"We should talk more about Paris Fashion Week," Delphine Thibodeau comments the very second that I enter the office. I pause to stare at her, wondering if she'll give me the chance to take off my coat before I have to get into work mode. Thankfully, her blue gaze rolls skywards as she motions for me to go about my morning routine. "Please, I have all the time in the world."

Since hiring Delphine, I've come to appreciate her Gallic attitude, which is not too far removed from my mother's own personality. Having long ago decided that it's a French thing to be laissez-faire one second and gung-ho the next, I ignore the sass Delphine gives me and walk over to my desk, setting my Céline handbag down before shrugging my coat off and letting it drape over the back of the seat. I fuss around for a few seconds longer, not particularly doing anything significant other than annoying my creative designer. Eventually, I've had my fun and turn back to the blonde and arch my eyebrow questioningly. 

"It's only a few weeks out and while I've done a lot of work behind the scenes while you've been busy plotting you ex-husband's downfall, I need your opinion on a few things," Delphine states, not once being delicate in her direct wording or blunt delivery. I know it's too much to ask for her to be more sensitive so I let it slide and encourage her to move onto the next point she's trying to make. "We don't have a location, we don't have a final dress and I have no idea who is and isn't on the guest list. To put it mildly, this is a... un désastre. Merde, I need coffee."

Watching Delphine become more and more stressed by the second, I usher her out of the room and tell her to relax, that I have everything under control. After all, Delphine and I are a partnership at Doré; she oversees the creative side of the business, designing the fabulous clothes that editors will want to feature in their publications and pull in clients, while I work behind the scenes to make sure that everything comes together so editors can see the clothes in the first place. While I might have been, as Delphine said, busy plotting Adam's downfall, I'd also spent a considerable amount of time planning Fashion Week. Admittedly, there are still a few items to tick off the checklist but on the whole, for my first real outing at Paris Fashion Week, I think I'm doing quite well. 

Having been inspired by Monet's Nymphéas, it seemed only appropriate to hire out Musée de l'Orangerie, home to the eight panels of artwork, for Delphine's first 'real' collection for Doré. Spread across two oval-shaped rooms, the setting would be perfect, for the show and the party after. I have the floorplan all set up, the seating chart has been finalised and a few days before the show, decorators will begin to bring my vision to life, turning the gallery space into an intimate hub of tranquillity. Delphine really didn't have anything to worry about. 

I even knew which dress would be the last to grace the runway. 

"I'm so stressed that I honestly don't think I can do this again," Delphine sighed as she returned to the office and slumped into the armchair in the corner. Despite being perfectly put together on any given day, seeing her with dark circles under her eyes was slightly worrying. "Before, it didn't bother me, you know, having to put a show together but this time it's different."

I nod in understanding. "Because it's the first where you're name is put to all the work?"

"Exactly." Her shoulders sag in defeat as she brings up her hand to brush rogue strands of hair from her weary face. "You must feel it, too. I mean, this is your first fashion week where you're solely in charge. Aren't you feeling nervous?"

"No," I smile. Getting up from my seat, I walk over to her and extend a hand, pulling her up to her feet and motioning for her to follow me. 

Just before Christmas, we moved into new premises, having decided that we needed to put our own stamp on Doré. Between us, we'd cast aside what the company used to be, in the least disrespectful manner possible, and forged our own path. It might seem a little silly that we began by finding a new home for the company but it was a fresh start. Instead of being housed in a stuffy old Parisian building that hadn't been updated since the war, we had scaled down our core collections and decided to focus primarily on clothes. The accessories side of the business hadn't slipped by the wayside but right now, shoes and handbags were our least concern. With that in mind, we are now based in a townhouse, where each of the five floors is bustling with noise and excitement. 

This being the creative hub, I was able to go from room to room, floor to floor, and see everything that was being worked on. With very much and atelier feel, there were countless people working together on the fifty-something piece collection that was due to show in about four weeks, hand-stitching seams, sewing intricate beadwork onto fabric and treating delicate lace appliques. I paused at the doorway to one of the rooms and smiled at the woman who was intensely focused on her work. 

Marie-Christine was a legend and I could see why Delphine made sure that we bring her on board just after we became a partnership. In truth, with Marie-Christine, it felt like we were a trio. With glasses perched on the very tip of her nose, she pushed her tongue against her cheek as she inspected her handiwork, nodding thoughtfully as she ran her hand over her latest creation. 

"This is why I don't worry about fashion week," I tell Delphine, pointing at the gown that was proudly fitted to the form. "We have our venue. It's Musée de l'Orangerie, home to-"

"Monet's Nymphéas," Delphine whispers. 

I grin. "Exactly. We have our final dress," I continue, pointing at Marie-Christine's creation. "I saw the sketch you had lying discarded on your desk a few weeks ago and I knew, if we didn't have that on the runway, the show would be dull without it. Oh, and just for you to know, we have a guest list, too. Admittedly, I had a little help with whittling down the names to only the most important industry people but if Sophie says that these are the only people we need there, I trust her. So, do you trust me?"

"I suppose," Delphine's French pessimism noted. "But I'll be happier when all this is over. This dress is beautiful, though. I'm glad you went behind my back. Alors, Marie-Christine, le fleur est magnifique, même si-"

At hearing Delphine about to critique the beautiful flower on the dress, I turn away and head back to the office only to find my eldest sister and my boyfriend waiting for me. Entering the room, they both fall silent and look at one another cryptically, making me feel suddenly suspicious. For some reason, this is what they do; having been friends for over half their lives, Sophie and Hugo have their own language, almost, going on and to an outsider, it's hard to decipher what it all means. I wasn't so bothered by the sideways glances before, with the slight head shakes, the eye rolling, all of which said something that I didn't understand but now, it got under my skin. I'm not a jealous person and I certainly don't see Sophie as a threat to my relationship with Hugo, I just wish I was a part of their inner club. 

"Ma biche," Hugo smiles at me. He greets me with the stereotypical French cheek-cheek kiss before he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me closer to him, his words rushing from his lips. "Aide-moi! Ta sœur-"

I hold up my hand and cut Hugo off. "I'm still learning, Hugo, and that was way too fast. Something about help and sister. That's all I got."

That was another thing about Sophie and Hugo, they're both fluent French speakers. I was GCSE level at best these days, despite Hugo spending most nights trying to teach me, but Sophie was practically a native speaker to the extent that she had very little trouble keeping up with her friend when he spoke. Last night, over dinner, I was left out of most of the conversation, although I knew they were talking about some dickhead or another. From the number of times Sophie namedropped her husband, I think they were bitching about Daniel. I wish I could have kept pace. 

"Oh, sorry," Hugo laughed, the sound making me want to punch him. He wasn't sorry. Sensing that I wasn't in the mood to joke around like him and Sophie, Hugo straightened his back and cleared his throat. "Sophie wants to take me on a shopping spree to Galleries Lafayette and I don't really want to go, so I was hoping I could persuade you to go out for lunch with me. Please, save me from Sophie!"

I smile politely. "I have a lot of work to do."

"I see," Hugo muttered. He removed his arms from my waist and took a step back, looking over his shoulder at Sophie. My sister shrugged at him and tilted her head sideways before she sighed heavily and announced that she'd be waiting downstairs. When we were finally alone, Hugo took my hand and dragged me to the armchair, where he sat down and pulled me to sit on his lap. I felt his hand brush the side of my cheek. "What's troubling you? Please don't say 'nothing'. I know you, Emma. Something is playing on your mind and it worries me. Is it us, our relationship?"

"I feel insecure, that's all," I admit. Before, when I was married to Adam, I'd try to hide the truth about my feelings because I knew he had very little time for me. With Hugo, however, when he asked me how I was, he was sincere, wanting me to answer. Sighing, I lean against his chest and place my palm over his heart, finding comfort in the heartbeats. "I know you and Sophie are friends and I have nothing to worry about but I get the feeling that I'm a spare part whenever you two are together. I also don't really know what you and I are any more. I mean, since my divorce and everything, who am I now? What am I to you? I feel like so much has changed that I don't recognise myself any longer."

Hugo kisses my forehead before he masterfully manoeuvres my body so I'm straddling him, the hem of my skirt pushed midway up my thighs. His fingers run up the bare skin of my legs, sending a shiver down my spine. "I recognise you. You're Emma, the woman that I am in love with. You're the woman I want to be with every second of every day. You're the woman that I dream about every moment I'm asleep and every moment I'm awake." He pauses to look up at me and I swear, my heart stops. "You are not a spare part. Please, don't ever think that you are. I would choose you every day of the week. I mean, could I do this to Sophie?"

His fingers slide up under my skirt, thumb circling the delicate spot between my legs. "I fucking hope you don't," I mutter, swallowing the moans that threatened to expose just how desperate I am for Hugo. His fingers explore me more, my hips chasing each wave of excitement. I can feel myself coming undone. "We're going to get caught."

"I hope so," Hugo laughs, bringing his lips to my ear. He bites my earlobe, making me yelp. "God, I've missed that noise. By the way, I have a new phrase to teach you."

"Hugo, now is not-" I throw my head back when he unbuttons his jeans and plunges into me. "Oh, fuck."

He laughs. "The phrase is un coup rapide."

"And what does-" I pause to gasp when Hugo lift my hips and brings me back down against him, feeling him deep inside me. "What does that mean?"

"A quick fuck."

I laugh, momentarily distracted by how much of an idiot Hugo is. "God, I love you."

"Thanks. I love you, too."