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ARIA VALE

There were two kinds of people who walked into Blackthorne Atelier, those who belong there and those who never will. As I stood in the towering lobby of one of the world’s most prestigious fashion houses, I wondered which category I was about to fall into.

A woman in impossibly high heels clacked past me, her perfume lingering in the air like a cloud of judgment. I squared my shoulders and tighten my grip on my leather portfolio.

Nerves churn in my stomach, but I had gotten good at hiding them. Confidence was part of the game in my line of work, and no matter how intimidating this place felt, I wouldn't let it show.

“Ms. Vale?” The receptionist called my name with an air of polite disinterest. She barely glanced up from her computer. “Mr. Blackthorne will see you now. Top floor.”

I nodded, murmuring a quick thank you, and made my way to the elevator. As the doors slided open, I step inside and took a deep breath. I had walked into high-stakes meetings before. CEOs, boardrooms, billion-dollar negotiations. I had seen it all. But Elliot Blackthorne? He was in a league of his own.

Everyone in the fashion industry knew his name. At thirty-four, he had built Blackthorne Atelier into an international powerhouse, a brand synonymous with luxury, precision, and perfection.

His suits were as sharp as his reputation, impeccable, impossible to ignore, and utterly untouchable. He was the man who single-handedly saved his family’s legacy and turned it into an empire, all while making headlines for his icy demeanor and the women desperate to crack his armor.

The elevator dings, and the doors opened revealing the top floor, a sprawling, glass-walled office space with panoramic views of New York City. The air smelled like expensive leather and something faintly citrus. For a moment, I was distracted by the skyline stretching out ahead of me.

For exactly three seconds, I allowed myself to marvel at the view. New York City sprawls below like a glittering promise of ambition and chaos, but I didn't have time to admire it. A sharp voice, smooth and commanding, cuts through the air, pulling me into the present.

“I don’t care how much they’re asking,” Elliot Blackthorne growled, his tone clipped. “If that shipment isn’t here by tomorrow, heads will roll. Do I make myself clear?”

I froze mid-step as I took in the room. Elliot stood with his back to me, silhouetted against the wall of windows, phone pressed to his ear. Even from behind, he was a commanding figure, broad shoulders encased in a charcoal-gray suit, every inch of him exuding power.

But it was not just him that caught my attention. I quickly noticed four women standing nervously off to the side, each clutching sleek black folders. Their posture varied; one fidgeted with her sleeve, another bit her lower lip, but they all wore the same tense, uncertain expression. Like they were waiting to be judged.

I hesitated. Was I supposed to join them? My stomach twisted at the sight of the others, consultants, assistants, interns? I didn't know, but they all looked as if they had been handpicked for this moment. One of them glanced over at me, her gaze sharp and assessing, as though she had already sized up the competition.

I took a slow breath, refusing to let their nerves infect me, and quietly made my way over to join them. I didn't know why were all here at the same time, but I was not about to show weakness.