RHEA

"We're here with Elara Hale-Head Designer of the wildly popular Wardrobe and wife of CEO Victor Hale. One half of New York's favourite power couple. This week's NYFW lineup has cemented Wardrobe as the most influential fashion brand in the world. When Wardrobe began, did you ever imagine reaching this level?"

Elara crosses her legs on-screen, polished and perfect. I button the cuffs of my shirt as I watch, sitting in an apartment that's technically a downgrade from hell, but still better than a prison cell. The ceiling leaks, rats hold nightly concerts, the heater's dead... but there's a bed, a roommate who snores instead of stabs, and most days, that's enough.

Elara smiles. "I always knew my husband was destined for success, so none of this surprises me. His vision and my designs built Wardrobe. I never doubted we'd make it."

The interviewer beams like she's been personally blessed. I glue the sole of my shoe back on and dig around for my bag.

"Of course. And do you have any advice for aspiring designers or fashion-school graduates who dream of working at Wardrobe?"

"Dream big. Work hard. Don't give up. And Wardrobe will always welcome you with open arms."

A lie so smooth it could win awards.

"You've heard it from Elara. Now, onto some circulating rumours: apparently the brand's first Head Designer-Aurora, was it?-recently passed away in prison just before her scheduled release. What-"

Elara tilts her head, perfect confusion... except for the tiny twitch in her pinky. "Who?"

I sling my bag over my shoulder and stop at the mirror on my way out. I'd tortured my afro-textured curls with my roommate's pathetic excuse for a straightener. Added a bit of blush so my brown skin didn't look as tired as I felt. Red lipstick. Clothes and a handbag I stitched myself on a second-hand sewing machine I could barely afford.

And yet. I look far more expensive than I am.

I look like a woman ready to walk out of Voss Atelier as the new Creative Director.

Shame the truth is messier.

I've always known the story Victor and Elara chose: that I never existed. That I was no one. Prison only confirmed it. That so-called "court wedding" Victor and I had? A joke. His real wife was Elara. Has always been Elara. Four kids. The eldest is eleven-older than my relationship with him. Their little fashion prodigy.

Just like the abortion Victor planned for me. The clinic? Never existed. The doctor? Fake identity. And the hysterectomy? Not a single trace.

And Camryn...

Nothing. No records. No birth certificate. No proof she ever drew breath.

Like my baby was a ghost.

It was a perfect dead end.

They played me. Used my designs. Hid me so well the world never even knew I'd been there.

But they don't know what they created. They don't know the fire they lit.

And the higher they've climbed, the sweeter it'll be when I drag everything they built straight to the ground.

And I will-because somewhere out there, Camryn exists. And I'm going to find her.

"Rhea! Grab takeout on your way back! And good luck on your interview-you look gorgeous!" Roofus leans out of his room with a grin.

"Tell that to your hookups. I'm not your free breakfast."

"Oh, don't be like tha-"

I shut the door before he can finish. He's not terrible, honestly-especially when he remembers the walls are thin and keeps it down with both the snoring and the sex.

Which, annoyingly, sends my brain straight back to him.

The memory of last night hits so hard I almost miss a step.

God. Heat coils low in my stomach, sharp and needy. My thighs press together before I can stop them. I can still feel Christian's hand wrapped around the back of my neck, his breath dragging slow and claiming against my ear right before he whispered, low and rough:

"Spread your legs for me, Dot."

Dot.

The way he said it... like he'd already decided I was his. Like he knew something about me I didn't want anyone to know.

I hadn't planned on sleeping with him. Not even close. I'd only stolen that invitation from a drunk investor to sneak into the event, to get a glimpse of the man who would run Voss Atelier. Christian Voss was supposed to be predictable-cold, polished, money-hungry.

But then he had me pinned against that marble wall, looking at me like he could read every secret I'd ever buried-

Yeah. My plan didn't just dissolve. It melted.

He kissed like he owned my mouth. Touched me like he was memorising every inch. Said my name as if he'd branded it onto his tongue.

And the worst part? My body still hasn't forgiven me for walking away.

Then guilt slams into me so fast it steals the breath right out of my chest.

I can't afford this.

Not this heat. Not this distraction. Not when I still haven't found my little girl.

Desire is a luxury. Guilt is the reality I wake up to.

I know Christian enough to know he'd never hire someone just because he slept with them. Profit is his religion. And my designs? They'd make him rich.

In return... I think of the bills and the note I left on his nightstand and can't help my snort.

Elara was right about one thing: Aurora Hale is dead. Erased. Forgotten.

But Rhea Ashford? She's the woman who'll burn the Hales to ash.

***

"Rhea Ashford?" A striking woman in a sleek pencil skirt calls out, clipboard in hand, her smile warm and assessing. "They're ready for you. I'll lead you to the boardroom... and can I say, I love your outfit!"

"Thank you," I reply, letting a small, polite smile slip past my nerves. I give my binder one last reassuring squeeze and follow her.

She leads me into a glass-walled conference room. Five board members I vaguely recognise sit around a long marble table, each with a polished tablet and a carefully neutral expression like they've already made up their minds.

I walk in anyway.

I pretend not to notice their impressed gazes track the lines of my outfit from the structured blazer, the hand-finished seams, to the bag I constructed stitch by stitch, though warmth slips into my chest. 

"Miss Ashford," the man at the centre says, motioning me to sit. "We've reviewed your portfolio. Your craftsmanship is... impressive."

"Thank you," I say quietly as I sit. "That means a lot."

Another board member clears her throat. "As you know, we're searching for a Creative Director. Someone fresh, with formal training and strong industry ties. Wardrobe's team is young, connected, constantly tapped into trends - we need someone who can compete with that."

I nod. Makes sense. Wardrobe is dominating fashion worldwide. Any new house would want to follow their lead. That wouldn't be an issue, except... 

The woman continues, listing off prestigious fashion schools: "Several applicants studied at IFA, Studio Haute, the New York Institute of Design and Sty-"

I clench my fists. I can't tell the truth. Faking my death in prison, taking on a new identity-it had cost me everything. Saying that all those schools paled in comparison to Maison Lumière in Paris would blow my cover. Maison Lumière, the best fashion school in the world, accepts only fifty students a year, and just five receive financial aid. I'd been nineteen-and on a full scholarship.

Not to mention, that's where I met Victor. He was thirty-one. I married him at twenty and dropped out in my second year when I got pregnant with Camryn. That part of my past? Never spoken of here.

I nod, folding my hands in my lap. "I understand. I wasn't able to afford schools like that. I trained locally, and even that ended early when the head professor passed away. Most of what I know, I learned on my own."

She instantly turns dismissive.

The man with glasses leans forward. "And your connections? Mentors, sponsors, anyone we'd know?"

"Not really," I admit. "I don't come from that world." I take a breath. "But I do understand design. And I understand people. Trends change fast, but what people want - what makes them feel something - that's deeper. That's what I focus on."

They exchange bored looks.

I glance at my portfolio on the table. "Wardrobe works because they're always ahead. Whoever you hire will need the freedom to create, not just imitate. If you only follow their formula... you'll always be two steps behind."

My voice is calm, not sharp. Honest, not defensive.

For a moment, no one speaks. I know I've hit a nerve.

I smooth my skirt, bite back a smile, and stand. "Thank you for the opportunity. Truly. I appreciate you taking the time to meet me."

"Miss Ashford-" one of them begins, hesitant.

"It's okay," I say gently. "I know I'm not what you expected."

I turn toward the door. Three... two-

"Wai-"

The door swings open, and I freeze.

He's standing there. Christian. Piercing grey eyes locked on mine, every inch of him radiating control. His hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Stubble along his jaw-rough, tantalizing-and I remember exactly how it felt against my skin last night. Leather jacket sleeves rolled up, showing tattooed arms, a silver pendant at his collarbone. Rings glint on his fingers, his hands shoved into his pockets.

A faint, amused lift curves his mouth as he steps inside, briefly acknowledging a board member with a tilt of his finger.

The board scrambles to their feet, murmuring, flustered.

"Mr. Voss-we didn't expect-"

He doesn't look at them. Only at me.

My pulse hammers in my chest. His presence is electric. Every nerve in my body is alive, every memory of last night dragging me closer to a dangerous edge.

He slides into the chair at the head of the table, arms crossed, eyes still on me.

"Please," he says, slow, deliberate, and every word lands like fire. "Don't stop on my account, Rhea Ashford."

That voice. The same deep, commanding drawl from last night. The one that whispered in my ear: Hands on the headboard, arch your back for me, Dot."

Heat curls low in my stomach. My thighs press together. My mouth goes dry.

Well, shit.

RHEA

THE NIGHT BEFORE

We're kissing before the door even closes. His mouth slams over mine, tongue pushing in deep, taking what he wants. I bite back, sucking his tongue, grinding my lips against his until we're both gasping.

I yank his belt open, tossing it while he pins me against the door, one hand shoving my dress up my thighs. His fingers slide higher, find my panties, rub my clit hard through the lace.

"Ah-fuck!" I moan loud into his mouth, hips bucking into his hand.

He growls, breaks the kiss only to rip my dress over my head. It's gone. He stares at me in just a bra and panties, eyes pure hunger. He licks his lips slowly. "Jesus, Ash. You're fucking perfect."

I grab his jacket, shove it off. He pulls his t-shirt off. I go for his pants, unzip fast, shove them down. He kicks them away. My bra is next-he unhooks it rough, yanks it off. His hands are on my breasts instantly, squeezing hard, thumbs flicking my nipples until they're tight and aching.

"Harder," I demand, pushing into his hands.

He does exactly that. I moan even louder, his lips catching mine in a hot, sloppy kiss that makes my toes curl. I bite his bottom lip-hard enough to draw blood. He groans deep, cock twitching against my thigh.

We break apart, panting. I smirk, swipe the blood off his lip with my thumb, then suck it clean. His bulge grows even bigger and I laugh. "You like that?"

His grin is pure filth. "Love it. Do it again."

"You're a freak."

"You have no idea," he says, voice thick.

He grabs my ass, and lifts me like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs tight around his waist, grinding down on his hard cock through his boxers. We both moan louder. He spanks my ass-a hard crack that stings perfectly. I yelp, grinding even harder.

"Fuck, yes," I hiss.

He leans in, breath hot on my ear. "You're the sexiest woman I've ever seen," he rasps, licking slow and wet up my throat. I shiver hard, nails digging deep into his shoulders, a needy gasp slipping out. "But you'd be even sexier with your hands tied, blindfold on, ass red from my palm, begging for my cock."

He throws me onto the bed. I bounce once, panting, thighs already soaked. His words hit me hard-my panties flood, slick running down my skin. I almost come just from that.

I stare up at him-hard, sweaty, long hair stuck to the ink on his neck, boxers straining. I lick my lips slowly.

Fuck, I want him.

I spot his belt on the floor, hook it with my toes, then drag it up. I spread my legs wide, one knee raised, offering the belt. My hands slide up to my breasts, squeezing them, pinching my nipples while I bite my lip and watch him.

"Well?" I challenge, voice thick with need. "What's stopping you? Tie me up. Spank me till I can't take it. Fuck me senseless. I want it all." I tilt my head, smile turning dirty. "Or do I have to beg, Mr. Voss?"

His eyes go black with lust, cock twitching hard against his boxers. He rips them off fast. He's huge-thick, veiny, perfect. My mouth waters.

He grabs the belt, leans down, licks slowly down from my raised ankle all the way up my leg to my soaked center. I moan loud, hips lifting. He grabs both my thighs, yanks me down the bed until I'm right under him, his face between my legs. He blows hot air over my clit; I gasp sharp, back arching.

"Careful what you ask for, Dot," he warns, voice rough and hungry. "I won't hold back."

I look straight at his cock, then up at him through my lashes. "Good," I breathe. "Don't."

PRESENT

RHEA

Seeing Christian wear that same careless, almost roguish smirk sends last night crashing back into me. My thighs clench before I can stop it.

How the hell is this man a stereotypical CEO?

He's nothing like the rumours say he is-nothing like the cold, ruthless shark everyone whispers about. None of it adds up. If he were half as cold and cruel as they say, he wouldn't have caught my attention at all.

But then again... Sister Agnes always said I was drawn to trouble. Said one day it would land me flat on my face.

She was right about Victor.

I'd be an idiot to let her be right again.

"Please," he says, slow and deliberate, each word sinking in like heat against skin. "Don't stop on my account, Rhea Ashford."

The look he gives me makes me fidget. It's not crude. It's worse than that. Like he sees everything-the faint bruises shadowing my collarbone beneath this damned shirt, the reason I chose longer sleeves, the places his hands lingered long enough to leave a memory behind.

His gaze lingers. Catalogues. Claims.

A low, satisfied sound hums in his chest, quiet enough that only I hear it. It still sends a traitorous spark straight through me.

Then his mouth curves-that wicked, knowing grin-as he leans back in the chair, elbow hooked over the armrest, chin settling into his knuckles like he owns the room.

"Well?" he drawls.

I finally find my voice. Clear my throat. Ignore the heat crawling under my skin.

"The interview just ended... Mr. Voss." The title slips out before I can stop it. The second it does, I know I've made a mistake.

He remembers exactly how I said it last night.

I see it in the way his eyes darken. In the slow roll of his tongue over his bottom lip. In the look that burns, unapologetic.

"Is that right?" he says at last.

Only then does he acknowledge the rest of the room, flicking them a glance so bored it's almost insulting. He reaches forward and plucks the stack of applicant files off the table, flipping through them slowly. Deliberately letting the silence stretch until it's unbearable.

That's when I notice it.

The tension isn't just awkwardness.

They're scared.

The board member with the bulging stomach wipes sweat from his forehead and swallows hard, like he's forcing the words past his throat. "M–Mr. Damien... will we be expecting your older brother as well? Mr. Voss didn't mention you standing in for him today."

Damien?

My brows knit.

Why would he call Christian that?

Everyone knows there are only two Voss men-Christian and his father. His father retired years ago, and handed the empire to his only son.

My stomach drops.

Unless...

My gaze snaps back to the man casually tossing the file on the table like it's worthless.

I've seen Christian Voss before. In interviews. In glossy magazine spreads. His hair was always cropped and perfect. His suits were always Armani. His presence was cold, polished, untouchable.

This man is none of that.

His hair is longer. His jacket is leather. The danger rolling off him is careless, unapologetic-nothing like Christian's controlled frost.

How the hell did I miss it?

Shock nearly knocks a laugh out of me. Was it the cocktail? The dim lighting? Or the fact that he'd had me shaking beneath him only hours ago?

Christia– no, Damien's smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"Of course he didn't," he says easily. "He has no idea I'm here."

A pause. Calculated.

"And it'll be better for all of us if it stays that way. Don't you think?"

The room goes very, very still.

"W–What do you mean, sir?" someone asks.

Damien taps the page once with his finger. "According to these evaluations," he says, "you rejected experienced, talented designers because they didn't attend the right schools." Another tap. "You passed over exceptional work because it didn't come with the right surname."

Silence.

"That's not Christian's standard." His tone goes lazy, almost amused. Like a cat stretching before it sinks its claws in. "My brother will be livid."

My brother.

Christian. His brother.

A sharp scoff slips out of me before I can stop it.

There's no fucking way.

His eyes find mine across the room-steady, burning.

"But of course," he says smoothly, lips curving into that wicked smile I tasted for hours last night. "That's just an assumption. What do I know?"

I shake my head, a helpless grin tugging at my mouth.

Well played, Mr. Voss.

Well fucking played.

And of course he sees it-that tiny crack. His smirk deepens, lazy and lethal, as he slips a hand into the inner pocket of his leather jacket.

My heart stutters just as he pulls out a note.

My note.

It's folded small, edges worn soft, like it's been touched a hundred times. Like he's carried it against his chest all day.

He lifts it slowly, deliberately, to his lips. Not a kiss, exactly. Just the brush of paper against that mouth I still feel between my thighs. His gaze never leaves mine, dark and ravenous, promising he remembers every gasp, every beg, every time I shattered for him.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

This is worse than treating my future boss like a prostitute.

I did all of that-every reckless, humiliating second-while mistaking him for his brother.

RHEA

I'm still trying to accept that this is actually happening when one of the board members - a balding man with sweat shining at his temples - clears his throat again. "Mr. Da-"

"Oh, relax," he cuts in, flicking a lazy hand. His other hand keeps turning the note over between his fingers. "My brother won't hear a word from me."

A pause.

"But that doesn't mean this mess won't eventually crawl its way back to him. Employee evaluations are what - two weeks away?"

Oh.

So, that's his play.

The room locks up. Not a single spine stays straight.

He opens the note again, eyes skimming it with a softness that makes my jaw tighten. The contrast is jarring. Someone beside me grips the edge of the table hard enough that it creaks.

"This is usually when people start making better choices," he says lightly, lifting his stare to sweep the room. Slow. Unrushed. Dangerous. "Wouldn't you agree?"

Nobody dares answer.

I click my tongue silently. Really? Not one of them has the spine to knock that smugness down even an inch?

I would pay good money to watch someone try.

My hands start to shake. I hate that they do. I curl my fingers into my palm until my nails bite, until the sting gives the anger somewhere to go.

Don't glare. Don't react. That's what he wants.

The worst part is... he didn't force me to have sex with him. And if I was given the choice, I'd do it again.

If I'm honest-painfully honest-he'd done the opposite. He'd controlled everything without ever crossing that line.  Every time I'd tried to say Christian's name last night, he'd stop me. Mouth. Teeth. Bites sharp enough to shut me up without a single word.

He'd just, conveniently, taken me for a fool and forgot to mention he was not his brother.

My jaw tightens.

I don't notice my left eye twitching until it's already too late. At some point, I'd found myself a seat far away enough to dwell in my anger, while not interrupting them.

Damien tilts his head toward the balding guy. "Maxwell, was it? One more thing."

"Y-Yes, sir. Anything."

"I'm looking for my kitten," he says.

I blink.

Of all the unhinged things-

"She ran away this morning."

He leans back like the room belongs to him-like it always has-and lets his eyes drag over me in a way that sends heat skittering down my spine.

"She's about this tall." His hand lifts, stopping exactly at my height. Of course it does. "Brown fur. Hazel eyes. Very pretty little thing." His mouth curves. "Sharp mouth. Bad attitude. Thinks she's smarter than everyone in the room."

My nails dig harder into my palm.

"She also has this irritating habit of mistaking me for my brother," he adds, voice light and conversational, like he's discussing the weather. "And if you call her Dot just right... she squeals."

I hate him.

I hate him so much my pulse goes feral.

I hate that my body answers anyway-pulse spiking, thighs pressing together under the table, heat blooming low and treacherous.

"Any of you seen her?"

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

So I snap it in half.

"I might have."

Every head turns to him. But I only feel him.

His attention slams into me like a physical force-hot, heavy, unmistakably predatory. When our eyes lock, something flashes in his: sharp interest, dark satisfaction, the glint of a predator who just heard his prey speak up.

I don't look away.

"I might have," I repeat, calm and clear.

He tilts his head, slow, savoring. Like he's tasting the sound of my voice and finding it delicious.

"And?" he murmurs. Just one word, low and rough, sliding straight down my spine.

I uncross and recross my legs. "She didn't look lost," I say. "She looked... disappointed."

A beat.

His gaze drifts-lazy, possessive-over my mouth, my throat, the curve of my jaw. Subtle enough that no one else notices. But I feel every inch of it like fingertips.

"Disappointed," he repeats, faintly amused.

"Yes." I lift my chin. "She realized she'd picked the wrong brother."

That does it.

The corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. Something darker. Hungrier.

"Did she say where she was headed?" he asks, voice smooth, edged with steel.

"No," I answer. "But she didn't strike me as someone who enjoys being chased."

His eyes narrow, just a fraction. The air tightens between us, taut as a wire.

"Funny," he says quietly. "I don't mind a chase."

My breath catches before I can stop it.

Then he exhales, slow and controlled, like he's reining himself in, then stands in one fluid motion, reaches for my file, and tears out the top sheet-the one with my passport photo staring back at me.

He folds it once, twice, and slips it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Right over his heart. Like it belongs there.

The rest of the file he lets drop onto the table with a soft thud.

Heat floods my stomach-anger and something worse.

As he passes my chair-close enough that his sleeve brushes my arm, close enough that I catch leather, smoke, and the faint warmth of his skin-his voice drops to a murmur meant only for me.

"Found her."

It's barely a breath. And yet.

My lungs forget how to work for a second.

Then he's gone, door clicking shut behind him.

The room collapses in on itself-chairs shifting, someone coughing, everyone suddenly remembering how to breathe.

Maxwell clears his throat, face flushed, and clearly confused by what just happened. He doesn't bring it up, though. I feel a rush of gratitude at that. "Miss Ashford, we're deeply sorry for the interruption. We clearly misjudged your qualifications.  Please-sit. We'd like to continue the interview properly."

I stand instead.

The woman reaches for my wrist. I step out of reach and give her a polite smile.

"No need," I say. "I've seen everything I came to see."

I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk to the door.

"One last thing," I add, fingers on the handle. "The man who just left?"

Maxwell hesitates. "Be careful not to mistake him for Mr. Christian Voss. That was Damien Voss-the younger twin."

I don't turn around.

"Oh," I say softly. "I know exactly who he is."

I walk out.

Pulse racing.

Blood boiling.

And the clear, infuriating certainty that Damien Voss didn't just provoke me.

He started a war.

And I will absolutely return the favour.