Page 44

"Thank... thank you, madame..." The girl took the wipes, her voice thick with a Lyon accent. "I'm... I'm just a garment construction student. I barely got a ticket to the outer exhibits... I only wanted to get closer to see the jacquard fabrics. I accidentally stepped on her hem..."

"They did it on purpose." I crouched down and pressed a wipe against the wine stain on her skirt, though I knew it wouldn't come out completely. "Come with me. There's a hand dryer in the restroom. I've got an emergency sewing kit and two spare pins in my bag. We can turn this into an asymmetrical draped skirt—the stain can hide inside the folds."

The girl stared at me, dazed, and let me lead her into the nearby accessible restroom.

I had her sit down, then crouched and unpicked the torn hem of her skirt. With quick, practiced hands, I pulled the stained fabric upward and folded it into a natural French tulip-petal drape, then secured it diagonally at her waist with two gold pins from my bag.

The clumsy yellow shift dress transformed instantly into a striking asymmetrical cocktail gown.

The girl stood in front of the mirror, touching her waistline in disbelief. Her eyes welled up again.

"Mon Dieu... this is amazing! Are you... are you really a famous designer?"

Hearing "designer," my heart skipped.

I was just a broke recent grad counting coins in a cheap apartment. But looking at the girl's eyes in the mirror—eyes that had rekindled with hope and admiration—I remembered all those nights I'd cried at my pattern-cutting table.

"I'm not a big name yet. But I'm on my way." I met her eyes in the mirror and squeezed her shoulder. "Listen to me. You've got a big frame, but your proportions are beautiful. Remember—fashion isn't about pleasing other people. It's about making yourself and your designs seen by the world. Never apologize for existing. Finish your work. Make the people who mock you shut up."

She nodded hard. The weakness in her eyes was replaced by a spark of resolve. She bowed deeply, then turned and ran back toward the exhibition hall.

Watching her go, I stood in the hallway outside the restroom, leaning against the cool marble wall, tired but at peace.

A strange warmth spread through my chest. Maybe I exaggerated. Maybe I didn't deserve to be called a "designer" yet. But if those words gave her courage, then it was worth it.

But as I tucked the wipes away and turned to head back to the main hall, my gaze swept across the shadows at the corner of the corridor.

My heart skipped a beat.

Marcelo was already out of the VIP lounge.

He stood alone beside a marble statue of Venus, his tall frame half-hidden in shadow, casually flipping a metal lighter in his hand. I didn't know how long he'd been standing there. His gray-green eyes, unreadable in the dim light, were fixed on me.

Oh God... he heard everything.

Everything. Me insulting those models. Me claiming to be "Marcelo Moretti's only companion." Me pretending to be an established designer to encourage that girl. Every lie. Every bluff. All of it.

A wave of humiliation and panic crashed over me. My face burned like I'd been set on fire.

"Mr... Mr. Moretti." I forced my feet forward, my fingers twisting the metal chain of my clutch. "About what just happened... I'm sorry. Those models were way out of line. I got impulsive and made up those things to scare them off. If you feel my behavior damaged the group's reputation—or yours personally—I'll accept any consequences."

Marcelo didn't answer right away.

He slipped the lighter back into his suit pocket. But he didn't speak. The silence stretched between us.

I'm definitely getting chewed out.

Just as I held my breath, bracing for his cold rebuke, he suddenly leaned down. Naturally. His left hand rose and cupped the back of my neck.

His fingertips, rough with calluses, stroked the small, sensitive patch of skin behind my ear—intimate and dangerous.

"Mr. Moretti's only companion?" He murmured near my ear, his scorching breath brushing my burning earlobe. His voice was low and rough, like a cello's bass note in the dark. "Sounds like you're getting comfortable staking your claim, little rose."

"It was just expedient!" My whole body went rigid. I tried to pull back instinctively, but his hand on my nape held me firmly in place. "You know it wasn't real!"

"Relax." Marcelo's fingers slid up along my neck. Instead of pulling away, he leaned closer. His lips nearly grazed my jawline. "I'm not angry. In fact, I'm glad you used my name."

The heat of his breath traveled down my neck and shot through my limbs like an electric current.