Chapter 10

She refused to acknowledge the shameful, filthy, ridiculous thing she had done that night, alone in her bed, whispering his name in her head as she fell apart to the sound of his voice.

It was a moment of weakness, a moment she locked away so deep inside her that it would never see the light of day.

She was better than that.

She was a professional. An artist. Not some desperate woman lusting after a man she had only met once—a dinner, a conversation, an exchange of glances that lingered a breath too long.

So she did what she did best: she buried it beneath her work. Smothered the memory under layers of metal, stone, and fire.

And right now, work was demanding everything from her.

The Runway Collection of the Season.

It had started with an email.

A very dramatic email, filled with excessive adjectives, long descriptions, and a ridiculous amount of capitalized words for emphasis.

Gie, darling, my LOVE, my GENIUS, my PRECIOUS JEWEL of a human being!

I have a vision. A concept. A SHOW that will shake the very foundations of the fashion world. And I need YOU.

Not just a piece, not just a few designs—I need an entire COLLECTION.

This will be the most exclusive runway of the season, the kind only the TRUE elite attend. Old money, new money, royals, dignitaries, the kind of people who don't just buy jewelry—they COLLECT it like art.

We're talking twenty custom pieces, minimum.

Bold. Exquisite. Unforgettable.

Think MET GALA, but make it MORE.

We have three months. I know you can do it. Say yes before I DIE.

Bisou, bisou,

Laurent Devereaux

She'd worked with Laurent before. He was one of the most meticulous, dramatic, and relentlessly perfectionist designers in the industry. A whirlwind in silk scarves and cashmere blazers, wielding emotion like a weapon.

But he was also a genius. A true architect of aesthetic madness. And Gie could never say no to a challenge.

So she said yes.

And now she was drowning.

Designing under pressure was nothing new to her, but this—this was different. This was the kind of pressure that pressed down on her chest and whispered impossible things in her ear.

Every moment of her day was consumed by sketches, stone charts, prototypes, metal samples. Her phone was an extension of her hand, constantly buzzing with questions about karat weight, stone clarity, setting types.

She obsessed over everything. She rejected three shipments of emeralds before finding one that met her standards. She made her pearl supplier cry when she demanded luster tests on every single specimen.

She needed gems that shimmered like secrets. Rubies with heart. Sapphires that whispered scandal. Diamonds that looked like they had been carved from the heavens.

Her studio became a sacred space. Her altar. Her battlefield.

And Laurent?

A blessing and a curse.

"Mon amour, mon ange, mon tragedy of an artist!" he had wailed during one late-night call, flinging himself across a velvet couch in dramatic despair. "I need DRAMA, I need POETRY, I need a piece that whispers seduction and SCREAMS power! A necklace that would make a QUEEN throw her crown to the ground in JEALOUSY!"

Gie, hollow-eyed and high on caffeine, had nodded. Her fingers were already moving. Sketching. Adjusting. Refining.

"Got it," she said hoarsely, flipping her sketchpad to a clean page.

She barely slept. She barely ate.

Her team hovered like anxious ghosts, watching her with reverence and fear.

She worked until her hands cramped, until her shoulders locked, until her vision blurred from staring at metal too long.

But it was worth it.

Because when she was working, she didn't think about him.

She didn't think about the way Alexander Millers had looked at her that night.

Didn't think about how his voice had slid into her skin like silk and smoke.

Didn't think about the earring she had made him, how it had curved against the shell of his ear like it belonged there.

Didn't think about how her fingers had trembled while holding it.

Or how she had whispered his name into her pillow like a secret spell.

No. There was no time.

There was only the work. Only the next piece. The next sketch. The next stone.

And yet, even as she buried herself in deadlines and diamonds, he found a way to slip in.

A shape she had never drawn before.

A detail on a bracelet that looked suspiciously like the curve of his collarbone.

A ring design that mirrored the hollow at the base of his throat.

A pendant that felt too personal. Too masculine. Too him.

Her art was betraying her.

And she hated it.

Because it wasn't just lust. It wasn't just the memory of his voice.

It was the unbearable need to create for him.

To shape something that touched his skin, even when she couldn't.

To leave a mark.

And the worst part?

She wasn't sure she ever wanted to stop.