The following week was a storm Elena hadn’t anticipated. Orders poured in, deadlines loomed, and a renowned socialite, Regina Velasco, commissioned an exclusive gown for a gala that would host half the city’s elite. The atelier buzzed from dawn until late into the night, every stitch and seam measured against impossibly high stakes.
Elena walked briskly across the floor, clipboard in hand, her sharp heels tapping against the hardwood. She gave precise instructions to seamstresses, inspected fabric rolls, and checked progress on delicate embroidery. Her mind, however, wandered dangerously often—not to the deadlines, but to Daniel.
He stood across the room, bent over a mannequin, his hands pinning satin with a focus that reminded her of a sculptor at work. The curve of his jaw tightened as he adjusted the bodice, and Elena’s breath caught. She forced herself to look away, hiding behind professionalism like a shield.
That evening, long after the staff had gone home, Elena remained behind to review sketches. She found Daniel still there, tidying up spools of thread.
“You should go home,” she said, her tone even but softer than usual.
“And leave you to drown in work alone?” he replied with a small smile.
Elena lifted her chin. “I’ve been doing this long before you came along.”
“Yes,” he said, stepping closer, “but it doesn’t mean you should always have to.”
The room quieted, the hum of the city muffled through the windows. Daniel’s presence pressed against her defenses. His gaze lingered, not with arrogance, but with an honesty that unnerved her.
“Elena,” he began, hesitating as though weighing the risk. “I know the rules. I know what this looks like. But I can’t keep pretending this is only about sketches and fabric swatches.”
Her pulse quickened. She wanted to tell him to stop, to retreat into the walls of hierarchy and propriety she had built around herself. But his words tore at her carefully sewn composure.
She closed the sketchbook with a decisive snap. “This is dangerous, Daniel.”
“Maybe,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving hers. “But some things are worth the risk.”
The silence that followed was thick, charged. Elena’s breath trembled as if caught between resistance and surrender. Finally, she rose from her chair and stepped back, putting distance where her heart refused to.
“Go home,” she ordered, though her voice broke on the last word.
Daniel hesitated, then nodded, gathering his things slowly. As he passed her, their shoulders brushed—just enough to ignite the truth they both carried. Neither spoke, but as the door closed behind him, Elena pressed her hands to the desk, fighting the warmth that lingered in her chest.
For the first time in years, the queen of couture felt as if her own threads were coming undone.
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