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Chapter One
All-out Fashion War
Callie Ryan stood in the immense marble lobby of Conrad Media's office tower, summoning the courage to push through the turnstiles and on up to the offices of Couture magazine. The trip to the thirty-third floor was nothing new to her. She'd made it every weekday for the last six weeks. And after half a summer interning at Couture, Callie no longer felt cowed when she entered the mag's white, modernist lobby, even as the famous face of the latest cover girl stared down at her from a six-foot blow-up. (Scarlett last month. Beyoncé now.) In fact, for the past several weeks, Callie had started each day with the most delicious feeling that she was shedding her Midwestern girl persona and becoming a true New Yorker. She'd felt on the verge of becoming One of Them.
But this particular Monday morning, she was on the verge of something else entirely—a date with a firing squad. Well, it wasn't that bad. The Couture Cutting Edge Gala had just happened three days ago, and as far as the magazine staff was concerned, Callie was still the seventeen-year-old wunderkind designer from Columbus, Ohio, who'd swept into New York and quickly landed her original handbag designs in the top fashion magazine in the country. But Callie had a secret. She'd taken credit for the silk screens that she'd used to create her handbags, and the silk-screen artist—a cute but seriously ticked-off designer from Brooklyn named Quinn McGrath—was threatening to expose her as a fake.
"Hey, girl, you lose something?" The brassy voice of one of Callie's fellow interns, Nadine Van Buren, called after her through the marble lobby. Callie looked at Nadine, dressed outlandishly as usual in a fuchsia Michael Kors buttoned minidress. She was coiffed in a Louise Brooks black bobbed wig, and her feet were arched to the extreme in a pair of silver lamé platform heels that almost made tiny Nadine look tall.
"Um, not really," Callie replied. "Just looking for my ID," she said, fumbling through the vintage Chanel crocodile handbag she'd bought a few weeks ago at the Chelsea Flea Market. The thing was beyond beat-up, but at least Callie could now say she owned a bona fide Chanel. Ever since coming to New York, she'd felt like her non-designer clothes and accessories weren't up to snuff and she'd sunk into a bit of debt to repair that. Today she'd paired the bag with a white linen H&M sundress—tag torn out to hide its low-budget provenance—and a charcoal jacket that she'd made herself.
"Oh, don't worry," Nadine reassured Callie. "The guard knows me. Don't you, Raul, my man?" Nadine winked at Raul as she stepped brazenly through the turnstile. All he could do was blush as he watched her sashay all the way to the elevator bank. Then he turned to Callie and waved her through, too. So much for stalling, Callie thought as she followed Nadine into the elevator.
"You seem chipper," she noted, looking Nadine over. "Feeling better?" Callie knew firsthand how much her roommate liked to party. The girl had spent more of her time this summer boozing with Aynsley Rothwell—rich Upper East Side socialite, fellow Couture intern, unbearable snob—than she had shooting pictures or researching articles. And at the gala, Nadine had outdone herself. She'd then spent most of Saturday in their shared New York University dorm room, hiding under the covers with the shades drawn—until she slunk off to Aynsley's town house just before dinner.
"I'm fine," Nadine insisted. "I just need a little extra hangover therapy, if you know what I mean. That was some party. And did you see the Fashionista blog about the gala? Ava got a mention! Can you friggin' believe it?"
Callie could believe it. Her friend Ava Barton had been the hands-down belle of the ball—a major coup for an intern.
As the elevator doors opened and Beyoncé's luminous face smiled down at Callie, Nadine appraised the cover. "Damn, all that chick's got on me is a few inches. I'm just as hot as she is, don't you think?"
Callie was equal parts dismayed and impressed by Nadine's typical bravado. No matter how much trouble she got into, she swaggered around like she owned the place. Callie wished she had some of that boldness. Then again, it was a combo of boldness and ambition that had led to the trouble concerning Quinn's silk screens.
"Good morning, ladies," squeaked Couture's main receptionist. "Staffwide meeting in the conference room. Isabel wants everyone there. Fifteen minutes."
"Isabel" was Isabel Dupre, the glamorous and powerful editor in chief of Couture. It was Isabel who'd given Callie her big break when she'd selected her handbags to be in the magazine's Cutting Edge Designer Showcase issue. A woman like Isabel had the ability to launch Callie's career—or kill it. Two days ago, Callie had been hoping for the former, but now that Isabel was about to discover the truth about Callie's creations, she feared that career death was a more likely outcome.
"I'd better call Sly," Nadine whispered. "She's running late."
What else is new? Callie thought. Aynsley "Sly" Rothwell treated her internship like a hobby. No—it was worse than that. She acted like she was doing everyone a huge favor every time she deigned to show up. She seemed to think that having as much money as a Trump and a wardrobe to rival Couture's sample closet meant she could come and go as she pleased. As far as Callie was concerned, the only good thing about Aynsley Rothwell was her brother, Julian—all six dark, sexy, smoldering feet of him.
Callie padded through the hallways, dodging rolling racks of angular suits, trench coats, and equestrian pants—all the must-have items for fall—and slid into the intern office. No one else was there, so she quickly logged on to her computer and glanced at her emails. There was one from Julian, congratulating her on her big gala night and asking her out this coming Friday. That put a smile on her face—until the next message, from Quinn McGrath, made her stomach tense into a ball. Reluctantly, she clicked it open.
Excerpted from Truth or Fashion by Chloe Walsh All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
