted my hair into a bun, hoping she couldn’t hear the rapid pitter-patter of my heart. “It’s unfortunate, but sickness doesn’t conform to our personal schedules.”
More lies. I could make a killing as a car salesperson if my clothing line didn’t pan out.
Guilt speared my chest, but I held fast. There was no way in hell I’d subject even my worst enemy to dinner with the Alonsos. Plus, I required a clear mind and all my faculties to deal with my parents, and if there was one thing Christian was good at, it was clouding my judgment.
“Mom and Dad won’t be happy,” Natalia warned. “They were looking forward to meeting your boyfriend.”
More like they were looking forward to grilling him. Jarvis and Mika Alonso had a strict list of requirements they expected from a future son-in-law, and while Christian ticked off almost every box—wealthy, well-educated, cultured—the interrogation process would be torture.
“You post about him so much. It must be serious.”
My sister was so obvious about her fishing I would’ve laughed had I not been sick with nerves.
“We’re taking things day by day.” I dusted blush on my cheeks. “I’m sure Mom and Dad will understand. Besides, you know how Mom is with germs. She wouldn’t want a sick guest at dinner—”
“Actually, I’m feeling much better.”
I spun around, my pulse skyrocketing at the sight of Christian leaning against the wooden frame, his suit jacket off and one hand in his pocket. A stray lock of dark hair fell in his eye, begging me to brush it back.
“I was out of commission yesterday, but I’m good as new today.” He addressed Natalia over speakerphone, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. “So Stella, darling, I’ll be able to accompany you to dinner after all.”
This wasn’t happening.
Christian would overhear us the one time I put Natalia on speaker.
Someone in the high heavens must hate me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have skipped church so much since I moved out of my family’s house.
What are you doing? I mouthed, hoping my glare conveyed the full extent of my displeasure.
His only response was a smirk that made me reconsider my stance on non-violence.
Thou shalt do no harm…unless your fake boyfriend was trying to crash a dinner with your overbearing family.
Then again, dinner should be punishment enough. One meal with the Alonsos would send even the mighty Christian Harper running for the hills.
“Oh!” Rare surprise coasted through Natalia’s voice before she recovered. “That’s good to hear.” The edges of her words softened now that she knew someone else was in the room. “We’ll see you in an hour, then.”
“Yes, you will. Looking forward to it,” Christian drawled.
I hung up before I voiced the aggravation bubbling in my veins. “What was that?”
Cool, calm, collected. Cool, calm—
“That was me agreeing to dinner at my girlfriend’s house.” Christian straightened and ran a hand over his tie. “We’ve been dating for months. It’s time I met your parents, don’t you think?”
“We’re not actually dating.”
“They don’t know that.” His calm rebuttal only infuriated me more. “I have to meet them eventually. There are only so many excuses you can make. This way, we get the meeting out of the way, and they’ll stop badgering you.”
He had a point. Still, I hated how he’d gone about it.
Dinner was in less than an hour, and I wasn’t mentally prepared for a meal with Christian and my family.
How would my parents react to him? How would he react to them? I’d seen how Christian could charm a table in New York, but that had been with friends.
The last time I brought a boy home—Quentin Sullivan, high school prom—my parents had grilled him so relentlessly about his GPA, college acceptances, and five-year plan that he’d burst into tears during the limo ride to the dance. The minute we arrived, he mumbled something about making a mistake and spent the rest of the night dancing with some other girl.
Christian had no idea what he’d gotten himself into.
* * *