Chapter 6 - The Show That Changed Both Our Names
Bellamy’s second presentation was scheduled in Paris.
Not Fashion Week.
Isabelle deliberately chose a smaller independent design festival held two weeks later.
She said she wanted critics to see the clothes without comparing every seam to Laurent.
The irony was that comparisons followed anyway.
By then, the Laurent authorship audit had become public.
Not every detail.
Enough.
The company announced it would revise historical credits across fifty-six archived pieces.
Twenty would list Isabelle Bellamy as co-designer.
Nine as primary designer.
Royalties would be recalculated.
Museum records would change.
Exhibitions would be updated.
Isabelle accepted only what independent counsel determined she was legally owed.
She refused a special settlement I proposed.
“I’m not taking guilt money.”
“It isn’t guilt money.”
“You offered triple.”
“I have a lot of guilt.”
“Exactly.”
Eventually, attorneys handled it.
Better.
My name disappeared from some places.
Shared space in others.
The world did not end.
That surprised me.
For years, I behaved as if credit were oxygen.
Apparently there was enough air for two people.
Laurent Group appointed a new creative director.
A woman named Naomi Chen, thirty-eight, brilliant, impossible to intimidate.
I recommended her.
The board almost rejected her because she told them their last campaign looked “like expensive furniture trying to seduce itself.”
I voted yes.
Then remembered I no longer had a formal vote.
Old habits.
I retained a minority equity position and advisory rights during the restructuring, but no operational control.
For the first time since I was twenty-seven, I had no collection to design.
I should have felt empty.
Instead, I slept.
I started cooking badly.
I walked.
I visited the old storage unit and cataloged sketches with historians.
I attended therapy.
That one would have shocked me more than the stock collapse.
My therapist, Dr. Levin, asked during our third session, “Why did you cheat?”
I gave him twelve sophisticated answers.
Success.
Loneliness.
Disconnection.
Pressure.
Aging.
Identity.
He listened.
Then said, “Those explain opportunity.”
I waited.
“They do not explain permission.”
That sentence followed me for weeks.
Permission.
Why did I believe I was allowed?
Because Isabelle stayed.
Because Camille wanted me.
Because money softened consequences.
Because the world called powerful men complicated when ordinary men would simply be called selfish.
Eventually I answered:
“Because I believed wanting something was almost the same as deserving it.”
Dr. Levin nodded.
“That sounds expensive.”
“It cost me my marriage.”
“Then perhaps stop describing the cost in money.”
Fair.
Paris approached.
I did not ask Isabelle whether she wanted me there.
She surprised me by sending an invitation.
One seat.
Row three.
Not backstage.
No special access.
Just Gabriel Laurent.
Guest.
I stared at the invitation for ten minutes.
Then texted:
Thank you.
She replied:
DON’T MAKE IT WEIRD.
I wrote:
Impossible.
Three dots.
Then:
TRUE.
In Paris, I stayed at a different hotel.
Not the suite where I had stayed with Camille.
I could not.
The Bellamy show took place in an old library.
No giant LED screens.
No celebrities seated for attention.
The runway moved between reading tables.
The collection was called ORDINARY DAYS.
My chest tightened when I read the title.
The clothes were built around rituals.
Morning coats.
Work dresses.
Evening garments with hidden structural comfort.
Nothing screamed.
Everything stayed.
At the end, Isabelle appeared.
Applause rose.
She looked shocked.
Still.
After New York, after reviews, after orders, applause still surprised her.
I stood with everyone else.
She saw me.
Our eyes met.
I did not clap louder.
I did not make the moment mine.
I simply smiled.
She smiled back.
Backstage, I waited until invited.
Thirty minutes later, an assistant appeared.
“Ms. Bellamy says you can come.”
I found Isabelle surrounded by buyers.
Celeste kissed both her cheeks.
Étienne Arden looked annoyingly proud.
I disliked him less now.
Barely.
When the room cleared, Isabelle approached.
“Well?”
I pretended to consider.
“The blue coat was weak.”
Her face fell.
I smiled.
“I’m joking.”
She hit my arm.
“That is not funny.”
“It was extraordinary.”
Her eyes softened.
“Thank you.”
“The final dress…”
“Yes?”
I swallowed.
“It looked like the first dress.”
“It was.”
“What?”
“Rebuilt.”
I stared.
She continued.
“The original Laurent No. 1 pattern.”
“Our pattern.”
“Yes.”
“But changed.”
“Because I’m not twenty-four anymore.”
I smiled.
“No.”
“Neither are you.”
“Cruel.”
She laughed.
Then a voice interrupted.
“Touching.”
We turned.
Camille stood in the doorway.
For a second, nobody moved.
She looked thinner.
Angrier.
No entourage.
No smile.
Isabelle became still.
“What are you doing here?”
Camille looked at her.
“Congratulations.”
“Leave.”
“I came to give Gabriel something.”
I stepped forward.
“No.”
Camille smiled.
“Still protecting her.”
“No.”
I stopped beside Isabelle, not in front of her.
“I’m respecting her space.”
Camille’s smile faded.
She handed me a flash drive.
“What is this?”
“Proof.”
“Of?”
“That my father funded Bellamy to destroy Laurent.”
Étienne entered behind her.
“That is a lie.”
Camille flinched.
He had followed.
Her face changed.
“Dad.”
Étienne looked older suddenly.
“Enough.”
Camille turned toward Isabelle.
“You think he believes in you?”
Isabelle’s expression remained calm.
“Yes.”
That surprised all of us.
Including Étienne.
Camille laughed bitterly.
“He invested because he hates Gabriel.”
“No,” Étienne said.
“I invested because she was good.”
Camille’s eyes filled.
“You never said that about me.”
He softened.
“You never wanted to design.”
“You don’t know what I wanted.”
“Then tell me.”
The room became uncomfortable.
This was no longer our fight.
Camille looked around as if realizing strangers had become witnesses.
Then she looked at me.
“You ruined my life.”
I did not defend myself completely.
“I hurt you.”
“You used me.”
“Yes.”
“And now you get redemption because you confess?”
“No.”
“You get her back?”
I looked at Isabelle.
“That isn’t mine to decide.”
Camille’s face twisted.
“You’re all so noble now.”
“No,” Isabelle said.
Camille turned.
Isabelle stepped closer.
“You’re angry because nobody will let you stay the victim of choices you made.”
The sentence landed.
I knew because it had once applied to me.
Camille’s eyes filled with tears.
“You had everything.”
Isabelle almost laughed.
“My husband was sleeping with you.”
“You had him first.”
“No.”
The words were quiet.
“He had himself. He made a choice.”
Camille looked at me.
Then away.
For the first time, I saw not a seductress, not an enemy, not the woman who helped destroy my marriage.
A twenty-six-year-old who had built her identity around being chosen.
By fathers.
By cameras.
By men.
I understood the addiction.
I had built mine around being applauded.
Different stage.
Same hunger.
Étienne approached his daughter.
“Come home.”
Camille shook her head.
“No.”
“Then come somewhere.”
She laughed through tears.
“You make it sound easy.”
“No.”
He held out his hand.
“I make it sound possible.”
She stared.
Then looked at Isabelle.
“I’m sorry.”
Isabelle said nothing.
Camille swallowed.
“I know that doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” Isabelle said.
Camille looked up.
“It just doesn’t erase anything.”
Camille nodded.
That was perhaps the most adult thing any of us had learned.
Sorry mattered.
Sorry did not erase.
She left with her father.
The flash drive contained nothing damaging.
Only private Arden Capital discussions about Bellamy’s commercial potential.
Camille had interpreted criticism as conspiracy.
Perhaps because conspiracy hurt less than believing someone else earned what you wanted.
Later that night, Isabelle and I walked along the Seine.
No photographers nearby.
Cold wind.
Paris lights.
“I’m tired,” she said.
“Hotel?”
“Soon.”
We walked.
Then she asked, “Did you love her?”
I knew who.
“I thought I did sometimes.”
She absorbed that.
I continued.
“I loved what I became around her.”
“What?”
“Unquestioned.”
Isabelle looked at me.
“That sounds lonely.”
“It was.”
She nodded.
“Did you sleep with her in Rome every night?”
The question hurt.
She deserved the truth.
“Yes.”
Isabelle looked toward the river.
I did not fill the silence.
Finally:
“Thank you.”
“For telling you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish you hadn’t asked?”
“Yes.”
Honesty.
Messy.
Real.
We reached a bridge.
She leaned against the stone.
“Do you know what frightened me most after leaving?”
“What?”
“That I would take you back immediately if you asked correctly.”
My heart stopped.
“Isabelle.”
“Don’t.”
I stayed silent.
“I loved you so much that I didn’t trust myself.”
She looked at me.
“So I made rules.”
“What rules?”
“No private dinners. No hotels. No touching unless I initiated. No listening to promises.”
“That last one seems harsh.”
“Necessary.”
I almost smiled.
“Did they work?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still need them?”
She looked at my mouth.
Then away.
“Some.”
My pulse changed.
She began walking again.
I followed.
“Gabriel.”
“Yes?”
“Stop looking hopeful.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Maybe slightly.”
She sighed.
“This is why I didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
She stopped.
“The divorce was finalized yesterday.”
My chest tightened.
I knew it was coming.
Still.
There was something brutal about legality.
Fifteen years reduced to a stamped date.
“You’re not my wife anymore.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
She waited for grief.
Anger.
Argument.
I nodded.
“Okay.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Okay?”
“I hate it.”
“Good.”
“But you asked to leave.”
“Yes.”
“And I signed.”
“Yes.”
“So okay.”
Her eyes filled unexpectedly.
“You’re making this difficult.”
“How?”
“You’re becoming the man I needed after I stopped needing him.”
I breathed slowly.
“Then don’t need me.”
She stared.
“What?”
“I don’t want you to need me.”
My voice shook.
“I want you to choose me someday if I become someone worth choosing.”
Tears slid down her face.
I did not touch them.
After a moment, Isabelle reached for my hand.
First.
May you like
We stood beside the Seine holding hands like two people on a first date.
Which, in a strange way, we were.
