Emerald felt a warm liquid making its way onto her new silk blouse. She felt a quick rush of adrenaline—this was New York City, after all.

When she looked away from the cappuccino violating her blouse, Emerald’s looked up and her green eyes were met with soft, beautiful, long lashed, blue ones. The young man started apologizing with any words he could find. Emerald was in too much of a rush to listen.

“It’s alright, really. Don’t bother yourself.”

The young man felt oddly clumsy and awkward as well as just plain awful for wrecking the poor woman’s beautiful blouse.

*I have to start looking where I’m going while I am walking in front of Starbucks. And on busy streets in general; that would be the entire city, wouldn’t it?* the young man chided himself.

He wasn’t usually so distracted. When he stepped out of Starbucks, he caught a whiff of something familiar; it was soft and comforting. It came through despite all of the food odors, overpowering the scent of fresh brewed coffee, making even the cornucopia of Manhattan street smells fade out for an instant. The delightful fragrance triggered a pleasant sense memory; a memory he couldn’t quite place. It was the loveliest fragrance, gone as quickly as it had arrived.

“It’s all right, really. Don’t bother yourself,” she muttered while digging through her Dior bag for some tissues, hoping to clean the spot before it could set, though she knew it was futile without cold water or club soda.

The young man felt clumsy and awkward, mumbling apologies over and over as she continued blotting.

“I am so sorry. I-I didn’t see you, and crap!” He finally managed to choke out a few futile words as plainly as he could with a throat that had closed up, “Please tell me you’re not on your way to your office.” *No, dumbo, she’s clearly on her way to the circus.*

Emerald lowered her gaze to her outfit; a long-sleeved white silk blouse and soft black slacks. The young man’s eyes widened, “I am so sorry! Please let me replace your blouse.”

Emerald sighed, “It’s fine. I don’t have the time” (No one in New York ever has the time; even those with nothing at all to do are short on time).

“I’m already late and poor Gema is waiting for me. She is such a gem,” she muttered while dropping tissues into a nearby “Keep New York Beautiful” receptacle around which was strewn all manner of rubbish. Emerald did her best to force a smile, “Thank you for the offer, but I really need to go.”

The beautiful woman issued a serious complaint to the universe while scurrying away.

And with that, the beautiful woman was off.

*Crap. Now I have to go back to work with a giant coffee stain on my silk blouse. And I just bought this!*

POV: Brad

As the tall, handsome young man made his way from Starbucks it came to him, loudly and clearly.

*Gema the Gem?! She said she is meeting with Gema the Gem. This is better than breadcrumbs! *

Only one *haute couture* house had a Gema, the Gem. She was a legend. Every haute côture house wanted to steal he away from Charme. Not only was did she produce phenomenal work, Gema was also loved for her unfailing calm kindness no matter how crazy things got. And, things in high fashion could get quite crazy indeed.

But there were yet more facets to Gema, the office Mom. The proliferater if good feelings was a gifted couturièr (seamstress); there was not a high fashion house in the country, perhaps the world that was not trying to lure Gema away from Dior. Gema’s extraordinary skills had saved the Dior a fortune over her many years with the company. The gown that would take a mere mortal two hundred and fifty hours to create? Gema could knock it out with not so much as a loose thread in a little over half the time.

As fortune would have it, the world can have only one such gem. Brad turned around and hurriedly launched himself in the direction of the Christian Dior NYC HQ offices.

As Brad made his way through the crowded streets, he was engaged in his own inner struggle.

*What just happened?*

Why couldn’t he speak in front of the lovely woman? He worked around models day after day and never had one leave him this shook.

Bradford Van Arsdale, heir to the multibillion-dollar haute couture house, Charme, who went to the finest schools, had been completely flummoxed. And tongue-tied. He realized that he urgently needed to find this woman—not only because he had to see her again but, he felt compelled to ensure that her elegant silk blouse was cleaned properly.

*Who am I kidding? Pay for her dry cleaning, yeah right.*

The truth was that he had to see that beautiful lady with emerald eyes again. He didn’t have the woman’s name or number. Yet, he knew he would find her. Somehow. If he had to pay every detective agency in the Manhattan yellow pages, so be it.

Brad did not routinely chase women. It had never been necessary. Oh, certainly he had felt the twinge of unrequited crushes a few times. But, for the most part the women found him.

So why, in the midst of midtown, did he feel as if he were being shoved to his destination?

*She must work close by; that was the office Starbucks run.*

Brad had rejected as premature the idea of staking out Starbucks 24/7 (though it wasn’t entirely off the table.)

The thirty-three-year-old heir to the Maison de Charme jogged across the street against the light, focused only on the mission: Operation Emerald Eyes.

Brad knew where Christian Dior’s Midtown offices were. He had been there plenty of times, but never with this kind of urgency. A number of Dior staff would certainly recognize him. Nevertheless, Brad strode with make-believe confidence and hastily entered the Dior building. Then he paused. He had no idea where the emerald-eyed woman worked or even what she did. He could hardly scan every woman in the building. At least not without worrying security.

And security at Dior was on High Alert, as it was at all of the other luxury fashion houses, including Charme. Operations were locked down tight to deter theft of their designs. Technology was making it easy and cheap to produce better and better replicas. The best “super fakes” had only the tiniest of flaws detectable by an expert or via artificial intelligence (AI). Charme invested heavily in AI. A machine could identify a fake in seconds, which was worth the expense. The sales associates came to appreciate this odd-looking piece of equipment when customers came in wanting Charme to send their cheap knockoffs to Paris for free repair. Cheeky.

However, even more damage was being done to the brand via over-production. It had become de rigueur to see women on every street in every neighborhood in America wearing a bag branded with a famous luxury logo.

Brad and his father were concerned about this. The consensus among all fifteen high fashion houses that the super-fakes devalued their brands. Being exclusive to a select pool of buyers is essential for any high fashion label. Scarcity drives demand. Charme customers paid a premium for the feeling of exclusivity.

Brad had failed to calculate this much security into his equation. Every haute couture house was locked down. He understood it but hated it nonetheless. The glorious ambiance of a high fashion house was ruined. The heir to Charme longed for the days when everyone moved freely about; the days of grace and elegance.

*Now we have the days of the metal detector.*

When high fashion ran as it was meant to, the sales associates made certain that buyers were comfortable, enjoying fine French champagne while watching the models and imagining themselves in each stunning piece. At times, remaining poised was a challenge for the staff as they watched much older and rounder women fancying themselves looking just like the showroom models.

Stylists curated collections for high-spending customers. Under the watchful eyes of Denise Romano and Chase Wallace, the style team carefully selected the garments that would best suit the individual customer. The team took into account the personal tastes and body types of each lady. The customers enjoyed themselves, Charme ensured that—whatever it took.

Society matrons typically arrived with husbands in tow, wearing the looks of condemned Men resigned to their fates, left to do the heavy lifting required for lugging around the heavy metal credit cards.

Not that moments of low comedy were scarce. Many of those world-weary husbands returned, accompanied by much younger sugar babies and sporting entirely changed countenances.

The girls almost never had appointments, being better suited for more spontaneous shopping adventures. Nor were their Special Friends likely to spring for exclusive outfits starting at $10,000 (must be a clearance sale!). Instead, the sweet young things were typically pacified by expensive lingerie. These men were superb problem-solvers; beautiful lingerie meant everybody wins!

Now that security had become so rigid, by the time customers got to the salon, their moods were dour. Women of the elite classes were unfailingly offended at being put through such indignities.

Unfortunately for stray visitors, Fashion Week was but a few weeks away, pushing security levels even higher. To add to Brad’s predicament, there was still the matter of regular, everyday industrial espionage. Everyone in high fashion spied on everyone else, much like at the UN.

Bradford made a key operational observation: He was standing on a precipice.

“Van Arsdale? Of the Charme Arsdales?” the guard asked with poorly disguised excitement

“Yes, Bradford Van Arsdale,” Brad agreed taking out his authentic Gucci wallet and showing his ID. The Gucci purchase was a singular act of rebellion—possibly his first display of resistance to his father’s dominance.

“I bet you’re here for a meeting about Fashion Week!”

*Yeah, Lieutenant Colombo, that’s it. *

“Are ya starting to get excited?”

*You have no idea.*