Chapter 8 - The Fashion Week Ambush
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Over the next eight weeks, I worked eighteen hours a day in my studio.
My fingers were covered in needle pricks and fabric dye. I cut cost after cost, firing my assistant, taking over my own social media management, and sleeping on the daybed in the back of the cutting room to save on electricity at my apartment.
I created twelve pieces for my spring line—structured, elegant suits made of midnight-blue silk and sharp, sharp tailoring. No delicate lace, no passive pastels. It was armor for women who refused to be overlooked.
Three weeks before LA Fashion Week, I received an official notification from the event committee.
Dear Ms. Sullivan,
We regret to inform you that due to scheduling realignments and space limitations, your showcase slot at the West Coast Designer Preview has been canceled.
I stared at the email in shock. The West Coast Preview was the main event where department store buyers and fashion editors placed their orders. Without that slot, my entire season was dead in the water.
I grabbed my bag, drove straight to the committee headquarters downtown, and demanded to speak with the event coordinator, Clara Vance.
Clara was a tall, elegant woman in her fifties who had known the Miller family for decades. She agreed to meet me in her glass office.
“Clara, what is this?” I asked, setting the printed cancellation notice on her glass desk. “My deposit was paid four months ago. My collection is ready.”
Clara looked at me with genuine sympathy, leaning back in her leather chair. “Kate… you’re a talented girl. Truly. But this isn't personal. It’s business.”
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“Did Charles Miller call you?” I asked directly, referring to Brad’s father.
Clara sighed, crossing her arms. “Charles didn't have to call me, Kate. Vanessa Carter’s family foundation just sponsored the entire opening night gala for fifty thousand dollars. And Vanessa made it very clear that her gallery wouldn't participate if your brand was on the schedule.”
