Chapter 9

There was no other way to describe it.

From the moment Alexander Millers said yes—yes, she could design something for him—something inside her snapped loose and came alive. Like a thousand sparks igniting at once, blazing a fire so raw and consuming she could barely breathe.

This wasn't inspiration.

It wasn't even excitement.

It was compulsion.

She barely made it through the rest of dinner. Her body was present, yes—nodding, chewing, swallowing—but her mind was gone. It hovered somewhere far above the room, sketching possibilities in the air with invisible ink. Her fingers twitched around her wine glass as though desperate for a pencil. Her gaze kept drifting—not to him, no—but to the way his shirt curved around his collarbone, the way the light kissed the edge of his jaw. Shapes. Angles. Contours. She wasn't admiring his body, no—she was measuring it. Mentally mapping the earring to fit like it had always belonged there.

By the time she got home, she didn't even kick off her shoes. She didn't take off her coat or wash the faint shimmer of powder from her face. She went straight to her workstation like a woman haunted.

Paper. Pencil. Design.

Her hands moved fast, frantic. Lines turned to curves, curves to shapes, shapes to meaning. She muttered under her breath, not even registering the words. Ideas struck her like lightning bolts—so loud, so urgent, she could barely keep up.

What stone? What shape? What would suit a man like him?

She didn't have to think. Her gut answered first: black diamonds. Sleek, commanding, unapologetically male. Not loud, not traditional—but potent. They gleamed with quiet danger, like shadows wielding a blade.

One stone. Not oversized, not gaudy—but undeniable. Something you couldn't ignore once you noticed it.

Beneath it—obsidian. Polished. Carved. Ancient. A dark mirror to his presence. Sharp but elegant, like a blade veiled in silk. It would carry a shape with meaning, but only one she knew. A secret coded in curves. Not something he would ever ask about—but she would always know it was there, pressed against his skin.

And the metal? Not gold. Too warm. Not silver. Too common.

Platinum. Cold, clean, eternal. A metal that whispered power. A quiet god of materials. Platinum didn't need to shine. It simply was.

She could see it now—the piece, the weight, the feel. It wouldn't dangle. It wouldn't shimmer. It would curve. Like it belonged to him. Like it had grown from him. A quiet crown for a man who wore none, but ruled all the same.

She imagined it hugging the shell of his ear, the platinum trailing like a second skin, the black diamond resting near the lobe, and the obsidian detail tucked just under—close enough to touch flesh.

Her art. On him.

She pressed the tip of her pencil harder, dragging lines with almost violent precision. The thought struck deeper than it should. Not just the idea of him wearing her design, but the idea of him carrying her with him.

A part of her. Etched into his skin.

She didn't sleep. Not that night. Not really.

And over the next few weeks, it only got worse.

She worked obsessively. Not because of a deadline—there was none—but because she needed to finish it. It clawed at her insides. She thought about it constantly. She dreamed about metal melting between her fingers, diamonds slipping from her mouth like words she couldn't say. She would wake up with images burned into her eyelids and scramble for the nearest notebook, terrified of losing the idea before it bled away.

During meals, she drew on napkins. During walks, she recorded voice notes. At stoplights, she traced design variations on her thigh. While her sister talked, she was barely listening—her mind already plotting the curve of the platinum band.

Alina noticed.

Of course she did.

And she never shut up about it.

"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," Alina said one night, watching Gie sketch between distracted bites of pasta. "You're designing jewelry like it's a love letter. Babe, you're spiraling."

Gie didn't even glance up. "It's not a love letter. It's a design."

"It's obsession," Alina muttered. "You look like you're possessed. Like this thing is some kind of... religious experience."

Gie's pencil froze.

She blinked.

Then continued sketching.

"I love my work," she said quietly. "That's all."

Alina leaned forward, eyeing her with a smirk. "You're not just loving your work. You're worshipping it. And you're using him as the altar."

Gie's stomach tightened.

She wanted to deny it. To roll her eyes and laugh it off. But she couldn't.

Because Alina wasn't entirely wrong.

It was worship.

But not of Alexander.

Of the moment. Of the art. Of the beautiful agony of making something so personal it felt like tearing a piece of her soul and giving it form.

And yes, it was for him.

But only because he had become the canvas. The muse. The shape that had woken something in her.

Her obsession wasn't about him.

It was about what he made her create.

When she finally finished the piece, she held it in gloved fingers, heart thudding like a drum.

The black diamond caught the light with a soft glint—dark and deep, never screaming for attention, but demanding it all the same.

The obsidian curve was subtle. Sharp in meaning. Smooth to touch. It looked ancient. Sacred. Like it belonged in a ritual.

And the platinum... oh, the platinum. Cold, perfect, exact.

The whole piece looked like something conjured, not crafted.

And as she turned it in the light, as her fingers brushed the cool, finished metal—

She imagined it on him.

Not in a vague, detached way.

Specifically.

His skin. His ear. The way it would sit against him, curve with him, claim him in a way he wouldn't even realize.

Her art.

On his body.

Every inch designed by her hands.

The thought made her shiver.

It was done.

And it was perfect.

But still, she whispered—

"I could do better."

Because it wasn't just a piece anymore.

It was a part of her.

And she had already placed it in her mind—exactly where it belonged.

Gie had never been this nervous about an interview before.

She had waited impatiently for this one, her stomach in knots, her hands trembling slightly as she sat on her bed, laptop open, screen glowing in the dim light of her bedroom.

His assistant had emailed her after she sent the earring, a simple confirmation:

Mr. Millers will be wearing your piece for his upcoming interview.

That was it.

Nothing more.

No personal message. No reaction.

But that didn't matter, because now she was waiting to see it.

Waiting to see him.

When the interview finally started, she sucked in a sharp breath.

And when he walked in, she nearly melted on the spot.

The Devil in Platinum and Obsidian

Alexander Millers was always impeccably dressed, but tonight?

Tonight, he looked lethal.

A black suit, tailored to absolute perfection, the kind of cut that hugged his broad shoulders and tapered down to his waist like it had been sculpted to fit only him. Beneath the jacket, a black dress shirt, buttoned just low enough to hint at the strong lines of his collarbone.

And then—

The earring.

Her earring.

It curved against his ear beautifully, the platinum gleaming under the soft studio lights, the black diamond catching just enough glow to look like a secret, a weapon, a whisper of something dangerous.

And then there was his face.

Sharp. Controlled. Breathtaking.

His dark blonde hair was styled back, effortlessly polished yet tousled, like he had run his fingers through it moments before stepping in front of the camera.

And those gray eyes—cool, unreadable, piercing through the screen.

Gie's breath hitched.

The Talk of Seduction

He sat down, his posture relaxed yet commanding, legs spread slightly, one arm resting lazily on the chair's armrest.

Then he began to speak.

And that was when the real problem started.

Because this wasn't just any interview.

This was about his industry.

And Alexander Millers's industry was sex.

He spoke smoothly, his voice low, deliberate, decadent, the kind of voice that wrapped around you and made you listen.

"Seduction isn't about the obvious," he was saying, his tone velvety, controlled. "It's about the slow unraveling. The moment before the first touch. The anticipation. That's where power lies."

Gie swallowed hard.

"Most people think it's about being naked. It's not. The sexiest moments are clothed. A button undone. A hand brushing too close. A look that lingers just a little too long."

She could see it.

Could see him undoing a button, his long, elegant fingers—

Fingers that wore her ring.

Her ring.

The thought short-circuited her.

She had made that piece. She had imagined it on him.

And now, as he sat there, explaining seduction, she could only think about his hands, what they could do, how they would feel—

Her thighs clenched, a slow, hot ache pooling low in her stomach.

"It's not about the act," he continued, his voice like whiskey over ice, smooth and burning all at once. "It's about what happens before. The moment you realize you're already lost, that you've already decided to say yes—before a single word is spoken."

Gie's breathing was uneven now.

The images in her head were relentless.

Alexander Millers.

His gray eyes looking down at her.

His fingers—long, precise, adorned with her work—sliding over her skin.

She shifted on the bed, heat blooming between her legs, her nipples already aching, pressing against the thin fabric of her camisole—the only thing she wore besides her panties.

Her hand moved absentmindedly, fingers tracing over her chest, over her hardened peak, teasing herself as she watched him on the screen.

"Seduction is in the details," he said.

Her fingers tugged at her nipple, a sharp pleasure shooting straight down her spine.

"It's in the way someone watches you. The way their breath hitches when you get too close."

She squeezed her thighs together, a desperate throb making her hand slip lower.

"It's in the way they can't help but react."

Her breath shuddered.

Her fingers dipped into her panties, sliding over slick heat—

Oh, fuck.

She was so wet, so wrecked, just from listening to him talk, from picturing him in her jewelry, from imagining his fingers doing what hers were doing now.

She circled her aching clit, biting her lip to keep quiet, her eyes still locked on the screen, on him, as he leaned back in his chair, speaking so smoothly, so confidently, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to everyone watching.

"It's about making them desperate before you ever lay a hand on them."

Gie whimpered.

Her fingers slid lower, pressing inside, curling deep, her back arching as pleasure coiled inside her.

She was losing herself, her body tightening, her mind drowning in images of him—of his hands on her, his mouth against her skin, his voice telling her exactly what to do.

She felt it building, faster, harder, her body shaking, pleasure overtaking her completely—

Until she came so hard her laptop slipped off her lap and crashed onto the floor.

Her orgasm didn't stop.

It kept rolling through her, wave after relentless wave, her fingers still moving, still chasing the high, her legs trembling, her chest rising and falling in rapid gasps.

She had never—never—come like that before.

And as she lay there, wrecked, breathless, body still tingling—

The only thing in her mind was him.

Alexander Millers.

The man she had made jewelry for.

The man she had watched through a screen.

The man who had just ruined her.