Page 53 of I Want You
“Everyone, back to work,” Harper orders, trying unsuccessfully to sound stern.
Julian returns to the footage, and Victoria steps closer to the screen to discuss some shots with him. Harper stands there for a moment, watching them. Just a few weeks ago, Victoria’s return was a threat that loomed over everything she’d built. Today, the issue is on track, the partnership between the two of them is stronger than ever, and the future looks absurdly bright.
Solange stands beside her, watching the scene in silence.
“I have a hunch that the Chicago trip is going to be a revelation,” the stylist whispers affectionately.
Harper looks at Victoria. At that very moment, the art director looks up from the monitor and searches for her across the room. Their eyes meet, holding a silent promise.
“Yes,” Harper replies in a whisper. “I think so, too.”
Chapter 19
The glass doors of the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art swing wide open before Victoria and Harper shortly after seven in the evening.
The New Voices Fashion Gala takes up nearly the entire building. The air reeks of money, champagne, and boundless ambition. In the lobby, the flow of guests amid the avant-garde installations, digital screens, and structures creates a hive of activity. Instead of simply hanging dresses on boring mannequins, the organizers have turned each discipline into a spectacle: large-format photographs suspended from the ceiling, experimental fabrics that react to light, and projections in which young designers explain their creative processes. Harper recognizes that sparkle in their eyes instantly. It’s the same one she had ten years ago when she first entered the world of fashion.
She pauses for a second, hands on her hips, absorbed by the energy of the place.
“Okay,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “Eleanor was right. Bringing us here was the right move.”
Victoria, standing beside her, turns her head. She’s wearing a flawlessly tailored dress with long sleeves and a side slit that has left her ex-wife speechless. Harper has spent the entire ride from the hotel trying not to notice how the fabric hugs her waist, how that shade of green sets off her skin, or the playful sparkle of her earrings. A resounding failure, of course.
“I’m going to record you saying that, Brooks,” Victoria replies mockingly, letting a smile play on her lips. “You might never agree with Eleanor again.”
Harper glances at her out of the corner of her eye, running a hand suggestively over her clothes.
“Don’t take advantage of a moment of weakness.”
“Too late. It’s already etched in my memory.” Victoria leans in close to her and whispers, her lips barely brushing hers, “Just like how good that lingerie looks on you.”
Harper blushes all the way to her ears.
An impeccably uniformed attendant checks their credentials and hands them a pair of black passes bearing the foundation’s gold logo. Harper slips hers around her neck while scanning the event map, counting heads, and locating the clusters of influential people.
“We have three hours before dinner,” Harper says, glancing at her wristwatch. “We’d better check this place out before the drinks and formalities get in the way.”
Victoria unfolds the program in front of them and strikes that professional pose that drives Harper wild.
“Documentary photography at 6:30, sustainable fashion an hour later, and a roundtable on digital consumption at nine,” she recites, tracing her lower lip with her finger. “There’s room to improvise.”
“I want to stop by the beauty section,” Harper adds, nodding toward the west wing. “Our pages have been featuring the same old brands for five years. We need a fresh perspective. New blood.”
Victoria looks at her and nods.
“And then you say I’m the only one with an eye for detail,” Victoria remarks, giving her a little pat on the butt. “Let’s go check out those photos.”
The two of them start in the gallery. Harper immediately understands why Eleanor sent them both. They aren’t here to find pretty pictures to fill pages; they’re looking for visual identities so powerful that she can almost lay out the magazine in her head as she looks at them.
They stop at the same time in front of a striking series: portraits of women over fifty, without a single digital retouch, wearing haute couture by up-and-coming designers in everyday settings—a laundromat, a bus stop, a kitchen with worn tiles. The women’s gazes pierce right through the paper.
“Incredible,” Victoria says, stepping forward with her arms crossed over her chest. “I love the framing.”
She moves closer and glances at the description on the wall.
“Naomi Reeves. Twenty-seven years old. Detroit.”
“We could seriously consider her,” Harper blurts out, already calculating the double-page spreads.
