Fashion Forward
"Designer Aisha creates modest fashion that conquers runways. When buyer James seeks exclusive pieces for Harrods, business negotiations turn personal. 'Al azya' huwiyya' (الأزياء هوية) - Fashion is identity."
"My designs aren't available for mass production."
James Crawford set down his coffee. "Harrods isn't mass production. It's prestige."
"Prestige that would dilute my brand." Aisha Al-Rashid crossed her arms. "Next proposal."
He wasn't used to rejection. Senior buyer for London's iconic store, he'd negotiated deals with designers worldwide. None had simply said no.
"What would change your mind?"
"Understanding what you're buying." She stood. "Not fabric. Identity."
James was fifty-five, divorced, married to work like most in his industry. Aisha was forty-seven, single by choice, her designs her legacy.
"Show me," he requested. "What I don't understand."
Days became weeks of education. Aisha taught him about modest fashion—not restriction but expression, not limitation but liberation.
"Al azya' huwiyya," she explained. Fashion is identity.
"My buyers don't understand that."
"Then teach them." She met his eyes. "Like I'm teaching you."
"You're passionate about this," he observed.
"You're not?"
"I was." He looked at decades of acquisitions. "Somewhere I forgot why."
"Then remember."
"Why do you care if I remember?" he asked.
"Because you could be useful." She smiled slightly. "If properly motivated."
"What would motivate me?"
"That's what I'm determining."
The first kiss happened in her studio—mannequins watching, fabric bolts witness.
"This complicates negotiations," Aisha admitted.
"This IS negotiation." He kissed her again. "Different terms."
They made love among her designs—careful of delicate materials, careless of propriety.
"You're stunning," James breathed.
"I'm a designer. I know what flatters."
"This isn't flattery." He traced her curves. "This is appreciation."
His mouth explored her like assessing luxury goods—quality evident, value immeasurable. When he reached her center, Aisha gripped silk that cost thousands.
"Aktar," she gasped. "James, aktar!"
"Understanding the product."
"Don't call me product."
"The experience."
She came surrounded by her creations, pleasure stitched through her. James rose, grinning.
"Worth every investment."
"We haven't discussed terms yet."
"These terms." He gestured between them. "Worth it."
He filled her with a groan, both moving in rhythm her designs aspired to capture.
"Inti fanni," he tried carefully. You're art.
"Your Arabic is terrible." She gasped. "Don't stop."
They moved together like fashion show finale—building tension, dramatic reveal, satisfying conclusion.
"I'm close," he warned.
"Sawa." She pulled him deeper. "Ma'aya."
They crested together, pleasure striking like perfect garment finding perfect wearer. James held her as breathing steadied.
"The Harrods deal," he said.
"What about it?"
"I have a better proposal." He kissed her forehead. "Partnership. Not acquisition."
"Business partnership?"
"Every kind." He smiled. "If you'll have me."
Their collaboration launched modest fashion into mainstream luxury—Aisha's vision, James's connections, their combined credibility.
"How did you convince her?" journalists asked.
"I learned what fashion actually means," James answered.
"He learned what I mean," Aisha corrected.
Their wedding featured her designs exclusively—guests wearing identity, celebrating expression.
"Al azya' huwiyya," she repeated in her vows.
"And yours," James added, "became mine."
Some partnerships, they'd learned, couldn't be negotiated. They could only be discovered—when buyer and designer realized what they were truly seeking wasn't on any rack.