Chapter 4: Fabric Inspection
The mansion’s west wing held Jennie’s sanctuary, a room larger than most city apartments dedicated solely to what she wore. Leonid stood just inside the doorway, a sentinel in a kingdom of silk and sequins. The air was thick, perfumed with jasmine and the crisp, clean smell of new fabric.
“It’s not just about the swatches, Leonid,” Jennie called from behind a freestanding rack of feathered boleros. “It’s about the drape. You have to see how it moves on the body.”
He said nothing. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, pulling out his cigarettes before remembering where he was. He put them back.
She emerged not in a daytime dress, but in a slip of midnight blue lace. It was a camisole and tap pants set, the kind meant to be seen only in bedrooms, the material sheer enough to hint at the shadows beneath. She spun, and the lace fluttered against her thighs.
“For a nightgown,” she announced, as if presenting a thesis. “Or maybe the lining for a sheer overlay. What do you think?”
“It’s lace,” he said, his voice flat.
“Ugh, you’re no help.” She disappeared again.
He watched her reflection in the full-length mirrors that lined one wall. Her movements were swift, certain. She shed the blue lace like a skin and held up another hanger. This one held a bodysuit, black and structured, with cut-outs at the ribs and a plunging neckline that terminated in a sharp ‘V’. She stepped into it, her back to him, and struggled with the clasps between her shoulder blades.
“Leonid.” Her voice was muffled by the fabric. “A little help?”
He didn’t move. “You don’t need that for fabric inspection.”
“I do! It’s about the foundation. It changes how everything lays on top.” She twisted, her arms contorted. “Please? It’s stuck.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her reflection before he walked toward her. In the mirror, he saw himself approaching the bare expanse of her back, saw the pale curve of her spine, the delicate knot of her vertebrae. He reached her and his fingers, calloused and dark against her porcelain skin, brushed hers aside. He found the three small hooks.
His knuckles grazed the heat of her skin. She shivered.
“Cold hands,” she whispered.
He fastened the hooks, one, two, three. The act was mechanical, precise. He could see the side of her face in the mirror, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheek. He stepped back immediately, putting air between them.
She turned, and the bodysuit was more revealing from the front. The structured cups held her, the cut-outs framed the soft dip of her waist. She posed, one hand on her hip. “Better, right? For structure.”
He just looked at her, his dark eyes giving nothing away. “Is the fabric here or not, Jennie?”
“Patience.” She grinned, a flash of childish mischief. “One more. This is the important one.”
She pulled a final garment from the rack. It was hardly a garment at all. A chemise of champagne-colored silk, so fine it was nearly transparent, with ivory French lace appliquéd at the bust and hem. She shimmied out of the bodysuit, letting it pool at her feet, and pulled the chemise over her head in one fluid motion.
It whispered against her skin, clinging to every curve. The lace did little to obscure. She stood before him, in the center of her glittering closet, and did a slow, deliberate turn. The silk caught the light, gleaming like liquid. The hem brushed mid-thigh.
“For a couture project,” she said, her voice softer now. “It needs to flow like this. See?” She twirled again, faster this time, a pirouette that made the silk flare and snap around her legs.
Her bare foot, pale and delicate, caught the edge of the fallen bodysuit.
She gasped, her arms flying out as her balance vanished. The world tipped.
He moved without thought. One step forward, his arms closing around her mid-fall. He caught her—a soft, warm weight against his chest. Her hands flew to his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his t-shirt. Her face was buried in the hollow of his throat, her breath a hot, startled gust against his skin.
He held her there, suspended, his hands splayed across the small of her back. The silk of the chemise was insubstantial as mist under his palms. He could feel the exact shape of her, the ladder of her spine, the dip of her waist, the firm swell of her hips. He was intensely aware of his own body, of the hard line of his stomach against her, of the sudden, treacherous rush of blood south.
In the mirror across from them, he saw the tableau: his large, dark-clad form enveloping her shimmering, half-naked one. Her legs, bare and long, tangled with his jean-clad ones. Her face, hidden. His own face, frozen, a mask of something dangerously close to anguish.
She went very still in his arms. The playful energy vanished, replaced by a palpable, breathing quiet. Her fingers flexed on his shoulders. She tilted her head back, just enough to look up at him. Her lips were parted, her eyes wide and impossibly deep. There was no guile in them, only a dawning, bewildered awareness.
“Leonid?” The name was a breath.
His hands flexed on her back. He could feel the exact moment her nipples hardened against his chest, the tiny points of pressure through the fragile silk. A low sound, almost a growl, formed in his throat and was swallowed.
The doorbell rang.
It was a distant, melodic chime, echoing through the vast house.
It shattered the silence like a hammer on glass.
Leonid’s arms unlocked as if electrocuted. He set her on her feet, his movements stiff, and took two large steps back. The space between them was suddenly arctic.
“Your delivery,” he said, his voice roughened by gravel.
Jennie blinked, swaying slightly on her feet. She looked down at herself, at the revealing silk, as if seeing it for the first time. A faint, confused blush colored her cheeks. “Oh. Right.”
He was already turning, striding from the closet without a backward glance. His footsteps were heavy, rapid, on the polished hallway floor.
Jennie stood alone in the center of a thousand beautiful things, listening to the retreating sounds of him. She brought a hand up, fingertips brushing the skin of her throat where his stubble had scraped her. She looked at her reflection—flushed, disheveled, her eyes too bright.
The doorbell chimed again, impatient.
She didn’t move. She just stared at the empty doorway where he had been, the ghost of his hands still burning into her skin.
She just stared at the empty doorway where he had been, the ghost of his hands still burning into her skin. The third chime of the doorbell finally jolted her into movement, a sharp, ungainly spasm. She grabbed a silk robe from a hook, wrapping it tightly around the chemise as she padded barefoot out of the closet.
Downstairs, the heavy front door was already open. Leonid stood framed in the afternoon light, his broad back to her, blocking the view of the delivery person. A large, flat cardboard box was propped against his leg.
“Sign here,” a voice said.
Leonid scribbled without a word. He hefted the box easily, one arm underneath it, and turned. His eyes found her on the stairs instantly, tracking her descent. They were darker than usual, shuttered. He looked through her, not at her.
“Your fabric,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection. He carried the box past her, leaving a faint smell of outside air and cigarette smoke in his wake. It was a scent that usually clung to his clothes, but now it felt charged, like the ozone after a lightning strike.
Jennie followed him into the sun-drenched formal living room, a space nobody ever used. He set the box on the vast marble coffee table. “You’ll need to inspect it. For damage.”
“Right.” She stood there, fiddling with the tie of her robe. He hadn’t moved away from the box. The room was too quiet, too large. The memory of her body against his pressed in on the silence. “Aren’t you going to open it? With the knife?”
He pulled a tactical folder from his pocket, flicked it open with a sharp snick, and sliced the tape. The sound was violent in the still room. He stepped back, wiping the blade on his jeans before folding it away. “All yours.”
She moved forward, pulling back the cardboard flaps. Inside, layers of crinkled tissue paper protected rolls of imported Italian linen and silk georgette. The colors were muted: dove gray, shell pink, ivory. She began unpacking, her movements nervous and too quick. “The gray is perfect for that structured blazer I sketched. And this pink… it’s a bit dull, don’t you think? Maybe I should have gone with the fuchsia.”
Leonid didn’t answer. He had walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the manicured gardens. He lit a cigarette, the rasp of the lighter unmistakable. He took a long drag, exhaling slowly against the glass.
“Are you smoking in the house?” she asked, her tone more surprised than accusatory. “Appa will have a fit.”
“He’s in Tokyo.” The words were flat, expelled with the smoke.
“Oh.” She unrolled a length of ivory georgette, the fabric whispering. She held it up, letting it cascade to the floor. “This is the one. For a flowy dress. You have to feel it, Leonid. It’s like air.”
She drifted toward him, the fabric flowing behind her like a train. She stopped just behind his shoulder, extending a corner of the material toward him. “Here. Feel.”
He didn’t turn. His reflection in the window was a pale, stern ghost overlaid on the greenery outside. “I don’t need to feel it.”
“Just feel it.” She pressed the fabric into the space between his arm and his body.
He flinched, a minute tightening of his shoulders. He turned his head, just slightly. His eyes dropped to the silk in her hand, then traveled up her arm, over the robe, to her face. His gaze was a physical weight. “What are you doing, Jennie?”
“I… I want your opinion.” Her voice was small.
“You don’t.” He took a final drag and crushed the cigarette into a crystal ashtray on a side table. The movement was final. “You wanted a reaction.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. The georgette slipped from her fingers, pooling on the polished floor. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“The clothes. The falling.” He turned fully now, looming in the quiet, sunlit room. “The little games. They have consequences.”
“It was an accident,” she whispered, but the protest lacked conviction. Her heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She could see the pulse in his throat, a rapid beat matching her own.
He took a single step closer. The air between them crackled, thick with everything unsaid from the closet. She could see the faint scar above his eyebrow, the dark stubble along his jaw, the flecks of amber in his near-black eyes. He smelled of smoke and clean cotton and something uniquely, dangerously him.
“You shouldn’t play with fire,” he said, his voice so low it was almost inaudible.
The house phone rang, a shrill, old-fashioned sound from the hall. The spell shattered. Leonid blinked, the intensity in his eyes dissolving into a familiar, weary distance. He turned and walked toward the sound, leaving her standing in a puddle of ivory silk.
She heard his low “Yeoboseyo?” from the hallway.
Then, a moment later, his footsteps returning. He appeared in the doorway, his expression once again that of the impassive caretaker. “It’s Rosé. She’s upset. She’s coming over.”
Jennie looked down at her robe, at the spilled fabric. “Why? What happened?”
“She didn’t say.” He assessed her state. “You should get dressed. Properly.”
He left her there, retreating to the kitchen, the sanctuary of his coffee and his cigarettes. Jennie slowly gathered the georgette, her fingers trembling. You shouldn’t play with fire. The words echoed in the hollow room. A strange, hot thrill twisted in her stomach, followed immediately by a chill of shame. She had only wanted his attention. She hadn't meant to start a blaze.
Upstairs, she changed into jeans and a simple top, the mundane fabric a dull armor. She looked at the champagne chemise lying on her closet floor, a shimmering puddle of guilt. She kicked it under a rack of clothes, out of sight.
By the time the doorbell rang again, Leonid was immovable at the kitchen island, a mug in front of him, staring into the black mirror of his coffee.