As we followed Winslow to a sleek electric cart, I caught myself wondering if Mr. Sterling- Damien Sterling–might be present. The thought came unbidden, accompanied by the memory
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of a white handkerchief and kind eyes. I quickly pushed it aside. This was about business, not my strange fascination with a man I’d barely met.
The shuttle glided silently through spectacular gardens. Cherry was frantically typing notes on her phone, while I tried to maintain a professional demeanor despite my awe.
“Mrs. Sterling uses the east wing for her personal projects and social gatherings, Winslow explained as we approached a stunning glass and stone structure that looked more like a modern art museum than a “wing” of a house. “She has invited several of her friends to join your consultation. They are quite interested in your designs as well.”
My stomach tightened. No pressure at all–just a room full of the city’s most powerful women evaluating my work.
Inside, the east wing was a marvel of architecture–soaring ceilings, natural light pouring through strategically placed skylights, and museum–quality art adorning the walls. Winslow led us through corridors decorated with what I recognized as priceless antiques and original paintings by masters.
“Mrs. Sterling is in the solarium,” he announced, stopping before a set of ornate double doors. “May I present Ms. Hazel Ashworth and her assistant, Ms. Cherry Chen.”
The doors swung open to reveal a breathtaking glass–enclosed garden room where about a dozen elegantly dressed women were scattered among plush seating arrangements. Their conversation halted as we entered, all eyes turning toward us.
Before I could feel the full weight of their scrutiny, a dignified woman in her early sixties rose from a central settee. She wore a beautifully tailored blue cheongsam with subtle silver embroidery that caught the light as she moved. Her hair was styled in a sophisticated updo, emphasizing her fine bone structure and remarkably youthful complexion.
“Ms. Ashworth,” she said warmly, approaching with extended hands. “How delightful to finally meet you. I am Vivian Sterling”
As she drew closer, I was struck by a strange sense of familiarity. Something about her eyes and the shape of her face triggered a distant memory I couldn’t quite place. Had I seen her in magazines? At some society event? Or was it something else, something from longer ago?
“The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Sterling” I replied, taking her offered hands. They were warm and her grip was firm–not at all the delicate touch I’d expected.
Mrs. Sterling studied my face with unusual intensity, her expression softening into what almost seemed like affection.
“You know,” she said in a voice only I could hear, “I’ve been following your career for quite some time. Much longer than you might imagine.”
The peculiar comment, combined with the strange sense that I’d seen her face somewhere before, sent a shiver of uncertainty through me. As our eyes held, I couldn’t shake the feeling
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that this meeting was far from coincidental–and that the Sterlings‘ sudden interest in my might have nothing to do with fashion at all.
