The first week at Maison Velluto passed in a blur of silk samples, frantic emails, and the
constant low hum of ambition that seemed to vibrate through every floor of the building. Isabella
told herself the strange electricity she had felt in the creative director's office was nothing more
than the natural tension of a new environment. She was forty one. He was twenty five. The
mathematics alone should have killed any flicker of awareness before it could catch fire.
Yet every time she carried a stack of revised mood boards up to the creative floor, or delivered
the final approval documents for the upcoming spring collection, she found her eyes searching
the open space for him. Sometimes she caught sight of him bent over a drafting table, sleeves
rolled to his elbows, charcoal smudged along the edge of one wrist. Sometimes he was on the
phone, pacing the glass walled conference room, voice low and commanding in a way that
made the hair on the back of her neck rise.
She hated that she noticed.
Camille kept her busy, deliberately so. Meetings with fabric suppliers in Milan, video calls with
the Paris atelier, late nights reviewing seating charts for the annual gala. Isabella welcomed the
workload. Exhaustion was a reliable shield.
Friday evening arrived with the kind of golden light that turned the bay into molten glass. Most of
the staff had already disappeared into the weekend. Isabella stayed behind to finish organizing
the digital archive of the last five years of runway shows. The creative floor was quiet except for
the occasional rustle of paper and the distant sound of the city thirty eight stories below.
She was on her knees in front of the lowest shelf when the door opened.
Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
She knew who it was before she looked up.
Ethan stopped a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching her with that same unreadable
expression he had worn on her first day.
"You're still here," he said.
"Someone has to make sure the archives don't eat themselves." She pushed to her feet,
brushing dust from her skirt. "Your mother wanted the entire digital library searchable by
Monday."
He nodded once. "She always did hate chaos."
Silence stretched between them. Not awkward exactly. Charged.Isabella moved to the next shelf, pretending to focus on the labels. "You should go home. It's
Friday."
"I could say the same to you." He stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell the faint
cedar and smoke of his cologne. "You've been avoiding the creative floor all week."
She froze for half a second, then continued sliding folders into place. "I've been busy."
"You've been careful."
Her fingers tightened on the edge of a binder. She turned slowly to face him. "I'm doing my job,
Ethan."
His gaze dropped to her mouth for the briefest instant before returning to her eyes. "You say my
name like it's a warning."
"Maybe it is."
He smiled then. Small. Dangerous. The kind of smile that promised trouble and looked forward
to delivering it. "I make you nervous."
"You don't make me nervous." The lie tasted bitter. "You make me… aware."
"Of what?"
She lifted her chin. "That some lines should never be crossed."
He studied her for a long moment. Then he reached past her, deliberately slow, and pulled a
thick black portfolio from the shelf behind her shoulder. His arm brushed hers. The contact was
fleeting, but it burned.
"These are the sketches for the gala gown," he said, voice low. "The one that's supposed to
close the show. I need a second opinion. Someone who isn't afraid to tell me when something
looks like it belongs on a costume rack instead of a runway."
Isabella swallowed. "I'm not a designer."
"You used to sketch. You told me that first day." He opened the portfolio and laid it on the
nearest table. "Look."
She hesitated, then stepped forward.The drawings were breathtaking. Clean lines, dramatic draping, a neckline that plunged in a way
that was both elegant and reckless. The fabric renderings suggested deep emerald velvet, the
kind that caught light and refused to let it go.
"It's beautiful," she said honestly.
"But?"
She traced the line of the bodice with one fingertip. "The waist is too high. It cuts the torso in
half. You lose the elongation. Drop it two inches and let the fabric fall naturally."
He watched her finger move across the page. "You see it."
"I see structure."
He leaned in beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. "Most people in this
building see trends. You see bones."
She turned her head slightly. Their faces were inches apart. She could see the faint scar above
his left eyebrow, the individual flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
"You should listen to your mother more often," she said quietly. "She hired me for a reason."
"My mother hired you because she trusts you." His voice dropped even lower. "I'm starting to
understand why."
The air thickened. Isabella felt the pull low in her belly, the same pull she had felt at twenty five
when desire still felt like freedom instead of danger.
She stepped back. "It's late."
He didn't follow. He simply watched her gather her bag, movements precise, controlled.
"You're running," he said.
"I'm going home."
"Same thing."
She paused at the door, hand on the frame. "Goodnight, Ethan."
"Isabella."
She looked back.He hadn't moved. The portfolio still lay open on the table like an accusation.
"When you're ready to stop pretending this is only about work," he said, "I'll be here."
She left without answering.
The elevator ride down felt endless. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirrored walls:
cheeks flushed, eyes too bright, lips parted as though she had been running.
She pressed her forehead against the cool metal and closed her eyes.
This was madness.
This was impossible.
This was exactly what she had sworn she would never allow again.
She spent the weekend trying to rebuild distance. She cleaned her small apartment until it
smelled of lemon and bleach. She called her mother and listened to stories about the garden
club's latest drama. She walked along the coastal path near her parents' house until her calves
ached and the wind had whipped every thought of him out of her head.
By Monday morning she felt almost steady.
Almost.
Camille greeted her with a steaming cup of coffee and a crisis.
"The Milan atelier lost three bolts of the custom duchesse satin. Customs is holding the
shipment. We need to find a backup supplier by end of day or the gala centerpiece gown is
dead."
Isabella dove into the chaos. Phone calls, spreadsheets, frantic emails to every contact she had
ever collected during her brief stint as a junior buyer years ago. By three in the afternoon her
head throbbed and her throat was raw from negotiations.
She was on her way to Camille's office with the list of viable alternatives when the private
elevator dinged.
Ethan stepped out.
Alone.He looked like he hadn't slept. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, jaw tight, suit jacket slung over
one shoulder. But when he saw her, something in his expression softened.
"You're avoiding me again," he said.
"I'm working."
"We both are." He stepped closer. "But only one of us is pretending it's just work."
She glanced around. The corridor was empty. Most of the floor had gone to lunch.
"Ethan," she began.
He reached out and caught her wrist. Gently. But the touch was electric.
"Come with me," he said. "Five minutes. There's something you need to see."
She should have pulled away.
She didn't.
He led her down the service corridor, past the sample rooms, to a small storage space tucked
behind the pattern cutting area. The door was unmarked. He pushed it open and flicked on the
light.
Inside were racks of archived gowns. Pieces from collections ten years old, fifteen, twenty.
Museum quality. Forgotten treasures.
He closed the door behind them.
The space felt smaller with both of them inside.
He walked to the far rack and pulled out a gown shrouded in protective plastic. Carefully he
removed the covering.
The dress was midnight blue silk charmeuse, bias cut, clinging in all the places that made a
woman feel powerful and vulnerable at once. The back was open to the waist, held together by
a single crystal button at the nape.
Isabella's breath caught.
"I found it last night," he said. "After you left. It was in the oldest archive. No label. No record.
But the construction… it's exactly what you described on Saturday. The waist dropped just
enough. The fabric falls like water."She stepped closer, unable to help herself. Her fingers hovered over the silk.
"It's exquisite," she whispered.
"It was made for someone who understood restraint and release in the same breath." He looked
at her. "I think it was made for you."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. "That's impossible."
"Is it?" He moved behind her. Slowly. Giving her every chance to step away.
She didn't.
His hands settled lightly on her shoulders. "Try it."
"Ethan."
"Just try it."
The air was thick with the scent of cedar and old silk and something darker. Desire. Regret.
Hunger.
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, he was holding the gown open.
She stepped out of her shoes.
He helped her out of her blazer, fingers brushing the nape of her neck as he unzipped her
dress. The sound was obscene in the quiet room.
The midnight silk slid over her skin like a lover's mouth.
It fit perfectly.
She turned to the full length mirror propped against the wall.
The woman staring back at her was not the careful, contained executive assistant who had
walked into Maison Velluto two weeks earlier.
She was something else entirely.
Ethan stood behind her, eyes dark, breathing uneven."Look at yourself," he said, voice rough.
She did.
The gown clung to every curve, every hollow. The open back revealed the elegant line of her
spine. The single crystal button gleamed like a dare.
He reached around her, fingers finding that button.
He didn't fasten it.
He simply rested his fingertips there, warm against her skin.
"You feel it," he murmured against her ear. "Don't you?"
She closed her eyes again. "We can't."
"Tell me to stop."
She opened her mouth.
No words came.
His lips brushed the shell of her ear. "Say the word, Isabella. One word and I walk out that door."
Her pulse roared in her ears.
She turned in his arms.
Their mouths were inches apart.
She could feel the heat radiating from him, the tension in every muscle.
She lifted her hand, placed it against his chest.
She felt his heart slamming beneath her palm.
Then she rose on her toes and kissed him.
It was not gentle.
It was years of restraint shattering in a single breath.His hands slid into her hair, tilting her head, deepening the kiss until she tasted desperation and
relief and something dangerously close to obsession.
He lifted her against the nearest rack. Gowns rustled around them like whispers.
She wrapped her legs around his waist.
The gown rode up her thighs.
His mouth moved to her throat, teeth grazing the pulse point.
She gasped.
He froze.
Looked at her.
Eyes wild.
"Tell me to stop," he said again. Hoarse. Pleading.
She cupped his face.
Pulled him back.
"No," she whispered.
The single word detonated everything.
He kissed her harder, hungrier. Hands roaming over silk covered skin. Finding the hem. Pushing
it higher.
She arched into him.
The crystal button at her nape came undone.
The gown slipped lower.
His mouth found the swell of her breast.
She cried out softly.
Somewhere far away, a door opened on the main floor.Voices.
Footsteps.
Reality crashed in.
Ethan stilled.
He lifted his head, breathing ragged.
They stared at each other.
Both of them wrecked.
He eased her down slowly. Carefully. As though she might break.
He stepped back.
Fixed her gown with shaking hands.
Fastened the button.
She smoothed her hair.
Neither of them spoke.
The voices passed.
Silence returned.
Ethan looked at her for a long moment.
Then he turned and walked out without another word.
The door closed softly behind him.
Isabella stood alone in the archive surrounded by ghosts of gowns and the scent of him still on
her skin.
She pressed trembling fingers to her swollen lips.
What had she just done?
And worse.How could she ever go back to pretending it hadn't happened?
She sank onto the floor among the forgotten dresses.
And for the first time in sixteen years, she felt truly, terrifyingly alive.