Del Rosa Atelier carried the fragrance of roses and perfume, softened by the musk of polished wood and the sharp cadence of leather heels striking marble. Crystal hangers glittered in the sunlight like ornaments in a grand cathedral, scattering tiny prisms across the polished floor.
Silver Quinn moved carefully among the dresses, fingertips tracing seams, adjusting skewed hangers. It was only her second week, but she worked with near-obsessive precision. Her hands were busy, but her eyes roamed, remembering. She had lived in the city long enough to dream of owning a boutique like this—nights spent with sketches, fingertips pricked red from stitching, visions of gowns shimmering down runways.
But dreams were expensive, and reality hit hard. Now she was here, under someone else's empire, someone else's spotlight.
Her boss, Princess Del Rosa, was a mogul, her name whispered with reverence in glossy magazines and elite circles. Morticia, Princess' s assistant and shadow, lips curved in perpetual judgment, ready to strike.
Laughter spilled from the private lounge.
Words drifted through the half-open door: engaged…billionaire…love story. Silver swallowed, refusing to listen. The wealthy married their own; the rest watched from behind the glass.
Her gaze flicked to the café across the street, memories of a quieter life threading through her mind. Her father had wanted stability, believing that Silver could help expand his business if she learned more from the city. Her mother, ever gentle, held the house together like quiet glue no one noticed until it cracked.
But she had wanted more—risk, brilliance, a chance at extraordinary—and now had left with survival.
Morticia swept out from the lounge. She shot Silver a dismissive once-over. "We're expecting a high-profile guest. Try not to embarrass us."
Silver nodded, irritation simmering beneath her as Morticia walked away. For a reckless second, she imagined hurling a rack at her. The thought made her smirk.
Her stomach growled, loud in the silence—a reminder she'd skipped breakfast again. Even thinking of food made her queasy. She pressed a hand to her midsection, making a mental note to see a doctor. Soon.
The bell above the glass doors jingled. Footsteps entered—measured, deliberate. A scent followed, sharp and unmistakable.
Silver straightened her skirt and walked to the counter, breath caught mid-step. Her eyes locked on the last person she expected to see.
Edward Black stood tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair damp at the edges framing a strong jaw and high cheekbones. His stormy eyes scanned the room—sharp, unreadable. A tailored black suit hugged his frame, exuding power and control. The faint stubble softened his edges, adding a rugged edge to his flawless presence.
"Hello, Mr. Black," Morticia purred, sliding past her.
Silver's fingers curled around the counter.
Princess appeared, veil trailing behind her like smoke. "Mi amor!" she cried, sweeping into his arms. Edward tilted his face, letting her lips graze his cheek.
"Bring wine," she said, looping her arm possessively through his.
Silver moved to step back, but Edward's voice stopped her. Low, deliberate, dangerously familiar.
"No need, Silver."
He moved closer and Silver instinctively took a step back. He bent to retrieve a fallen hairband, placing it gently in her palm. Fingers brushed hers, deliberate, lingering.
"Hello, cara," he murmured.
Silver gripped the hairband tightly. "Edward…?"
Princess's head snapped toward them. "Do you know her?"
Edward's gaze held hers, steady and unyielding. "We have… a history."
Princess stepped forward, eyes fixed on Silver. "This is Edward," she said, voice sharp with pride. "My fiancé."
Fiancé. The word hit her like a blow. Her mind raced, fingers twitching as she clenched the hem of her dress, desperate for something to hold onto.
Morticia's lips curved in satisfaction. "Mr. Black," she called. "Let's show you some collections."
Princess led him away, hand looped through his arm, Morticia trailing like a shadow.
Silver fidgeted with her skirt, picking at loose threads she hadn't noticed before. The man who had walked away was now engaged—to her boss.
◆◆◆
Later, Silver carried a tray of wine into the lounge, where Princess and Edward sat reviewing designs for the upcoming showcase—a coveted event for boutiques like Del Rosa. A snow-white fur coat lay draped across Edward's knee, its sheen catching the light with effortless arrogance.
"On the table," Princess said, not even glancing up.
Silver stepped forward, her hands damp against the tray. One step. Then another. Suddenly, her toe caught the edge of the rug.
Time shattered.
Crystal and crimson exploded across the marble. A sharp crack. A shiver of glass. Wine spilled in a dark bloom, seeping fast—straight into the pristine fur.
Morticia gasped. "The fur! The fur!"
Princess shot to her feet, her fury cold and instant. Edward didn't move—he simply leaned back, his gaze unreadable, like he was watching a show unfold.
Silver dropped to her knees, tugging the soaked coat toward her. The fur blurred under her fingers, stained, ruined. Still, she gripped it like she could undo the moment by sheer will.
"I'll clean it," she choked out. "Please—I'm so sorry."
The apology sounded small in the grandness of the room.
Princess's voice cut through her. "Fix it, or you're finished."
Silver staggered to her feet, the heavy coat dragging at her arms. Across the room, Morticia smirked, a cruel glint sharp in her eyes.
She was waiting for this.
◆◆◆
The laundromat glowed under harsh fluorescent light, cracked tiles jarring beneath her boots. Silver shoved the fur into the washer and sank onto a hard chair. The machine rumbled to life, the sharp scent of detergent filling the air.
She pressed her head to her arm, whispering a quiet prayer as the cycle spun. Minutes passed. When it finally ended, she pulled the coat free. The fur turned out worse— its sheen was dulled, the stain stubbornly spreading. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a cry.
"I wondered how long it would take you to admit defeat."
She turned. Edward. Suit immaculate, impossibly out of place.
Even in the tension of the moment, she remembered the first time she met him—how a single glance had flared into something uncontrollable. Three years of knowing him, trusting him, falling in ways she hadn't meant to. And then one day… he vanished. No call. No goodbye.
"Why are you here?" Her voice was low, brittle.
Edward smiled faintly. "You knew this would happen. You've always been mine."
"This is delusional," she snapped. "You don't get to disappear and come back like nothing happened."
His eyes darkened, but his tone remained maddeningly calm. "You still want me."
"I don't." Her voice cracked with exhaustion. "I'm tired, Edward. I'm done."
"I'm not." He took a step closer. "I don't just want you—I crave you."
Silver rubbed her temple, a slow ache building behind her eyes. "I don't have time for this."
"I'm here to help. You'll be out of a job by morning if you don't let me."
She scoffed. "You think I'd ever ask you for help?"
He nodded once. "There's no other way unless you let me."
She leaned over the machine, palms flat against cold metal. "Didn't you hear what I said?"
"I'll help you," he said, voice thick with intent. "If you accept my condition."
She narrowed her eyes. "What do you want?"
He stepped closer, gaze locked on hers. "You. I want you back."
The words sliced through her, bold and brutal. Heat crept up her neck as her hands clenched against the washer. His arrogance made her stomach churn.
"You think this is a game?" She stood up straighter. "You have a fiancée—my boss. And now you want me? A kept woman you visit in the dark?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
For one breathless second, she hesitated. He could fix this—smooth everything over with a phone call, maybe even save her job. But then she thought of who she used to be. The girl who waited for calls that never came.
That girl was gone. And this time, she would stay gone.
She met his gaze, steady, unwavering. "No."
"No?"
Edward asked, arms folded over his chest. "No?"
"No," she repeated, firmer this time, letting the word hang between them like a challenge.
Surprise flickered in his eyes—brief, but undeniable.
A small, satisfied smile tugged at her lips. She let it linger, savoring the moment—the shift in power, the truth that she could say no. That this time, control belonged to her.
She turned on her heel, grabbed her bag, and pushed open the door. Cold air kissed her skin as she stepped into the night, lungs filling with the sting of resolve. Her boots echoed against the concrete, each step fed by every betrayal, every broken promise he had ever left her with.
Edward Black had never belonged to her—and he never would.
Silver adjusted her bag strap, freed her hair from her collar, and walked forward with deliberate purpose. The intensity of his words still clung to her, unraveling something deep within. And yet, beneath the defiance, a single question pulsed, quiet and dangerous:
How long before Edward Black made sure she couldn't walk away so easily?