After work, I crashed Yvaine’s shoot. She was wrapping up a final round of photos for some artsy indie boutique no one’s heard of but everyone pretends to love.
When she finally changed out of a chainmail minidress and stilettos, we hit one of her regular haunts—this little boutique in West 7th called Spitfire. She’d sweet-talked the owner into holding a dress she claimed had my name stitched into the soul.
One look at the dress and I stopped breathing. Crimson satin. Plunging neckline. A thigh-high slit that could probably cause traffic accidents.
I gawked. ‘You’re kidding. I can’t wear that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just… not my usual style.’
‘That’s the point, honey. You’ve got one shot to stun a crowd and make a man spiral,’ Yvaine said, hands on her hips. ‘This is it. You’re not showing up as yourself tomorrow. You’re showing up as the woman every other woman wants to be, and every man regrets 

The Laurent family estate sat alone at the top of a private hill, like it thought it was too good to share real estate with the rest of us. The only way up was a winding mountain road that made my stomach do backflips.
Lately, all anyone in Skyline could talk about was the elusive Laurent heir like he was the second coming of Gatsby with better hair. I’d heard his name so many times it started to feel like subliminal messaging. At this point, I had to see what all the fuss was about.
Traffic on the way up was a nightmare—Skyline’s elite crawling up the mountain like glittery ants in black-tinted SUVs. We weren’t even at the top when Yvaine told the driver to pull over.
She got out first. I followed, tugging my dress down an inch—not that it helped.
Technically, I should’ve arrived with Ashton to sell the whole engagement thing. But he’d texted to say he’d be running late.
Yvaine hooked h

‘A what now?’ My brain did a double take and tripped over its own feet.
Savannah’s grin widened. ‘That necklace you designed? The one Eliza Black wore on the red carpet last week? It blew up. Press coverage, socials, even one of those trashy gossip TikToks. Nyx Collective finally went viral, and it’s thanks to you.’
Huh. I relaxed. So I wasn’t getting fired today.
‘So here’s the deal,’ she added breezily. ‘Ten grand. It’ll be in your account by the end of the day.’
I nearly hugged her. Nearly. But I settled for a deeply heartfelt thank-you and a facial expression that screamed ‘I suddenly believe in capitalism again.’
Back at my desk—yes, freelancers got cubicles too at Nyx Collective, mostly for the aesthetic—I dropped into my chair and tried to act casual. Which was difficult, because my inner monologue was doing the cha-cha to the sound of incoming funds.
Clearly, word had already spread, because no sooner had I logged in than someone from the next desk leaned over and whispered, ‘I’m so jealous. Ten thousand in one go? I’d sell a kidney for that kind of payday.’
‘I mean, the studio’s basically mainstream now,’ another designer piped up. ‘We’ve all got a shot at a viral moment.’
I gave them a modest little smile, the kind you practise in the mirror when you’re trying not to look smug but still want people to know you’re successful.
We were having a perfectly nice moment—bit of a gossip sesh, bit of humblebragging about my bonus—when a voice behind me sliced through the air like a rusty nail file.
‘She just got lucky, that’s all. Eliza Black could’ve picked anything. Total fluke.’
I looked up and to the left, already bracing myself. And there she was. Violet Lin. Designer, full-time drama queen, and my not-so-secret workplace nemesis. If I was the shiny new MacBook Air, she was the Dell laptop that kept overheating but swore she was ‘just as good, actually.’
Violet had been trying to outdo me since the day I walked into Nyx Collective with a sketchbook. She’d decided I was the obstacle between her and the sparkly throne of Top Designer, and she’d been waging a war ever since.
The second she opened her mouth, the whole room fell quieter than a group chat after someone types ‘I need to vent’. Everyone knew Violet and I didn’t mix.
She strutted past me, all clacking stilettos and cloying perfume.
‘Honestly, did any of you see the trending threads? People online are saying Nyx Collective stuff looks cheap now. One necklace, and the brand goes from boutique elegance to bargain bin Barbie.’
She tossed her hair like a shampoo model.
Right on cue, one of her usual background extras piped up with a helpful echo: ‘Totally. They’re roasting Eliza, but really they’re dragging the necklace.’
Ah, the classic tag-team shade. Subtle as a sledgehammer.
I tossed my pen down and turned, meeting her eyes dead-on.
‘Most of the reviews are singing her praises, darling. People are calling Eliza’s necklace a masterpiece. So where exactly is this imaginary “roast” you’re talking about? Or wait, don’t tell me. You’re either snacking on troll crumbs for breakfast or you genuinely think cubic zirconia is the pinnacle of design. Which is it? Be honest, we won’t judge—out loud.’
The silence was instant. Delicious.
I glanced in the direction of Savannah’s office. ‘Maybe I should ask Vanna if we’ve got overstaffing issues. Sounds like someone’s got way too much free time and WiFi.’
Everyone suddenly discovered their laptops were fascinating and started typing like their lives depended on it. After all, I’d just landed a fat bonus and was firmly in Savannah’s good books. No one with half a brain wanted beef with the boss’s current golden girl.
But Violet Lin wasn’t wired like the rest of us.
‘Some people really think they’re something just because they got ten grand. I mean, only people who are seriously broke would act like it’s a big deal.’
I let out a laugh. ‘Sure, some people might turn their noses up at ten grand… but then again, their designs aren’t even worth ten bucks. It’s kind of tragic when you think about it, spending your whole life sketching crap no celebrity would be caught dead in. And if my necklace “lowered the brand’s image”, then someone’s didn’t even make it onto the radar.’
Someone behind me snorted hard enough to nearly choke on her iced matcha.
Violet turned the same shade as her lipstick and slammed her coffee cup down. ‘Excuse me? Are you saying my designs have no class? Just because your little necklace ended up on Eliza Black’s neck? Please. Like I even rate her.’
I shrugged. ‘I didn’t mention any names. Funny how you brought yourself up, though. Bit of a self-drag, no?’
That shut her up real fast.
The office blessedly dipped into sweet, glorious silence. For a total of… what? Ninety seconds, maybe.
Then she was at it again, flapping her gums with the girl next to her like we were on a break in Year 9 homeroom.
‘Did you hear?’ she said, loud enough to rattle the windows. ‘The Laurent family’s throwing a gala. Word is, the heir himself is making a public appearance. Only the most influential people in Skyline are invited. And guess who just got an invitation?’
The moment she dropped the L-word, everyone perked up like meerkats at feeding time. I swear, one of the interns nearly dislocated a neck trying to lean closer.
Because yeah, the Laurent family basically runs the city. Skyline’s economic puppeteers. And their heir had never been seen in public. Zero photos. Just rumours and a PR team tighter than a nun’s wardrobe.
Apparently, getting an invite to this gala was harder than getting Taylor Swift tickets during presale. People were shelling out stupid money or calling in favours like it was their final wish on a deathbed.
Violet tilted her chin up, beaming as people gathered around her like she was royalty.
‘Some people,’ she drawled, flicking a look in my direction, ‘could design the Mona Lisa out of rhinestones and still die broke. They’ll never get a Laurent invite. It’s tragic, really.’
She even threw in a couple of pity clucks, like a gossiping aunt at a family reunion. Subtlety was not her strong suit.
I didn’t even blink. Kept right on sketching.
Then my phone dinged.
Yvaine had sent a photo of a dress and a message:
[Picked out the shiniest, sexiest dress ever. You’re gonna slay that party. Make Rhys Granger eat his heart out. MWAH!!!]

After work, I crashed Yvaine’s shoot. She was wrapping up a final round of photos for some artsy indie boutique no one’s heard of but everyone pretends to love.
When she finally changed out of a chainmail minidress and stilettos, we hit one of her regular haunts—this little boutique in West 7th called Spitfire. She’d sweet-talked the owner into holding a dress she claimed had my name stitched into the soul.
One look at the dress and I stopped breathing. Crimson satin. Plunging neckline. A thigh-high slit that could probably cause traffic accidents.
I gawked. ‘You’re kidding. I can’t wear that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Just… not my usual style.’
‘That’s the point, honey. You’ve got one shot to stun a crowd and make a man spiral,’ Yvaine said, hands on her hips. ‘This is it. You’re not showing up as yourself tomorrow. You’re showing up as the woman every other woman wants to be, and every man regrets losing.’
‘Bit dramatic,’ I muttered.
‘Bit iconic,’ she snapped. ‘Now shut up and try it on.’
Even th

Chapter 21