Chapter 2 - The Arrival at the Stage Door
The hallway clock inside Jefferson Elementary ticked relentlessly: twenty-two minutes until curtain call.
Brooke stood with her arms crossed over her designer cardigan, tapping her French-manicured nails against her elbows. "You're bluffing, Emily," she scoffed, casting an arrogant glance toward the floor where dried crimson paint still stained the linoleum. "You’ve always been dramatic. Who could you possibly call? Some Etsy hobbyist? A mobile tailor from the dry cleaners?"
Behind Brooke, my parents formed their usual united front. My mother, Patricia, was busy smoothing the tulle on Madison’s eight-hundred-dollar imported pageant gown. "Emily, be reasonable," Patricia sighed, not even bothering to look at me. "Madison has been practicing her stage walk for weeks. Brooke put serious investment into this. Lily made hers out of scraps and fabric glue. It was cute, but let’s be honest—it was an amateur science fair project compared to Madison's gown. Brooke did Lily a favor by sparing her the embarrassment."
My father, Frank, grunted in agreement. "Life isn't fair, Emily. You learn that, or you spend your life crying in corners. Don't go starting a public circus and embarrassing our family name."
I didn't answer them. I checked my wristwatch. Eighteen minutes.
Suddenly, the heavy metal double doors at the end of the arts wing slammed open with a resonant thud.
Heads turned down the entire corridor. Parents holding cameras, teachers with clipboards, and children dressed as superheroes and storybook characters froze in mid-stride.
Walking down the hallway with long, purposeful strides was a tall man in a tailored charcoal overcoat, his silver-streaked hair swept back with aristocratic elegance. Flanking him were two assistants in matching black jumpsuits, wheeling a gleaming, industrial-grade chrome steamer, two massive rolling cases labeled *VANCE THEATRICAL COUTURE - CHICAGO*, and a specialized UV curing lamp.
It was Marcus Vance.
Marcus was the senior resident costume designer for the Goodman Theatre in Chicago, a three-time Tony nominee, and the very man under whom I had completed my master's apprenticeship before I gave up commercial theater to raise Lily as a single mother.
Brooke’s smirk melted instantly. Her jaw fell slack. Brooke was an aspiring lifestyle influencer who lived and died by local society pages; she knew exactly who Marcus Vance was. She had spent two years unsuccessfully trying to get onto the gala guest list where he served as honorary chair.
"Marcus?" Brooke gasped, her voice suddenly high and reedy. "What... what are you doing in Naperville?"
Marcus didn't spare her a single glance. He marched straight toward me, his sharp eyes taking in the torn silk on the floor, the empty paint container in the trash, and finally, my face.
May you like
"Emily, darling," Marcus said, his voice rich and commanding, cutting through the murmuring crowd. "When my finest former prodigy calls and says someone attempted to sabotage a piece made from my own personal archival raw silk... I don't send advice. I bring the workshop."
---
