Right at that moment, she saw Vivian in the corner of the room talking to a couple of people. She looked transformed. Gone was the weariness. Today Vivian’s head was held up high, her pixie hair as precise as if she’d been to the salon two minutes ago. Her emerald sheath dress could have come right off the Proenza Schouler runway. Unlike Jules, she didn’t look like someone who’d stumbled off a plane before being thrown into the maw of high society.

She looked incredible.

Then Vivian looked up and saw Jules staring at her from the doorway. Her eyes widened, and a spasm of panic hit Jules. Shit! Her outfit was gauche. Her hair looked awful. Her makeup was clownish. She’d flown all the way out here only to disgrace Vivian and embarrass herself in front of some of the most powerful people in the industry. She should just bolt.

Before she could, Vivian gestured imperiously for Jules to join her. Her face had already reverted back to its cool mask. Jules headed toward her on shaking knees. Maybe after mumbling a hello, she could lurk in the corner until this was over. Or until Vivian ordered her out of the room in disgust.

But as she approached the group—Vivian, two men, and another woman—Vivian turned to look at her again. Her gaze was neither hard nor disapproving. It was almost…amiable.

Jules blinked. Vivian never shied away from expressing her displeasure, even in front of other people, since she could do it so well without speaking a word. Maybe she didn’t look as bad as she feared. Clinging to a newfound shred of confidence, Jules managed a smile for everyone and said, “Hello.” It only came out a little bit squeaky.

Vivian came forward and said, “Hello, Julia,” then—what the ever-loving bejesused fucking fuck?—leaned in and kissed the air to either side of her cheeks. Vivian’s skin was soft and warm as she brushed against Jules’s face.

When Vivian pulled away, Jules fumbled for an expression that wasn’t shocked. A smile would do. Hopefully, it didn’t look too ghastly.

Her face was tingling. It was not unpleasant.

“This is my assistant, Julia Moretti,” Vivian said to the three others. “She’s just arrived from Philadelphia this morning.” Her voice was pleasant without being cooing or false, just as if she were introducing a friend or something.

“How nice to meet you,” one of the men, a portly, balding guy in his midfifties, said. He held out his hand. “Geoffrey Barnhardt.”

Jules shook it while Vivian said, “Geoffrey is the managing director of Koening’s operations in the UK. And these are the Goldsteins…”