The atelier was quieter after dark. The whir of sewing machines faded, replaced by the faint tick of the wall clock and the rustle of fabric being folded away for tomorrow. Most of the seamstresses had gone home hours ago, leaving the vast room bathed in the warm glow of desk lamps and the faint smell of steam from the iron presses.
Elena sat at her drafting table, pencil in hand, her eyes narrowed over a sketch that refused to take shape. She had drawn and redrawn the same neckline five times, each attempt ending in frustration. A woman of her stature was not supposed to struggle with lines and proportions—yet tonight, her hand betrayed her.
“Still here?”
The voice startled her. She looked up to see Daniel standing a few feet away, a stack of neatly pressed gowns draped over his arm. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his dark hair slightly disheveled, as though he had run his hand through it one too many times. He looked tired, but there was that ever-present steadiness in his eyes.
Elena adjusted the papers on her desk, trying to mask the weariness in her face. “These designs refuse to behave,” she said curtly.
Daniel set the gowns on a nearby rack and stepped closer. “May I?” He gestured to the sketches.
Elena hesitated, then handed one over. He studied it for a long moment, his brows furrowing in thought. “It’s beautiful,” he said finally, “but it’s too safe. You’re trying not to fail, and that’s why it won’t sing.”
The remark stung—yet instead of anger, Elena felt something unexpected. Honesty. Most people around her only offered praise or fear. Daniel gave her truth. She leaned back in her chair, watching him.
“And what would you suggest?” she asked.
He picked up her pencil, his fingers brushing against hers as he did. The touch was brief, accidental—but it lingered. Elena felt it spark along her skin, as if her body had betrayed her composure. She drew her hand back too quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
Daniel, if he had, said nothing. Instead, he bent over the paper, his lines swift and confident. “Here,” he murmured, sketching a sharper angle, an unexpected dip. “It’s bold. Unforgiving. Just like you.”
Elena’s lips parted, caught between indignation and something softer. She stared at the sketch, then at him, her heartbeat unsteady. “You think you know me so well?” she asked, her voice lower than she intended.
His eyes lifted to meet hers. “I notice things,” he said simply.
The air between them grew heavy, charged. Neither moved, yet everything seemed to shift. The hum of the lights, the scent of pressed silk, the silence of the empty atelier—it all wrapped around them like a cocoon.
Elena forced herself to break it, turning back to the sketch. “It’s… interesting,” she muttered, her tone clipped to mask the warmth rising in her chest.
Daniel smiled faintly, not pressing further. But as he gathered the gowns and prepared to leave, Elena found her eyes following him to the door, her pencil forgotten.
And when the door finally closed behind him, she realized her hand still tingled where his fingers had brushed hers.
For the first time in years, Elena Marquez—the Queen of Threads—felt unraveled.
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