Caitriona Emerson rolled onto the LAX tarmac in a private jet, wearing head to toe Alexander McQueen, like a bawse. Earl folded his paper and cocked a wrist, flashing a stunning vintage Rolex she'd bought him for Christmas last year—because that's what awesome roomies and besties did for one another.

That, and invite the other to tag along when flying out for business on a private jet on the company's dime.

Cait stuffed a hardcover copy of Textrovert into her purse—a summer beach read that Isobel had raved about and sent copies to all the Sisters with threats of bodily harm if they didn't devour them immediately.

At first she'd thought its bright coral and tangerine cover would at least make an awesome accessory with her outfit, but while reading it to kill time on a transatlantic flight, decided that Lindsey Summers aka was a goddess.

And at some point while in LA, Cait was going to track her down and hug tackle her like the good little fangirl that she now was.

"Merd," Earl groaned through a stretch, arms winging high and rumpled sandy blond hair, almost dislodging his chunky blue frames in the process. "I hate that I can never get a decent sleep on a plane. Even an expensive jet, it seems."

"I told you to bring sleeping pills," Cait admonished, sliding—yes, McQueen—shades onto her heart-shaped face. Her short cap of hair, dazzling rose gold, was styled in tousled voluminous waves that added at least three inches to her paltry five-two, already jacked up another five inches thanks to her heels.

"You know how much I hate pharmaceuticals." His pouty lips pouted even more in protest.

The cabin door opened and the stewardess reappeared, dressed in an expensive suit that made the variety worn by United Airlines look like it was made by Abercrombie & Fitch.

"The captain would like to advise that we are clear for de-boarding, is there anything I can assist you with before you exit the plane?"

"No, I think we're good." Cait stood, gathering the handle of her carry-on, the smallest of her three overstuffed suitcases.

"Wonderful, please, allow me to get that for you." Taking hold of the carry-on handle, as well as Earl's garment bag, she led the way to the front of the plane where the pilots had already thrust open the doors and descended the ladder.

Warm air blasted into the cabin, the sky a bright pale blue with nothing but sun, and Cait smiled. She'd been to LA more than a dozen times, visiting Shayne, but never, ever got tired of the view.

Earl looped his hand through hers and together they navigated the narrow, metal steps. Him, in ferragamo loafers and Cait in five inch spiked gladiator style ankle boots that cost almost as much as Earl's Rolex.

At the bottom, Cait and Earl slid into the back seat of a chauffeured SUV. And while the driver and flight staff loaded their bags—all seven of them—into the trunk, she dug out her phone and, with elaborately manicured nails, swept through her messages and smiled when she found the one she was looking for.

"I know that face," Earl teased.

"Mind your business." As the SUV lurched into drive, she gave the chauffeur quick instructions to take her straight to the address she had listed in her email.

"Speaking of business," Earl said as the divider rolled up, sealing them in a private little bubble, "what time is you're meeting again?"

"Ten-thirty, which means I'm getting dropped off first if I hope to make it on time in LA traffic."

Earl sighed grudgingly, but a gleam in his eyes betrayed his excitement. "Does that mean I get to meet Kanye, too?"

"I won't even get to meet Kanye."

"But isn't that why you're all the way out here? How can you style a man if you're not in the same room as him?"

"I'm sure I will at some point," Cait corrected, "but for now I'll likely be dealing with his team—managers, assistants, PR staff, the whole gamut."

"Oh the glamourous life you lead."

Glamorous indeed.

Impressed by her Femminizer campaign last month, apparently Kim Kardashian herself had shoved the issues of Vogue under his nose, demanding she be called out to LA. And though Cait couldn't say she was a Kanye fan, being short-listed as a personal stylist for the power couple, especially all the added publicity during his upcoming world tour, would be a serious feather to in her cap.

The line of A-listers that would flock to her brand after this would be game-changing.

Cait's lips twisted into a wry smirk.

"Oh," Earl grinned, "Cait's got her game face on."

"Damn straight I do."

#

The SUV rolled into the parking lot of the studio with less than five minutes to spare. Giving Earl a noisy kiss goodbye, Cait was already hitting the ground running the second the driver opened her door.

Carrying nothing but her purse, sketchbook and iPad loaded with digital images of ensembles she thought would best reflect what Kanye was looking for. Though there hadn't been a lot of time to prepare. Typically she'd spend anywhere around two weeks researching her clients to get a feel for their personal style, and what was done in the past.

Then there was body shape, seasons and trends that would all affect how she figured out how best to translate the various moving parts into a single, cohesive vision.

Fashion was art and art took time; Kanye's manager had given her less than two days.

But Cait thrust aside any thoughts of doubt or concern to the back of her mind as she thrust into the studio lobby, grateful for the cooling kiss of air conditioning.

She was here, and come hell or high water, she wasn't walking out her without the job.

Records lined the reception wall. Gold. Platinum—a helluva lot of platinum, with Kanye's name plastered across them all. Jesus, she knew he was successful, but as she stood there, facing a wall of awards and trophies, Cait realized, personal feelings aside, she really had underestimated the egomaniac.

A door opened and Cait turned as a woman emerged, shaped as wicked and curvaceous as Kim Kardashian and lush brown skin a shade lighter than her dark hair that fell in thick, heavy curls. Heels clicked with each hip rolling step as she approached Cait with a warm smile. Full lips a marvel of genetics.

Spending enough time around fashion elite, Cait could spot collagen at hundred yards.

"I've always admired punctuality in a woman, and you are right on time." The woman, elegant in a form fitting dress—Stella McCartney, Cait was sure of it—angled a slender wrist to read the time on her rose gold iPhone. "Down to the second."

"I aim to be—sorry, I was expecting a gentleman named Javier?"

Ignoring the question, the woman thrust out a hand. "I'm Angela Torres. Kanye's publicist."

"Yes, of course," Cait feigned recognition though in her list of names provided to her, could not recall Angela Torres, and took her offered hand, the woman's grip firm but easy. "Hi, I'm—"

"I know who you are," she said, still shaking Cait's hand with that slow, gentle movement. "Cait Emerson, the androgynous prodigy of Paris."

A proud flush warmed Cait's cheeks.

"The same Cait Emerson who's fucking Evan Holloway. My husband."

"I—" Cait sputtered into silence as a whole slew of fucks paraded through her brain in seven different languages. Evan? Married?

"He didn't tell you? Not surprised." Angela's smile flashed, wide and bright, as if they were talking about Dior instead of adultery. "Can't blame a man for being forgetful. It's only been twelve years."

Nausea spun in Cait's head like laundry in a dryer, tumbling and heavy as it funneled down to her belly. Oh, lord, she was going to throw up. "I...I don't—"

"Don't insult me by denying it." Angela released her hand, the first spark of temper bright in her brown eyes. "Honestly, you were doing so well, don't tarnish a stellar first impression by lying to my face."

"Wasn't...going to."

"Good." Angela lifted her chin and crossed her arms. "Before we go much further you should know that I admire what you do, what you've accomplished. You're a woman of tremendous talent and vision. You're a name on the rise, I'd like to see that continue for you. If you want this job you're going to stop fucking my husband, or I will shove my stiletto so far down your throat you'll shit Manolo for a month."

Angela arched a warning brow, efficient and impactful as a nuclear bomb. "And if you are still stupid enough to refuse to end the affair, I will crush you. Trust me when I say I have the means and the connections and the drive to devote every second of my day to the task. I don't care if my crusade costs me clients, I won't have my reputation besmirched by anyone."

Cait swallowed a greasy rise of vomit. Sweat broke out on her skin as somewhere in her chest, pain flashed. God, was this the onset of a heart attack?

The joints of her knees buckled and Cait's hand shot out to the armrest of the settee to hold her steady.

"Oh, poor thing, you've gone white as a sheet," Angela crooned as Cait sank to the cushion. "Can I get you some water?"

All she could manage was a meager shake of her head. "No. I just need a moment before...meeting...Javier."

Angela laughed, a melodious, bright sound that kicked Cait in her already roiling gut. "Oh, no, your meeting with Javier isn't today. No, no, I adjusted the schedules this morning and slotted you in for a week from now."

Cait's head popped up, her mouth fell open. "What?"

"I wanted to size you up first, to make sure you understood, woman to woman, where I was coming from, and offer an agreeable timeframe for you to collect yourself and do the right thing."

Bent at the waist, Angela set her hands to her thighs, like a teacher about to admonish a pre-schooler for poor behaviour in her classroom.

"You should know I have three other meetings lined up today with a dozen others this week. Kanye is the kind of man who likes to move quickly, so if you want your spot, then I expect results. Otherwise," she straightened with a shrug, tossing her length of curls, "you can fly your ass coach back to Paris, tail tucked between your legs. Choice is yours."

**AN**

Woop! Alright, we're all caught up with the girls - now strap in, because things are going to escalate from here.

Ps. How many of you have got your hands on Textrovert yet???