He stepped back.
Looked at my face.
Then frowned.
"You look tired."
I laughed.
"Thanks, Dad."
He smiled.
"Beautiful. But tired."
I shook my head.
Then reached for his bag.
He pulled it away.
"I can carry my own luggage."
I laughed again.
"Of course you can."
We went upstairs.
He examined the office with open curiosity.
The high windows.
The design boards.
The fabric library.
The worktables.
The framed photographs from earlier collections.
For several minutes, he said almost nothing.
Then he stopped beside a large photograph of a model wearing one of my evening gowns.
He studied it.
"That's yours?"
I smiled.
"Yes."
He looked toward another photograph.
"And that?"
"Mine too."
He continued down the wall.
I watched him.
For a moment, I remembered showing him sketches on the kitchen table, asking whether he thought they were good enough for a design competition.
Now my garments were being photographed around the world.
But my father's reaction hadn't changed.
He still examined the construction.
The seams.
The proportions.
The way fabric moved.
He stopped beside a photograph of the pale-yellow gown I'd worn at the gala.
For several seconds, he stared.
Then he looked toward me.
"That's the one?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
His expression softened.
"You drew something like that years ago."
I felt my throat tighten.
"You remember?"
He gave me a look.
"Sweetheart, I remember watching you sew half that dress in our dining room."
I laughed softly.
Then he asked, "Where is it?"
I looked toward the garment rack.
"It's there."
He approached.
Carefully lifted part of the gown.
Examined the stitching.
Then looked toward my forearm.
The marks from the manager's grip had almost disappeared.
But he remembered them from the video.
His jaw tightened.
For a moment, I thought he might become angry again.
Instead, he took a slow breath.
"May I look at the dress?"
I nodded.
"Of course."
He examined the side seams and interior construction.