Page 53 of Pretend To Be Mine

Elizabeth was mine.

What?

What the fuck?

Mine?

The thought triggered an onslaught of panicked thoughts, but I didn’t have time to deal with any of them. I would have to think about it later. No one had scheduled any time for me to have a mental crisis.

I left the venue and headed to the office where Elizabeth would be meeting me. She arrived at the workshop right on time, wearing jeans and a simple black top, her hair already pulled back practically. She looked ready to work, not just observe.

“Good morning.” I leaned in and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek.

I would love to give her a much dirtier kiss, but I did have to maintain a modicum of professionalism.

“Morning.” Her smile was bright and I could see the excitement in her eyes as she looked around the space. It was nearly the entire floor of the building. There were people sewing. Dress forms. Shelves filled with fabric rolls. And an entire wall full of notions.

It was a place where ideas became real and she was obviously loving it. “Where do you need me?”

Annika appeared at my elbow, arms full of fabric. “Elizabeth! Perfect timing. I could use an extra set of hands with the final fittings. Models start arriving in twenty minutes.”

“I’m all yours,” Elizabeth said immediately.

“I’ll find you in a bit,” I said. “I need to make a few calls.”

I wasn’t sure if she even heard me. “Okay. I’m good.”

I almost laughed. She may as well have shooed me away.

By the time I made it back to the fitting area an hour later, Elizabeth was in her element.

She knelt beside a model wearing one of our Legacy collection pieces. It was a reimagined version of one of Dad’s designs from fifteen years ago. The original had been a structured cocktail dress in black. Our version maintained the silhouette but updated it with a modern touch.

Elizabeth had pins between her lips, her hands moving confidently as she adjusted the hem. “Walk for me?” she said around the pins. The model complied, strutting a few steps.

“Better,” Annika confirmed. “But the left side is still sitting weird.”

Elizabeth studied the dress, tilted her head, then reached up to adjust something at the model’s hip. Whatever she did worked. The fabric suddenly draped perfectly, moving with the model’s body instead of against it.

“There,” Elizabeth said, satisfaction clear in her voice. “That’s it.”

This version of Elizabeth was so different from the terrified woman who’d frozen during photoshoots. Here, doing actual design work, she was transformed. She was confident. In her element.

“Adrian.” Her face lit up when she spotted me. She pulled the pins from her lip and poked them into the pin cushion on her wrist. “What do you think?”

“Perfect,” I answered. And I wasn’t talking about the dress alone.

“These pieces are so pretty. I love that they’re old and new at the same time.”

“The theme of opening night is Legacy,” I explained. “It’s about honoring where we came from while moving forward. Each dress is based on one of my father’s iconic designs, but we’ve modernized them. Updated silhouettes, new materials, contemporary construction techniques.”

“That’s genius! You’re proving that Blackwell Couture’s vision survives across generations. I love it!”

“Exactly.” I had explained the concept to dozens of people but Elizabeth understood without needing me to walk her through it. “Sebastian’s hosting London with Decadence as his theme. Briggs has Paris with Love. Dash gets Milan with Seduction. Then we all come back to New York for the finale, which will synthesize all the themes.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “Your dad would be so proud.”

“I hope so,” I said quietly. “Annika, do you have the portfolio?”