Olivia’s POV
I stand in the atelier, the NDA trembling in my hand. Clause 7 glares back: Designer forfeits brand rights if capsule fails. Damien’s handwriting in the margin—Sign or leave—cuts like a blade.
The midnight organza shimmers under the atelier’s soft lights , the penthouse silent except for the city’s hum through the massive windows . My fingers tighten on the paper , crinkling it.
I whisper to the empty room , “ I’m not leaving , Damien . Not ever.”
I grab a pen , my hand steady despite the knot in my chest . I sign : Olivia Harper , bold and clear. No way I’m losing Veritas.
I slide the NDA back under the door, the paper scraping the hardwood. Sleep’s not happening tonight . I stitch until 3 a.m. , the finale gown taking shape , its organza flowing like a dark river .
My phone buzzes ; Sophia texting : Show’s at 8 p.m . Rooftop . Veritas still #2 . You got this.
I smile, typing back: Signed my life away. See you there.
By dawn, I’m in the showroom loft, the concrete floor cold under my heels. The space is chaos—racks of my capsule, five looks pinned and perfect.
Assistants dart , coffee cups steaming , mirrors reflecting the frenzy . Nora , Damien’s snarky assistant , glares as I adjust a jumpsuit on a mannequin .
“You’re still here,” she says. “Bold.”
“Get used to it,” I say, pinning a seam. “These are going out tonight.”
She smirks. “Hope they’re worth the hype.”
Damien strides in, black coffee in hand, suit sharp. “Harper. Walk me through it.”
I gesture to the rack. “Five looks. Jumpsuit for power, gown for drama, coat for edge. All sustainable.”
He circles the gown, fingers brushing the organza. “This one’s the star. Finale?”
“Exactly,” I say, chin up. “It’ll stop hearts.”
His eyes flicker, a spark. “Better. Rehearsal in an hour. Don’t screw it.”
“I don’t screw up,” I say. “Watch me.”
He nods, almost smiling. “We’ll see.”
Models arrive, slipping into my designs. I direct, pinning, tweaking. “Stride like you own it,” I tell a model in the jumpsuit.
She walks the taped runway, mirrors multiplying her confidence. Damien watches, arms crossed. “Good,” he says. “But the coat needs more swing.”
I adjust it, fabric draping better. “Like this?”
“Perfect,” he says, voice low. “You listen.”
“Only when it’s smart,” I shoot back.
He chuckles , rare and brief . “ Keep it up , Harper .”
By noon , we’re at the rooftop venue : Voss Luxury’s crown jewel , a Tribeca skyscraper with a glass-edged runway . The city sparkles below , lights twinkling like a challenge .
Drone cameras hover , influencers live-streaming to thousands . The air smells of champagne and hairspray , the skyline a backdrop of steel and glass .
I’m backstage , a curtained chaos of garment bags and makeup brushes . My hands shake as I check the finale gown .
Sophia bursts in , curls bouncing , phone in hand . “ Liv ! This is insane ! Veritas is trending #1!”
I hug her, heart racing. “You’re here!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she says, eyes bright. “Marcus is somewhere in the crowd, fuming.”
“Let him fume,” I say, pinning a model’s hem. “This is my night.”
Damien appears, adjusting his cufflinks. “Harper. Line-up check.”
I run through it: “Jumpsuit, dress, top, coat, gown.”
He nods. “I’m walking the finale. Make it count.”
“You in my gown?” I ask, smirking.
“You want the spotlight or not?” he says, eyes locked on mine.
“I do,” I say, pulse jumping.
“Good,” he says, turning. “Don’t choke.”
The show starts at eight, the rooftop pulsing with strobes and bass. Influencers snap photos, their screens glowing.
I stand backstage, heart hammering. The first model struts—jumpsuit sleek, crowd gasping. Phones flash, #VeritasVibes exploding.
“Look at that!” Sophia whispers, squeezing my arm. “They love it!”
I grin, but then Chloe Beaumont pushes through the curtain, scarlet dress tight, blonde highlights gleaming.
“Cute little hobby, Olivia,” she sneers, voice loud enough for nearby models to hear.
My fists clench. “Get out, Chloe. This isn’t your stage.”
She laughs, stepping closer. “You think you’re a designer now? Those looks scream my spring line.”
“Back off,” I snap , voice low . “ You don’t scare me .”
Damien’s there in a flash , stepping between us , his presence like a wall . “ Touch her designs , you’re out ,” he says, voice lethal. “Leave. Now.”
Chloe’s eyes widen. “You’re defending her?”
“Business,” he says, cold. “Move.”
She huffs, storming off. The models whisper, but I focus, directing the next look. The dress glides out, crowd cheering.
Sophia leans in . “ She’s rattled . Good .”
“ Damn right ,” I say , grinning.
The coat struts next, then the top — each look sharper, bolder. Veritas owns the night.
Then it’s the finale. Damien steps out in the gown, tailored for his frame, organza flowing like liquid night. The crowd roars, drones zooming in.
Our eyes lock under the strobes, his stride powerful, my design alive.
Backstage, the crowd’s still cheering. Sophia hugs me. “You did it, Liv!”
Press swarms, microphones thrusting. “Who is Veritas?” a reporter shouts.
I freeze, throat tight. Damien grabs my arm, pulling me into a service elevator. The doors close, mirrors reflecting us inches apart.
“Say nothing,” he says, voice low. “Not yet.”
My breath catches, his cologne filling the small space. “Why protect me?”
“Business,” he says, but his eyes soften. “And you’re good.”
“Good?” I say, stepping closer. “That’s all?”
His jaw tightens, hand brushing my waist. “Don’t push it, Harper.”
The air crackles, his lips inches from mine. My heart pounds ; then the doors ding open, assistants flooding in.
We pull apart, the moment gone. Nora hands Damien a folder, smirking. “Legal just arrived. For you, Harper.”
I open it : a cease-and-desist from Marcus’s lawyer: Veritas infringes CB Designs.
