Olivia’s POV :
My phone buzzes again in my hand , the screen lighting up the dark loft . Welcome to Voss, Harper. Watch your back. The words stare at me , no name, no number . My fingers tighten around the phone , the plastic creaking . The red thread on Damien’s desk flutters under a fan , catching the light like blood . I shove the phone in my pocket , heart racing. Who sent that? Chloe? Marcus?
I grab my sketches , heels clicking on the concrete floor as I head for the exit . The showroom’s chaos swirls ; models laughing, assistants yelling about lighting. Damien’s voice cuts through from across the room. “Harper! Four o’clock. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” I call back , not turning. My voice sounds braver than I feel .
Outside , the Soho streets hum ; coffee carts steam , delivery bikes weave through traffic . The morning sun glints off glass storefronts , and I hail a cab , the black Amex burning in my pocket . Mood Fabrics, here I come.
The cab drops me at the fabric district, bolts of color stacked high in shop windows. Inside Mood, the air smells of dye and cotton, racks towering like a maze. I weave through, fingers trailing silks and linens, my mind on Veritas. Sustainable, bold ; that’s my brand.
My phone pings ; Sophia. “Girl , where are you? Veritas is blowing up!”
I smile , typing back : Mood. Voss deal. Long story.
She FaceTimes instantly, her face filling the screen, curls wild. “Voss? As in Damien Voss? Spill!”
“Later,” I say, holding up a bolt of organic silk. “He’s giving me a shot. Capsule for tonight.”
Her eyes widen. “Tonight? Liv, you’re insane. Marcus is losing it ; saw him at a brunch, ranting about you.”
My stomach twists. “Let him rant. I’m done.”
“ You’re glowing ,” she says , grinning . “Proud of you. Call me after.”
“Will do.” I hang up, grabbing the silk and a midnight organza that shimmers like a night sky.
A shadow falls over me . Damien stands there , arms crossed, suit jacket gone , white shirt rolled to his elbows . That scar on his forearm catches the light . “That organza,” he says, pointing. “It moves like water. Use it.”
I raise a brow. “Following me now?”
“Checking my investment,” he says, voice low. “You’re on my dime.”
“Your dime, my designs,” I shoot back, tossing the bolt in my cart. “Don’t forget that.”
He smirks . “ Don’t make me regret it , Harper .”
“ You won’t ,” I say , chin up. “Watch me prove it.”
He nods , almost impressed , and vanishes into the crowd . My pulse slows ; he’s intense , but he sees something in me .
By three, I’m back at the loft, arms full of fabric. The showroom’s transformed — runway taped out, lights blazing. Damien’s team swarms, but he’s gone. An assistant, Nora, with a tight bun and sharper attitude, points to a corner. “Your station. Guest wing keys are there. Move in tonight.”
“Tonight?” I ask, dropping my bags. “That’s fast.”
“Damien’s rules,” she says, smirking. “Don’t get comfy. Designers don’t last.”
I ignore her, setting up. The guest wing keys glint ; a sleek card with Voss logo. My new home, for now.
At four sharp, Damien strides in, coffee in hand. “Show me progress.”
I unroll the organza, pinning a half-finished gown on a mannequin. “This is the finale. Flowing, empowering.”
He circles it, eyes critical. “Seams need tightening. Here.” He grabs pins, adjusting fast. His fingers brush mine, sending a jolt.
“Better?” I ask, voice steady.
“Much,” he says, stepping back. “You’re quick.”
“Had to be,” I say. “Married to a man who hated my dreams.”
His eyes flicker. “Don’t bring personal crap here.”
“Hard not to,” I snap . “ It’s why I’m fighting .”
He pauses , then nods . “Fight with fabric, not words. Rehearsal in an hour.”
Models arrive , slipping into my samples. I direct, pinning, tweaking. Damien watches from the sidelines, arms crossed. “Walk it,” he orders a model. She struts , the jumpsuit hugging her curves .
“ Perfect ,” I say , grinning .
He nods. “It’s got edge . Keep it.”
Nora sidles up, whispering to another assistant. “She won’t last a week. Damien chews up dreamers.”
I overhear, my hands pausing on a pin. “Loud enough, Nora?”
She flushes. “Just saying.”
“Say it to my face,” I challenge.
Damien cuts in. “Enough. Focus. Harper, guest wing. Now. Settle in.”
I grab my bags, following a maid, Maria, to a private elevator. “Ignore Nora,” she says softly, her accent warm. “She’s loyal to Damien’s ex.”
“Ex?” I ask, stepping into the elevator.
“Long story,” Maria says, smiling. “You’ll hear it.”
The elevator opens to Damien’s Tribeca penthouse ; matte-black kitchen counters , floor-to-ceiling silk panels in soft gray , city lights twinkling through massive windows . My guest wing is a suite : plush bed, marble bathroom , a small atelier with sewing machines .
“This is… insane,” I say, dropping my suitcase.
“Damien’s world,” Maria says. “Rules over coffee tomorrow. He’s strict.”
“Got it,” I say, unpacking sketches.
My phone buzzes — Sophia FaceTiming again. I answer, propping it on the dresser.
“Liv! Veritas is #2 trending! What’s happening?”
“Voss deal,” I say, pinning fabric. “Capsule tonight. Living here now.”
Her jaw drops. “Here? With him? Girl, be careful.”
“I am,” I say, laughing. “He’s cold, but he gets it.”
“Cold can burn,” she warns. “Marcus is raging…. posted some cryptic thing about ‘fakes.’”
“Let him,” I say, stitching fast. “I’m building something real.”
“You are,” she says, eyes soft. “Call me after the show.”
“Promise.” I hang up, my needle flying.
Damien knocks , leaning in the doorway , coffee mug in hand . “Rules. No personal questions. No social media tags. Deliver the capsule.”
“Got it,” I say, not looking up. “Anything else?”
“Don’t get attached,” he says, voice like ice.
I meet his eyes. “To what? You?”
He smirks. “To anything. This is business.”
“Business,” I echo, pinning harder. “I can do that.”
He lingers, watching me work. “You’re good under pressure.”
“Had to be,” I say. “You try surviving Marcus Warrick.”
“Don’t care about your ex,” he says, but his tone softens a fraction.
“Good,” I say. “Because I’m done with him.”
He nods, leaving. The door clicks shut, and I exhale, my hands steady again.
Midnight hits, the penthouse quiet. I’m in the atelier, stitching the finale gown, when a paper slides under my door. I pick it up—an NDA, thick and legal. My eyes scan to Clause 7: Designer forfeits brand rights if capsule fails.
My heart stops. Damien’s handwriting in the margin: Sign or leave.
I clutch the paper, the organza shimmering under the atelier’s light. The city hums outside, a challenge in its glow.
I whisper to the empty room, “I’m not leaving, Damien. Not ever.”
