Haze

When I finally walked through the boutique on my way out two hours later, Isla's back was turned to me. I'd stopped to thank her for being so cooperative but the only response was a faint nod of her head before she walked to the left to adjust a row of stockings that had been knocked astray by the greedy hands of bargain hunters.

She's pissed. I don't blame her. Cicely fucked up and I was pulled into that.

That's not who I am.

It's not who I want to be.

I don't care if a woman I'm interested in fucks someone else. I'll find another.

I don't care if a woman I want tells me to go to hell.

I move on. I find someone else. I fuck her until I forget everyone else and then I walk away.

That's who I am.

It's who I want to be.

The only difference now is that I know Isla Lane exists and I can't get her out of my mind.

***

"You can't possibly be mad at either of them, Gabriel." My mother hugs me gently taking care not to allow her face to touch mine. From the looks of it, she's spent hours in someone's make up chair. "Caleb and Rowan were waiting for me. I wanted to look my best."

She looks stunning.

I'm not surprised. Whenever there's a spotlight to be had, or a red carpet to stand on, my mother will be front and center. Tonight she's wearing a striking royal blue dress from one of our boutiques. It's cut just low enough to show off a stunning diamond necklace. I'm not about to ask where it came from. We'll have that discussion when her credit card bill crosses my desk in a few weeks.

"I'm not angry," I say quietly hoping to diffuse her. If the cameras aren't pointed at her, she'll do whatever is necessary to draw them towards her. Once, three or four years ago, she burst out in song during a press event for the Berdine line. It took months of negotiating, manipulating and subtle coercion to get the gossip rags to finally move on to another story.

At the time, my mother viewed their ongoing attention as flattery. I knew better. They would follow her in hopes of catching her in another moment of desperation. Things have calmed now, but I work hard to keep her in the background, out of the way of any stray microphones or cameras.

Tonight, I'm grateful that they've focused all of their attention on Libby Duncan, the Broadway actress, who is thankfully wearing a red, strapless dress from the Arilia collection. Her picture will be splashed across countless papers and websites tomorrow morning and that dress will be sold out within hours. That's the type of publicity that is priceless.

"I had hoped that Caleb would be here to present the check." I glance over to where my brother and his wife are standing, engaged in a lively conversation with the orchestra's conductor. "I took care of it. I'm just glad you're here in time for the performance."

"I've never been to the symphony, Mr. Foster."

I turn toward the female voice. It's Cicely, in a bright yellow dress. I make a mental note to talk to Caleb about offering our employees a stipend that includes free merchandise from each of our boutiques. A visit to Arilia would benefit Cicely and it wouldn't hurt our bottom line if she wore our designs to Liore each day. Cross promoting our own brands is a smart move.

Socializing with employees isn't something I'd normally do but this event is a benefit for an organization that promotes the arts for children. The chair is a close personal friend of my mother's and also the head partner at one of the most prestigious law firms in New York.

From its beginnings, he's been a robust supporter of the Foster Foundation, an organization founded by two of my cousins that provides medical care to individuals who have fallen on difficult times. Attending tonight, with a large check in hand, is a benefit for everyone.

"It's nice to see you, Cicely," I offer as I watch my mother walk towards Caleb.

She grabs hold of my hand, pulling it close to her. "I've never been at an event like this. I'm so honored that you asked me to join you."

My gaze follows the movement of my hand in hers. I jerk it away just as she's about to clasp it to her chest. "It's an important cause. It's vital that Foster Enterprises shows support. I'm glad that you, and the other employees, could make it."

She glances up at me, a wave of disappointment washing over her eyes. "I'm always happy to help the company in any way I can, sir."

I had asked her to attend this benefit, and the charity concert that immediately follows, on the phone, during an afternoon of similar calls to over a dozen employees.