Faces filled with makeup turn when I enter the room. I can't help but smirk when I overhear a few women whispering that I'm their type. One even claims she went on a date with me. Could be true—but I don't remember. Skip the bullshit. I'm here promoting two very important things: Sera Elganza and, most importantly, my handsome face. I'm a ladies' man whether I want the title or not, because my final decisions on designs tell customers I know what a woman wants. I took over my mother's company when she became gravely ill, and I did what I knew best: stripped away all the unnecessary, gaudy excess of past designs and colors. What a woman needs—whether she realizes it or not—is simplicity. And simplicity can only happen when a man makes that decision. I just so happen to make those decisions in fashion more successfully than in relationships. Besides, who could possibly meet the standards of my high class and the intelligence of my analytical abilities? None of the women at this promotional party, who look at me with thinly veiled hunger, are capable. They all know I don't date, yet they still flirt. Why? Because I am the best they will ever meet. I am the one designing the clothes they wear when their husbands or boyfriends meet them in the bedroom. And I am the only designer in Los Angeles with morals to stay away.
No one can match my charisma. No one can match my attention to detail. Well—except one. She's been trained thoroughly under my watch for years, so naturally she is competent—but only as my secretary. A man of importance needs a walking, breathing organizer. I'm not too proud to admit I can't do it all on my own. Thinking of Ms. Marcie Andrews—where is she? She should be here by now.
The couch I sit on can't conceal my jittering knees. It's exactly 8:30 p.m., and I must take a melatonin gummy at precisely 8:45 to ensure I sleep on time when I get home. The clock ticks slowly as guests come and go, greeting me from a distance. They know better than to sit beside me. I hate sitting with strangers. Actually, I hate sitting next to people in general. But right now, I need my secretary by my side to hand me my sleeping gummies. Everything must happen on schedule.
A medium-sized figure rounds the staircase outside, and I know who it is just by the color of her hair: very light brown, in its usual tight bun. I look up with anticipation, but my brows knit together when I realize she's on the phone. Ms. Andrews knows better than to use her phone during work hours. Technically, work hours are over—but this is a work event, so she should still comply with the company's rules. My rules. Perhaps it's an emergency? Hm, I'll let it slide just this once.
I stand to greet her by the door, though she should be the one greeting me. Her expression is—happy. Actually, elated.
Why is she so happy? Who is she talking to?
I glide over to her side and barely tap her shoulder. She startles and quickly ends the call.
"Mr. Fabrizi! Should we go inside?"
"Nice earrings. But where's the halter dress I told you to wear?"
"Oh, turns out halter dresses don't pair well with my body type. So I decided to wear one of my own."
"You have a body type—or do you mean body shape?" I ask, ignoring her professional smile.
I give her another quick up-and-down, then comment on the color.
"It's just a nice green," she says, as if it's some simple matter.
"It has polka dots."
"I like polka dots."
This woman. She knows exactly what to wear to represent my fashion house. She also knows I specifically hate polka dots.
"Are you forgetting something?"
She tilts her head, her smile tightening.
"Yes, my apologies. Compliments to you, of course. The new suit you're promoting looks great on you. I can't imagine anyone else shining more brightly in it."
Lifting my chin, I pat her head and let my radiant aura lead the way back to my marked territory on the couch. It's 8:55 p.m., and I know she knows it. Before I can make a comment, she slips me a melatonin gummy and smiles again.
She's falling a little short tonight. Nothing a quick meeting tomorrow can't correct.
Still, I can't help but wonder whether that phone call had anything to do with her slipups.