Designing Emma (Volume 1)

by Clarissa Carlyle

  Designing Emma

  Volume 1

  Dressing to Impress

  Clarissa Carlyle

  Copyright 2014 by Clarissa Carlyle (http://clarissacarlyle.blogspot.com). All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons either living or dead, as well as any events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, any means of reproduction, either electronic or physical, of any part of this book, without written permission is unlawful piracy and deemed a theft of the author's intellectual property. You may use the material from this book for review purposes only. Any other use requires written permission from the author or publisher.

  Also by Clarissa Carlyle

  Designing Emma

  Designing Emma (Volume 1)

  Designing Emma (Volume 2)

  Designing Emma (Volume 3)

  Designing Emma (Volume 4)

  Designing Emma (Volume 5)

  Designing Emma (Volume 6)

  Designing Emma Boxed Set Bundle (Includes all 6 Volumes in the Designing Emma Series)

  Designing Emma Boxed Set (Includes all 6 Volumes in the Designing Emma Series)

  Entertainment with Jem

  Jemma 1

  Jemma 2

  Jemma 3

  Jemma 4

  Jemma 5

  Jemma Boxed Set (Includes all 5 books in the Entertainment with Jem New Adult Romance Series)

  Jemma Boxed Set Bundle

  Lessons in Love

  Lessons in Love

  Letters of Love

  Living with Love

  Lessons in Love Boxed Set

  Lessons in Love Boxed Set Bundle

  Managed

  Managed 1: A Rock Star Romance

  Managed 2: A Rock Star Romance

  Managed 3: A Rock Star Romance

  Managed 4: A Rock Star Romance

  Managed: A Rock Star Romance, Boxed Set (Includes All 4 Books in the Managed Series)

  The Playgirls

  The Playgirls 1: Catch and Release

  The Playgirls 2: Growing Up

  The Playgirls 3: The Big Leagues

  The Playgirls Boxed Set

  The Playgirls Boxed Set Bundle

  Standalone

  Just Like Heaven

  Hollywood Heartthrob

  Fresh Beginnings: Michael and Delaney

  The Day the Siren Stopped

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Clarissa Carlyle

  Dressing to Impress

  Author Info

  Clarissa Carlyle’s Books

  Sign up for Clarissa Carlyle's Mailing List

  Also By Clarissa Carlyle

  Dressing to Impress

  THE AISLES IN THE STORE were uncomfortably narrow, so it was a task in itself to get around without crashing into someone, or worse. Stacked precariously high, the produce waited for that fateful moment for someone to accidently catch the bottom corner and, like a giant game of Jenga, it would cascade down.

  Emma smiled politely at an old woman testing the firmness of the watermelons in the grocery store as she carefully maneuvered her shopping cart past her.

  None of Emma’s friends shopped there. She never ran the risk of bumping into someone she knew when she was picking up the weekly groceries for her and her father. Emma’s friends wouldn’t be caught dead in the cheap, yet cheerful store located on the outskirts of town within a retail park. They preferred to shop at the organic stores, selecting free-range chicken and fresh, farm-grown fruit.

  If someone really scrutinized her, then they’d see that her clothes had been sewn back together more than once, and that any designer item she owned was from a long-forgotten line, having been purchased from a thrift store. But no one got close enough to check her over like that; she wouldn’t let them. Life had been hard for Emma Delacourt, and in turn, she had hardened herself to endure it, her skin becoming more like steel than soft, palpable flesh. Emma couldn’t afford such luxuries, not that anyone knew that. She did a faultless job of existing among the elite while toeing the bread line.

  “I always get those when they’re on sale,” a kind-faced woman said as Emma forced the cart past her, and she cast her eyes downward at its contents. She was referring to a brand of cereal that Emma’s father particularly favored.

  “Yeah, it’s three for two this week.” Emma smiled. She enjoyed saving money. Each dollar she saved was a dollar farther away from bankruptcy, or so she told herself.

  Closing her eyes for a brief moment, Emma pushed thoughts of her father’s gambling habits out of her mind. She wouldn’t let his demons ruin her shopping trip, which she actually rather liked. For just a moment, she could stop pretending to be rich and wander the store without a care in the world. Here, people applauded her thrifty nature. Within the circles she had grown up in, people would scorn her for such actions, accusing her of being cheap or, worse, poor.

  “My children love it.” The woman smiled, still referring to the cereal. Emma smiled back, not doubting that the lady’s children loved it; after all, it was covered in sugar. Yet she wasn’t purchasing it for a child, she was buying it for her father, and in some ways there wasn’t much difference between the two.

  With her cart containing all the items on her carefully planned-out list, Emma headed towards the checkout counter, aware as always that she only had forty dollars in her pocket. She’d counted and then recounted all the items twice, certain that she’d have enough money.

  Sighing inwardly, she placed the items on the belt. She hated worrying about money. She kept telling herself that it wouldn’t be for much longer. Once the new business she was starting took off, she’d have money of her own, decent money; then her father could continue to squander off the pittance that remained of his inheritance, and it would no longer be her problem. She’d be free.

  WITH A TRUNK FULL OF paper bags, Emma started home. Her total had thankfully come in at thirty-eight dollars, which had left her in high spirits. She pressed on the gas and headed out of the parking lot.

  It was another thirty-minute drive outside of town to the estate where she and her father lived, previously belonging to her grandfather. The house was grand and boasted over a dozen bedrooms, a pool, a cinema and a sauna.

  The Delacourts had struck it big during the gold rush, meaning that Emma came from old money. As a child, she attended a prestigious private school, owned several ponies, and regularly went skiing in Aspen. Her life was privileged and perfect. Whenever she thought back on her pre-adolescent years, she felt only happiness. But that had all changed when her mother became sick.

  The cancer was swift and fierce. Within twelve months, she had left them, and beneath a clear blue sky, a thirteen-year-old Emma had to watch her mother be committed to the ground. So much changed that day, most of all her father. Losing his wife hit him hard. He quit his job and became a recluse, existing in the far reaches of the mansion, refusing to be disturbed. He ignored Emma for many years, as to him she served as a painful reminder for what he had lost.

  Emma’s father only emerged from his seclusion to gamble. It originally started small, a couple of poker games here and there, but it soon gathered momentum and got out of hand. Gambling offered him an escape from his tortured feelings, but it became an obsession. S
oon he was mounting up debts that even his trust fund inheritance couldn’t handle. As much as Emma wanted to resent her father for squandering away the family fortune, she couldn’t help but pity him. She too knew the pain of losing Miranda Delacourt. She had been a beacon in both of their lives, and without her, their world had plunged into darkness.

  EVERY TIME EMMA NAVIGATED the car into the driveway of her home, she sighed deeply and blinked back tears. The great metal gates parted to allow her entry as she drove off the street and into the estate. From the road, the house looked as magnificent as it always had. Grand, opulent stone walls and countless windows greeted her. Only after passing through the gates could one see the building up close, and those faults became painfully apparent.

  Cracked bricks, windows covered in grime, shutters hanging from their hinges, and wild ivy climbed up the walls, slowly taking over the building. A house neglected and in disrepair and a house which Emma and her father were deeply in debt to. Due to his excessive gambling, he had re-mortgaged the house. Now they owed more on it than they had, chances were they’d never again own the property outright again.

  Killing the engine, Emma exited the car and retrieved her groceries. A time ago, they had employed butlers and cleaners who would have helped her, but like so many possessions, they were long gone. Now the only people left in the house were Emma and her father, which made it feel even more empty and cavernous having just the pair of them wandering around. It all felt so tragic, so sad.

  “Not today,” Emma told herself, juggling the bags in her arms and refusing to get upset. Crying didn’t do her any good. It wouldn’t bring her mother back, and it certainly wouldn’t help her reclaim her family home. Instead of losing herself to grief, Emma ploughed her energy into her work, namely her designs.

  Emma designed clothing. She studied textile design at college and planned on opening her own store one day and developing an entire line of Designs by Delacourt. She created sumptuous dresses, effortlessly elegant with a nod to the bygone era when her family had experienced their heyday. With the support of her two closest friends, Damion and Daniel, Emma hoped to make her design dreams a reality. While she had the talent to create, they both had the business savvy to help get her vision off the ground and into stores. She would be lost without their guidance, not just with the clothing range. Damion and Daniel had stood by Emma since her mother died when they were all in prep school together. They didn’t look down on her when she lost her fortune, nor did they pity her. They just supported her, as best friends should.

  “Hey, you’re back,” a hoarse voice croaked from the top of the marble staircase leading to the grand front doors.

  Emma glanced up, peering over the paper bags to see her father swaying slightly on the spot as if he could hear music. He was clearly drunk.

  At three in the afternoon, to add insult to his swaggering state, her father still wore his pajamas, not so modestly concealed by a housecoat. Emma wagered that he’d got up not long ago.

  “Dad, you’re not dressed,” she cried, alarmed. “Get back inside.”

  “Why?” Sebastian Delacourt asked dramatically, his speech slurred.

  “Dad,” Emma snapped. “People might see you.”

  “Let them schee.” Sebastian extended his arms, presenting himself to any prying eyes. Emma rolled hers and pursed her lips. This was typical behavior for her father.

  “Get inside, now,” she said.

  “I wanted some fresch air.” Sebastian hiccupped.

  “Inside.” Emma joined him at the top of the stairs and began nudging him back inside with her bags.

  “I’m going, I’m going.” He tossed his hands up in defeat and shuffled his slippers back inside the house, almost slipping on the marble floor in the hallway.

  “God, Dad.” Emma sighed, finally putting the bags down briefly on the floor. She still had quite a way to go to get to the kitchen at the back of the house. “Why do you always have to try to make such a scene? Someone could have seen you.”

  “You shouldn’t care so much about what others think,” her father noted, wise in his intoxicated state.

  “One of us has to care,” Emma said.

  “You need to let go,” her father advised.

  “What, like you?” Emma’s eyes narrowed on him. “If we both let go, we’d be living on the streets.”

  Her father shrugged nonchalantly and sauntered off. He paused and turned to face his daughter.

  “You shouldn’t care what people schay,” he told her, swaying.

  “I should, Dad,” she corrected him.

  “Why?” he answered with his hands on his hips.

  “Because our name is all we’ve got left. If I can’t at least trade on that, I’ll be ruined.”

  Sebastian Delacourt walked off, lamenting to the ceiling as he did so: “What’s in a name?”

  Emma watched him leave, annoyed by his drunken behavior. The gambling she could keep secret, but the excessive drinking was harder to conceal.

  In her pocket, her cell phone chirped, breaking her train of thought. Retrieving it, she looked down and grinned, the tension holding her shoulders in a vice releasing its grip. Daniel Richmond was calling. Daniel, one of her oldest and dearest friends and soon to be business partner.

  She watched his name flash on the screen for a few moments, grateful that despite everything, she wasn’t truly alone. She had someone who cared about her.

  “I NEED THOSE PAPERS on my desk by Monday,” Robert Flores said in a stern voice, eyeing the young man standing before his office desk with disdain.

  “Not a problem,” the young man replied wearily, leaning against the desk in the office.

  “You need to improve your attitude, Damion,” Robert warned.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your position here at the company is already precarious.”

  “I’m aware of that, sir.”

  “Good.” Robert nodded to himself as Damion shifted awkwardly on the hardwood floor of the grand office, eager to be dismissed.

  “Papers, Monday, don’t forget.”

  “I won’t,” Damion confirmed, turning on his heel and exiting the room as fast as he could. He pulled open the solid oak door and almost ran down the hallway, back to his own cubicle in the general office area.

  Sighing, he took a moment to loosen his purple tie and run his hand through his hair. Glancing at the digital clock on his desk, it read half past four on a Friday. Getting those papers completed by Monday would mean working all weekend. Again. This wasn’t the life he had envisioned for himself.

  Pulling open a drawer, he searched for a pen and spotted the nameplate he kept concealed away. The company emblazoned his name onto the cheap piece of plastic along with their logo in the far right corner. Employees were supposed to display their nameplates on their desks, but Damion knew it would be to his detriment to do so.

  While the drawer was open, he eyed the nameplate. It boasted his full name: Damion Robert Flores. Scoffing aloud, he retrieved a pen and, with great force, slammed the drawer shut.

  “You’ve got to earn your place here,” his father had told him when Damion finally qualified as a junior lawyer and joined the family firm.

  “That’s fine.” Damion had grinned, full of optimism. He’d spent years working just to become a junior lawyer and to work alongside his father; now the wondrous moment was upon him. Now his father would finally notice him and see him as an equal rather than a mistake he’d made over two decades ago.

  The company was called Flores and Son. The original son had been Robert, but since his own father’s passing, he had ascended to the main Flores of the name, and so Damion was due to inherit the and son aspect of the company. When he had been first shown to his modest cubicle on his first day, his hopes for sitting alongside his father within the company had immediately sank.

  “I can’t be seen giving you preferential treatment,” Robert had explained when Damion asked why he didn’t have an office of his own. I refus
e to be accused of nepotism.”

  Damion bit his tongue, desperate to point out that it was nepotism that had earned Robert his place at the head of the company in the first place.

  Begrudgingly, Damion accepted his entry-level position and worked hard to earn his father’s respect, but no matter how many weekends he sacrificed or evenings he stayed late, nothing seemed to impress Robert Flores.

  Damion graduated top of his class from Harvard School of Law. He could have gone to work for any number of prestigious law firms, but instead he opted to work with his father. Flores and Son was a respectable company, but they weren’t one of the biggest or the best. But Damion felt a sense of duty, a sense of family, which bound him to Robert and the company.

  Several years had passed since then, but Damion still remained in a cubicle; his talent and tenacity long ignored. Few people even knew that he was Robert’s son. When asked about his surname, he’d often lie and say it was merely a coincidence. And in all honesty, he felt more like an employee than a son, so he wondered just how much of his omission actually was a lie?

  THE PHONE ON DAMION’S desk rang, demanding his attention. He took a moment before answering it, certain it would be his father reminding him yet again about the urgency of the papers he required.

  “Damion,” he said gruffly.

  “Hey, man, it’s me,” the familiar voice of Daniel Richmond came through the receiver, and Damion sighed deeply.

  “Hey, Daniel.” Damion leaned back in his swivel chair, letting the faux leather bend and take the brunt of his weight.

  “I just wanted to check we were still on for tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow night?” Damion glanced at the calendar tacked up inside his cubicle and groaned.

  “Damn, I totally forgot. I don’t think I can make it.”

  “You working again?” Daniel sounded concerned.

  “Of course. I work like a dog here.”