The next day, Edward arrived at Del Rosa Atelier before the day had properly begun. The receptionist tried to usher him toward the private lounge, but he declined with a polite shake of his head. He only needed to drop off a parcel.
He remained in the sunlit front room near the main display table. Silk and crystal hangers caught the morning light, and the marble floor beneath felt cool and immaculate underfoot.
Soon, Morticia appeared, gliding through the boutique with the confident grace of someone who believed she ran it. She barely noticed him at first—too occupied scolding the receptionist about a misplaced sign—until her eyes finally landed on him.
"What a pleasant surprise, Mr. Black," she purred, honeyed and sharp. "Mademoiselle will—"
"No need," Edward interrupted smoothly. "Deliver this to Princess. Silver—Miss Quinn—asked me to pass it along."
Morticia took the parcel, her curiosity sharpening as she inspected the fur. He had ensured the replica was flawless. Two calls, a few strings pulled—and what could have humiliated Silver was now neatly erased.
She had refused him yesterday, stubbornly holding her ground. That amused him even more. She'd thought he wanted her only as a mistress, a side piece for amusement. He had said nothing because the truth was far more complicated. The last five months had been brutal, unrelenting, and lonely—more than she could know. He wanted—needed—her.
He hadn't wanted to admit it, hadn't wanted to be seen as weak—but the thought of losing her, truly losing her, had tightened his chest in a way he hadn't anticipated.
She wanted the chase, he convinced himself. He'd seen the way her body had reacted to him, the tension in her hands, the quiver in her voice. She still wanted him, even if she would never admit it. And now, he wouldn't allow circumstances—or distance—to keep them apart. Not when he had felt the emptiness of the last few months gnawing at him, not when he knew how much he needed her near.
Morticia's smile curled, sly and knowing. "Would you like to wait for Mademoiselle Princess?"
"No," Edward replied evenly. "Take it to her. I have other matters to attend to."
With a slight nod, Morticia turned and carried the parcel away, leaving behind the faint scent of her perfume.
Edward stepped out of the boutique. The morning air was crisp, filled with the scent of rain-soaked pavement mingling with the warm aroma of fresh bread from the corner café. His chauffeur waited, holding the car door open. He slid into the leather seat as the engine hummed to life.
Through the windshield, he spotted her—Silver Quinn—rounding the bend toward the boutique. Her cheeks were flushed, hair slightly tousled, yet every movement carried that same stubborn, unyielding confidence that had always drawn him in. Each step was deliberate, defiant, unmistakably hers.
He didn't love her—not in any conventional way. Yet he couldn't imagine his life without her. A part of him feared just how much he had allowed himself to feel, how raw and exposed that need for her had become.
Edward adjusted the rearview mirror, ensuring she couldn't see him watching. As she disappeared through the glass doors of Del Rosa, he exhaled slowly. The day—and whatever this had become—was only just beginning.
◆◆◆
Silver approached the receptionist, murmuring a soft greeting as she signed in. Her limbs felt heavy, her head clouded by yesterday's chaos. She had neither the ruined fur nor a replacement, and the thought churned uneasily in her stomach.
Morticia moved among the mannequins, dusting and adjusting them with perfect precision. Silver hoped to slip past unnoticed until Princess arrived. She stepped lightly, as if caution alone could shield her.
At the counter, she steadied her hands and began her tasks. The quiet calmed her—until it shattered.
"Silver!" Morticia's voice cut through the boutique, sharp as glass.
Silver flinched, pen trembling. She drew in a breath and walked toward Morticia.
"Check the new arrivals," Morticia said, cool, almost professional. "Including the ones for the showcase."
No mention of the fur. Relief rushed through her. She nodded and stepped toward the storage unit, her mind flickering to Edward—his sudden reappearance, the condition—but she shook the thought away. Her focus should be on work. The showcase was her chance to prove herself.
The storage room smelled of fresh fabrics and imported perfumes. Silks and chiffons hung in crisp sleeves. Silver let her hand trail over a gown; the buttery smoothness grounded her. For a brief moment, she pictured her designs gracing the runway. The thought burned bright.
Her parents hadn't understood when she'd quit school for fashion. Her father had wanted her to be traditional, something she wasn't.
Her younger sister, Annemarie, had always been the one who made sense—she had an accounting job, a husband, and a child. Predictable. Steady. Everything Silver wouldn't be.
A soft chime at the boutique door pulled her back.
"You're welcome, ma'am," the receptionist called.
"Silver," came the voice she had expected.
The gown slipped slightly in her hands. She dropped it gently and walked toward the front of the room.
Princess stood at the counter, an emerald coat draped over a cream dress, hair swept into a high bun.
"Did you get the fur cleaned?" she asked, setting her Louis Vuitton bag down. "Where is it?"
Excuses formed in Silver's mind, but none reached her lips.
Before she could answer, Morticia appeared, carrying a neatly wrapped parcel with a knowing smile.
"It's already here, Princess."
Princess lifted her brows and inspected the fur, flawless. "I didn't expect it to be this clean." She glanced at Silver. "Take it to the storage unit." Then she strode toward the private lounge.
Silver stared at the parcel, disbelief and relief colliding. How was it perfect?
"Mr. Black brought it this morning," Morticia said, her eyes wary.
Edward had helped anyway. Was this to smooth things over, or remind her she needed his help? Either way, her job was safe. And she was grateful for that.
Morticia's gaze lingered, suspicion unspoken but heavy. "Be careful, Silver. Princess sees everything."
Silver held her stare, unbothered, then turned away. Let her wonder—she wouldn't waste energy explaining herself.
As she walked back to the storage unit, the soft rustle of silk and chiffon enveloped her, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing inside. If her boss ever discovered her connection with Edward, the consequences could be catastrophic. Worse still, the independence she had fought for after he left was slipping through her fingers, thread by fragile thread.
She placed the parcel on the shelf, the fur's softness a cruel reminder of his influence. The air, rich with perfume and fabric, pressed in on her chest, no longer soothing—only suffocating.
And in that moment, Silver wasn't sure what terrified her more—his return, or the reckless part of her that still longed for him.