It is all so much nonsense when women say they dress for men, Judy thought. What do men know about style? Nothing. She wanted the respect of her peers, and in France, for an American, that was quite something to achieve. She was proud of the fact she had made it. Daily she compared herself to the effortless chic of the women around her; her style was far from effortless, but she was sure it could pass muster with any of them.

Her eyes flickered over the press clippings. The best you could say about them was mediocre, but Judy was still quite satisfied. The last collection had been about damage limitation. It had been booed off stage at one of the shows; she had had to do some fast spinning to keep that story from running everywhere.

In a way, we should be grateful for Hugh Montfort and his amazing Oscar-winning protégée, Judy realized; that story had taken up so much ink that the implosion of their fashion brand was relegated to just a few pages.

She sighed. Working for Massot right now was like The Shaw-shank Redemption, trying to tunnel her way out of jail with a spoon. And that was assuming she was able to concentrate—

Her phone buzzed.

“Yes, Marie?”

“M. Lazard asks if you have five minutes to see him in his office, Mademoiselle.”

“Tell him I’ll be right up.” Judy depressed the button with triumph. Ah—wonderful. M. Lazard—no, Gregoire, she reminded herself—had managed Sophie Massot, had got her to leave, to trundle on back to Château des Étoiles, and do whatever the very rich do. And since she had managed not to lash out at the woman, at least not too obviously, her patience was going to be rewarded.

Senior vice president.

Judy smoothed down the fabric of her suit, checked herself in the full-length mirror she had installed on one wall of her office so she could always be certain a hem had not fallen nor a button come loose.

The fog in her mind blew away. Sophie Massot was relegated to her proper place. It was Lazard, working him, that was to become her priority. Immediately, Judy had banked the senior vice president, and her mind was now on the next goal. Getting Giles Keroualle fired—he was worse than useless—and placing herself in charge of the division.

She rode the elevator up to the executive suite in a wonderful mood.

When she reached Lazard’s office, she knocked delicately.

“Gregoire?”

“Come in, Judy,” he called.

She entered.

“I’m so glad—Oh, excuse me.”

Sophie Massot had not left. She was standing there next to Gregoire, smiling foolishly, Judy thought. She thrust her own annoyance down and returned the smile with a brisk one of her own.

“I hope you had a good lunch, Madame,” she said to Sophie, through gritted teeth.

“Very nice indeed,” Sophie replied, with a slight blush.