Olivia’s POV :
I stare at the scattered diamonds on the marble floor , my bracelet broken like everything else in my life . My fingers shake as I sweep them into a pile , the cold stones clinking against each other .
The penthouse feels too big , too empty , Marcus's words still echoing in my head .
" You'll crash and burn , Harper ."
I whisper to myself, “Not if I rise first.”
My phone buzzes ; Sophia's text again: Voss Luxury event starts at 6 a.m. Get there early. Doors open for designers.
I glance at the clock ; 4 a.m. No sleep for me tonight . I splash water on my face , the mirror showing smeared mascara and puffy eyes .
I pull on a simple black dress , one of my own designs from Veritas , sleek with hidden pockets for sketches . My heels click as I grab my bag and head out , the skyline still dark outside the windows .
The cab drops me at the Voss Luxury pop-up showroom in Soho , a raw concrete loft with massive steel doors .
Paparazzi flashes pop from across the street , their cameras aimed at arriving models . The air smells of fresh coffee and exhaust , and the 6 a.m. call time hums with energy ; trucks unloading racks , assistants shouting orders .
I slip past a security guard , flashing Sophia's press pass she lent me last week .
“ Designer entry ,” I say , my voice steadier than I feel .
He nods , waving me in.
Inside , mirrored walls reflect endless rows of garment bags and lighting rigs . The concrete floor is scuffed from hurried feet , and spotlights cast harsh shadows .
Assistants zip around , one yelling , “Where's the lead ? She bailed ?”
I freeze near a rack , my hands clutching my sketchbook .
This is Damien Voss's domain ; Voss Luxury , the empire of high-end fashion and untouchable glamour .
I spot him across the loft , leaning against a mirrored wall, shirt half-buttoned , dark hair messy from what looks like no sleep . His blue eyes scan the chaos , cologne drifting sharp and woody .
He looks like he owns the air everyone breathes .
An assistant bumps me, spilling pins. “Watch it,” she snaps. “Press or what?”
“Designer,” I say, chin up. “Here to pitch.”
She laughs. “Good luck. Damien's in a mood.”
Damien's voice cuts through. “Team, huddle. Now.”
His tone is frost on glass, commanding without raising volume. Everyone gathers : models in robes , stylists with pins in their mouths.
I edge closer , heart pounding.
He paces , arms crossed . “Our lead designer ghosted. We need a capsule… five looks… for tonight's runway. Who's got ideas?”
Silence.
A stylist mutters, “We can pull from archives.”
Damien shakes his head. “No. Fresh. Or we cancel.”
I step forward, my heels echoing. “I do. Veritas line. Sustainable, bold.”
His eyes lock on me, narrowing. “You. The one from last night? You're late. And overdressed for a nobody crashing my set.”
My cheeks burn , but I meet his gaze . “I'm not a nobody . Olivia Harper . My designs are trending. Check the hashtag.”
He pulls out his phone , scrolls . A flicker crosses his face — surprise ?
“Not bad. But trending doesn't mean ready for Voss.”
“Give me a shot,” I say. “One hour to pitch.”
He steps closer, his cologne stronger. “Why should I? You look desperate. Desperate people complicate things.”
“Because I'm good,” I snap. “And you need good right now.”
The team murmurs. A model whispers, “She's got nerve.”
Damien smirks, but his eyes spark. “Fine. One hour. Impress me or disappear.”
I nod, hands steadying. “Where do I set up?”
He points to a corner table, butcher paper and markers waiting. “There. Clock starts now.”
I unroll my sketches , pencils flying . The loft buzzes ; models practice walks , mirrors reflecting their long limbs . Damien watches from afar , sipping black coffee , his shirt now buttoned but sleeves rolled , showing a faint scar on his forearm.
Thirty minutes in , he strolls over . “Let's see.”
I push a sketch forward : a gown with flowing organza , sustainable silk. “This moves like water on the runway. Empowering cut.”
He grabs a marker, tears the edge, redraws a seam. “Here. Sharper. It flows, but it needs edge.”
I stare : the change works, making the silhouette bolder. “That's... better.”
“Don't sound surprised,” he says, voice low. “I don't just model. I build empires.”
“Why me?” I ask, meeting his eyes. “You could call anyone.”
He leans in, breath warm. “You look like you have nothing to lose. That's rare. And dangerous.”
My pulse quickens. “Dangerous how?”
“People like you get attached,” he says, straightening. “Don't.”
I laugh, sharp. “Attached? To you? Dream on.”
The team chuckles. Damien's lips twitch. “Pitch the full capsule.”
I lay out five looks : gown, jumpsuit, coat, dress, top. “Sustainable fabrics , bold lines. Veritas means truth…. no fakes.”
He nods, slow. “It's got potential. But we test it.”
“Test how?” I ask.
“Mini-runway. Now.” He calls a model over. “Suit up in the sample.”
I direct her into the jumpsuit, pinning it fast. She walks the makeshift runway ; mirrors multiplying her strides.
Damien joins, modeling the coat over his shirt. His steps are confident, the fabric draping perfect.
“See?” I say. “It moves with power.”
He stops, eyes on me. “It does. Contract time.”
I cross my arms. “Terms?”
“Design the capsule. Live in my guest wing… safer than crashing hotels. Exposure to my five million followers. Pay covers your... whatever mess you're in.”
My throat tightens ; how does he know? “Why the guest wing?”
“Control,” he says. “I don't trust from afar.”
“And if I say no?” I ask.
“You walk. But Veritas stays unknown.”
I hesitate, Marcus's words flashing: crash and burn.
“Deal.”
“Good,” he says, tossing me a black Amex. “Buy fabric. Be back by four. Don't make me regret this, Harper.”
I grip the card, fingers cold. “I won't.”
He turns away, but pauses. “One more rule : No personal drama. Keep it professional.”
“Like you?” I say.
His eyes flash. “Exactly.”
As he walks off, a single red thread flutters from my sketch, landing on his desk. Chloe's signature color ; did she leave it?
The loft spins with activity , but my mind races.
What have I gotten into?
My phone buzzes — an unknown number: Welcome to Voss, Harper. Watch your back .
