Riley’s hands trembled slightly as she fastened the final stitch, the hiss of the iron drowning out her pulse. She barely heard Delaney’s crisp directions echoing off marble and glass—she only saw her design: sharp edges, raw bones, velvet softness, neon rebellion and longing all at once. As the model turned beneath the atelier’s punishing lights, Vincent’s focus narrowed. Everyone else evaporated. For a long, heart-thumping moment, he just watched Riley.

When applause finally broke, it was reluctant. Envy and curiosity twisted through the room. Riley forced herself to look straight ahead, but inside she was eleven years old again, hiding the bruises of her mother’s absence under thrift-store lace. Now, their eyes pinned her in the spotlight. She was both the anomaly and the experiment—a working-class girl plucked from obscurity, her future now staked on a scandal-starved industry.

The meeting dispersed in whispers, but Vincent stayed behind. He moved close—too close—studying her as if all the right words lay hidden in the tilt of her jaw. He spoke quietly, voice low and urgent. “I want to try something. For us. For the brand. I need you.”

Riley’s pulse hiccupped in her throat. “Why me?”

“Because they’re hungry for a story and you’re real. That terrifies them. We sell the fantasy, but you…you’re the one I’d actually want.” His gaze lingered. “If you’re willing, we act as if we’re together. Make them watch. Make them talk.”

Before she could answer, Delaney appeared, arms wrapped in practiced poise, lips pressed into a biting line. “Vincent, we should discuss optics. You understand the risk.” Her eyes raked over Riley—part curiosity, part warning, part something raw she couldn’t suppress.

Vincent’s stare didn’t waver. “We can control the narrative, Delaney. That’s what we do.”

Delaney scoffed, her voice taut with jealousy she tried to mask as professionalism. “Just be clear on what’s real, Vincent. The press will sense blood.” She turned, heels clicking—a signal and a dare.

Later, behind the shifting velvet backstage curtain, Vincent pressed the edge of a finger to Riley’s wrist, slow and lingering. “Shall we give them a show?” he murmured. The room fell away—voices blurred, nerves buzzing as he dipped his head, lips brushing hers. She expected a fleeting reassurance, but Vincent deepened the kiss, knuckles at her jaw, mouth hot and searching, hungry and dangerous. Electricity shivered down her spine, desire threading sharp through her uncertainty.

She kissed back—too long, too much, lost in the weight of his hands and the taste of longing neither could name. When they finally broke apart, the world snapped back into focus; a thousand unseen eyes seemed to burn against her flushed skin.

Their breaths tangled in the close darkness, and for an instant, Riley didn’t know if she was the mark or the accomplice. Vincent’s eyes were glass and shadow—something hurting, something hoping. Delaney watched the aftermath from the far side of the curtain, her mask of composure crumbling just enough for Riley to see the ache behind it.

The atelier emptied with the hush of secrets left unspoken. Alone with Vincent, Riley tried to find her voice. “Are you sure about this?” she whispered.

Vincent’s lips barely moved. “I’m not sure about anything anymore. But I know I want you beside me.”

Riley’s heart warred with her doubt.

In the darkness, as the last lights dimmed and the city’s pulse pressed close, Riley glanced at Vincent—caught between fear and falling, not knowing if this glittering facade was her chance or her undoing.

To be continued…