The Carrero Heart - Beginning (Friends to Lovers)

I throw the fabric across the room at the back of Olivia’s head and try not to completely self-combust at the little bitch who has been goading me all day. I’ve had enough with all this shit lately. She spins in shock as it hits her and glares at me as though she hates me, which she probably does… She is one of the ringleaders in this class and is forever pulling me up and singling me out.

“You are so going to burn for that.” She sneers at me and takes off in the direction of our lecturer Claude in the far corner. I just glare after her, unphased by this constant barrage of snide bullying from my own personal mean girls. I have learned to stand my ground and ignore them for the most part.

Arry has only been gone four days and I am counting every second until he gets back. The stress of this show is killing me as I’m doing everything alone. Everyone else paired up and helped each other out, but I have had non-stop obstructions and bitchy girls trying to sabotage my attempts at success. I had to take all my designs home two days ago to protect them after I found dye had been ‘accidently’ spilled down a couture dress that took me four weeks to sew. I now have to try to either hide it, cut it out and patch it, or start over. I do not have time and have a really deep gut feeling on who was responsible.

I glance down at the table in front of me, water all over my papers and ink running across my sketches where Olivia knocked over my jar of water I was using with my paints. I know it wasn’t accidental, they never come near me unless it’s doing something juvenile or to spy on what I am working on. There is no end to the immature behavior in this class and I for one will be glad of the end of term, to get the hell out of it for a while.

“Sophie, can I have a word Cheri?” The heavily accented male voice drags my eyes up from the mess and I spot my tutor standing at the other side of the narrow table. He is one of the schools most respected designers and has a real foot in the fashion world. He has worked for some big brand names as chief designers, before coming to instruct upcoming students in this world-renowned school. He has a name that I had even heard of before coming here and he still intimidates me a lot. I look up to him and his expertise in terms of talent.

“Yes, Mr Trevaunt.” I don’t even try to look innocent. I’m pretty sure Olivia was quick to tell him I threw a roll of fabric on a card tube at her head. I’m not one to lie my way out of something I’ve done, and I won’t be phased by a scalding on inappropriate behavior when I am surrounded by girls with a combined mental age of five. I stand my ground and wait for it.

“Sophie, ma Cheri, you are one of my most outstanding students, non?” He nods at me and I nod back, always so confused with this way of answering a question negatively when meaning yes. The French are still a mystery to me. Claude is one of the tutors I don’t interact with much as he has always given me a really cringe vibe. He also seems a little inappropriately cozy with one of my biggest haters in the class, Vivien. Olivia’s sidekick in crime.

“I guess.” I watch the cold grey eyes, homed in on my face. Claude is not really an ugly man, maybe around mid-forties. He has full fair hair that is greying at the temples slightly and a masculine sort of rugged face and physique, but there is something about him that just unnerves me. He has never said or done anything to spook me out, but he just has that vibe. That predator or creepy underlying aura that I seem to be able to sniff out in men. Which is weird, I guess, as most of the men in this school are gay. Although I don’t get that vibe from him either. Claude definitely does not seem gay at all and Vivien’s moon eyes at him daily do not go unnoticed.

“Is it not better to get along with your classmates and not make waves while under the care of this school?” He narrows his brows at me, and I frown straight back, part in trying to decipher his words from his heavy accent and partly because it’s always down to me when my ‘classmates’ are being dicks.

My fault they hate me, obviously.

for me, every day. I try so hard to not react.”

in his eye as his gaze run over my face and down my dress with

he is definitely not gay

real favoritism towards me. He never really interacts

assault from out of nowhere. Instantly uneasy and nervy and try to

after giving this to me, to connect us in some way and it still warms me to my core at how sweet he can be. A bond, he said, another really soppy Arry moment, but I

His eyes move to my face and I move back further out of arms reach. Stomach turning itself in knots at the way he seems to be dissecting me and I wonder

fine my classic Audrey Hepburn styled black dress and low-heeled black shoes are pretty much a normal Paris look, even teamed with my little baby pink cardigan and belt. He can’t really

my way and whispering to one another. Faces twisted and glaring, probably wondering

lot to do still for the show.” I subtly hint at him to leave and try to avoid the penetrative gaze as he watches me do so, suddenly feeling more uncomfortable with how much this dress allows you to look down into the neckline when I bend over. I catch both his eyes settled there so I stand up taller, so he no longer has a view down my dress; straightening it with a smile and it seems to bring

high hopes for you, I look forward to seeing what you put out on the runway, ma Cheri. I’ve been waiting for your unveiling moment.” He winks at me, creepily, before turning slowly and wandering back off towards the others, waving a dampening hand in their direction and barking something in harsh French that turns a few of their faces red. I have no idea what he just yelled at them, not that I care. I catch a couple of glances my way before they scatter and bury themselves in their own work, although Vivien’s unconcealed hatred aimed at me from her corner does

going on

***

home I kick my shoes off across the hall and throw down my jacket and bag in another rage. I seem to come home feeling this way every single day now. My front door meets a daily temper tantrum and my blood pressure hasn’t been normal in

‘mean girls’ managed to rile me up at every opportunity and then one of them fell over my mannequin, hauling my pinned dress with her and ripped it off the stand. A whole day’s work wasted on adjusting a finished piece and a whole week of finishing the god damn thing. I feel like giving up. I so wanted to punch her in the face and stomp on her head, but I kept

practically my mantra, fifty times