It was all wrong, though. It felt totally wrong in a way she couldn’t put her finger on, and Vivian had to know it too. But if she did, she wasn’t doing anything about it.

If anything, this just reminded Jules of what she’d known all along: it was ridiculous to have the crush of the century on someone who could never reciprocate, someone who could run hot and cold like a faucet. It was time to get over this infatuation and accept that she would never make out with Vivian Carlisle or fulfill any number of other fantasies.

She would get started on that any day now.

At least Vivian hadn’t been in contact with Stan Oppenheimer, as far as Jules could tell. It was easier to keep track of her during Fashion Week, especially given that she was staying in Vivian’s own house.

That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Vivian was clever—she always had been—and if she wanted something, she’d find a way to get it. It wasn’t as if Jules could keep watch over her every minute of every day, no matter how often they were together. Vivian and Mr. Oppenheimer had probably found one or two opportunities. They’d been able to get together and laugh and do things that made Vivian glow, like, like…

Yes, all in all, it was good that Jules kept so incredibly busy. Best not to dwell.

On Thursday afternoon, at yet another reception, Jules finally caught Vivian talking to him.

It didn’t look particularly intimate (well, it wouldn’t do to look intimate in front of other people, now would it?), and it certainly wouldn’t appear unusual to anyone else. Why shouldn’t Vivian chat with one of the higher-ups at Koening? In fact, when you looked at it that way, Stan Oppenheimer was practically Vivian’s boss. Which was so gross and wrong and totally different from Jules’s own situation in ways she was still trying to figure out.

Looking around desperately for a friendly face, or at least some kind of distraction, Jules came up dry. Simon was in a corner talking to Georg Schumann. Oh God, Jules hoped that didn’t mean Mrs. Schumann was around here somewhere. Whenever she thought of Helga Schumann, she heard Vivian’s voice calling her the “heinous hausfrau.” It raised the urge either to laugh or to drown even more in self-pity, neither of which would be appropriate at this reception.

The rest of the Du Jour delegation seemed to be occupied as well, and as a lowly assistant, Jules couldn’t barge into any old conversation with the fashion elite.

Just as she’d decided to fade into a corner and try to forget Vivian Carlisle existed at least until the reception was over, she heard: “You’re Julia Moretti, right?”