Sadie's car rattled a little at stoplights, but it was sturdy and faithful—unlike my nerves.
We zipped through Vanguard City traffic with the windows cracked, letting the early sunlight warm the dashboard. Sadie tapped the steering wheel like a drumbeat, cool as ever.
"You ready for this?" she asked, glancing sideways.
"As ready as someone designing a billionaire's fiancée's wedding dress can be without throwing up."
She laughed. "You've got this. Camille loved your initial sketches. You're not just co-designing anymore. This is your dress. Your name. Your thread and needle."
And she was right.
This wasn't just another event. Camille Hathaway had chosen me—a girl from Willows Creek with fabric-stained fingers and secondhand boots—to design the gown she'd wear when she married one of the most powerful men in the world.
This dress wasn't just fabric. It was a promise, a performance, a piece of forever.
The Roseworth Hotel's private lounge was practically a floating cloud—floor-to-ceiling windows, pale marble floors, and blush velvet everything. The whole space smelled like gardenias and rich people's decisions.
Camille stood near the center, sipping from a champagne flute even though it was barely noon. Her assistants buzzed around her like bees in designer heels.
And then she saw us.
"Scarlett!" she beamed. "There's my genius."
I blinked. "You're... glowing."
She did a twirl. "Fake tan and good lighting. Now come. Show me the dress."
I carefully laid out the latest sketch: soft ivory silk, floral appliqué hand-stitched along the bodice, a detachable overskirt with a gentle train and petal-like layers. Romantic, feminine, modern—with just a touch of rebellion.
Camille's eyes widened. "It's perfect. Brian's going to fall over when he sees me in this."
I smiled. "That's the goal."
And then—
The door opened.
And he walked in.
Brian Wexler.
He didn't belong in soft spaces, but somehow, the room adjusted to him anyway.
Dark suit. Sharp lines. Calm energy. Eyes like polished onyx—deep, unreadable, dangerous.
Camille turned with a practiced smile. "Speak of the devil. Look who decided to show up."
Brian's eyes flicked from her to me.
And stayed there.
"You're the designer," he said simply.
"Scarlett Hayes," I managed, trying not to choke on my heartbeat.
His gaze lowered to the sketch in Camille's hand. "That's your design?"
"Yes," I said. "It's still being refined, but—"
"It's bold," he said. "Not what I expected."
"Is that good or bad?"
"I guess we'll find out."
Camille laughed, oblivious to the tension. "You're going to love it, babe. She captured exactly what I wanted—romance, movement, emotion. It's not just a dress. It's a statement."
Brian gave a slow nod. "It's definitely something."
And then—just before he looked away—he added, so quietly I almost missed it:
"It suits you."
The meeting continued with fabric samples, veil options, even a quick fitting using a dress form. Camille was thrilled. The assistants took pictures. The timeline was confirmed.
But I kept feeling his eyes.
Not always directly.
But enough.
When Camille left the room to take a call, he lingered. Alone with me for the first time.
"I looked you up," he said.
"Oh?" I asked, voice tighter than I liked.
"You didn't go to Parsons. No fashion week credits. No celebrity endorsements."
"I don't have any of that," I said honestly. "Just a sketchbook and a lot of long nights."
He studied me for a moment. "Then how did you get her to choose you?"
I met his gaze. "I listened."
And then, without meaning to, I added, "Maybe that's what she needed."
He didn't smile. But something in his face shifted. Just slightly.
"You're interesting, Miss Hayes."
And with that, he turned and walked out.
The party continued downstairs—champagne flowing, laughter echoing through marble hallways, soft music floating between crystal chandeliers. It was a celebration, technically. But to me, it felt like work.
Because that's what I came here for.
To show Camille the dress.
To prove myself.
To keep Sadie's studio alive.
And yet... as I stood on the balcony with a glass of wine in hand, I realized my heart was somewhere else entirely.
The city stretched out in front of me like a living painting. Lights blinked across the skyline like stars trapped in steel. The sound of the world—the taxis, the people, the constant motion—felt distant, like a memory you could still hear in your bones.
I sipped the wine slowly, letting the night settle on my skin. I thought about the way Camille had beamed when she saw the sketch. About the way Sadie winked at me like I'd just saved the entire brand.
But mostly, I thought about him.
About the way Brian Wexler looked at me.
Like I was a puzzle he hadn't decided how to solve yet.
Like I mattered... but shouldn't.
And I didn't notice the figure behind me until I heard his voice—low, smooth, unmistakable.
"You really don't do well with parties, do you, Miss Hayes?"
I turned, startled by the voice, though part of me already knew it was him. Brian stood just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, tie loosened like he'd shed a layer of the boardroom. His eyes, dark and steady, didn't move from mine.
"I needed some air," I said, keeping my voice even.
He nodded once. "They're loud. Surface-level. Everyone's performing something."
I gave a small smile. "You included?"
He didn't hesitate. "Always."
There was something about the way he said it—like every word was laced with hidden meanings, like he was asking unspoken questions I didn't know how to answer.
Every word he mentioned felt like a breadcrumb, and I found myself following without meaning to.
Didn't he expect a countryside girl with no formal fashion education and no real industry background to crumble under the pressure? Didn't he expect me to fold?
Instead, I designed something magnificent. Something beautiful enough to stop his fiancée in her tracks.
Brian Wexler. CEO of Zenthium Crypto. Multi-billionaire. Multiple award-winner. A man who built an empire out of silence and strategy.
My eyes lifted slowly, almost cautiously, until they settled on his.
Why would you care about a mere designer like me?
Someone with no resume worth reading. No legacy. No label.
Why would a man like you even notice a girl like me slipping away from the party you barely wanted to be at in the first place?
I didn't say it aloud.
But I didn't have to.
Because when our eyes met again, I swear, for a heartbeat—he heard it.