. ۫ ꣑ৎ “didn’t think he’d be your type,”
summary. careful who you shake hands with, Y/N—deals with the devil always come with fine print…
warnings. jealousy, slight angst, language
“Seriously, Drew?” you sigh, throwing your head back dramatically. Sunlight streams through the wide windows of the downtown diner, practically calling–begging for you to get out of this place. The faint sound of car horns and city life buzzes outside, it’s a pleasant reminder that somewhere out there, normal people are having normal lunches–not forging fake dating contracts.
You sit back up, crossing your arms as your eyes meet Drew’s again. He buries his face in his hands as if deeply regretting the choices that brought him here. Groaning, he aggressively scribbles something onto the tiny notepad between you. You arch a brow, “What now?”
“We can’t be stupid and sloppy about this, Y/N” he mutters, as if he was explaining something to a child, it strikes a chord in you.
You stare at him through your lashes, glaring, “We’re practically adults. You think we can’t navigate a fake relationship without a rulebook?”
Drew shakes his head and keeps scribbling. You chuckle dryly in complete disbelief. Before he can get too carried away you snatch the notepad from him. Your eyes scan his hastily written words; No public fights
You look back up at him, taking a deep breath. He’s smirking, like he wrote it just to piss you off. Sighing you roll up your sleeves, preparing to commit, “Fine fully.” you mutter, “Let’s just come up with five rules, we don’t need to write a college essay with citations.” you remark.
“First off,” you say, gently tapping the pen against your chin. “This whole thing–done and through by June.” You glance at the light dusting of snow covering the city outside. Six months should be enough. You hope.
Drew tilts his head, pursing his lips. “Make it July.”
“We have to be together on the senior trip.” He leans back as if its a non-negotiable. “If we stage the breakup before then, can you imagine how up-our-ass everyone will be on that trip?”
You huff, he’s right. “Fine.”
Drew grins as you write it down. “Next,” he says, leaning forward. “You’re my plus one at every annual ball, gala, and brunch.”
You sigh loudly. “God, do I have to?”
“Yes,” he replies instantly, not even entertaining the idea of compromise. “So that means we have to plan for the Winter Gala very soon…” He trails off, letting it settle in.
You groan again, dramatically dropping your head onto the table. “Whatever.” your words muffled.
“My turn, then!” You suddenly jump up, half of you wanting to take this seriously, the other half tempted to make something up just to annoy him. “Oh!” You snap your fingers. “We have to come up with a backstory and stick to it—how we met, how long we’ve been ‘dating,’ all that.”
Drew smiles maliciously. “Oh, we can make it good…”
You scribble it down, then pause. “Alright…next.” You hesitate, tapping the pen against your lip before saying. “No ‘cheating’.”
“If something gets out about you messing around with someone it’d be humiliating,” you explain, avoiding his gaze.
Drew barely hesitates. “Got it.”
He adds, “But that goes for you too, then”
You snort. “Oh, wait, you’re serious?”
“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes, you notice a flicker of amusement in them.
You shake your head, grinning, tapping the pen against the table. “Okay, one more…” You glance around the diner as if inspiration might strike.
Drew smirks knowingly. “Well, isn’t it obvious?
You look at him, already tired of his bullshit before it’s even begun. “What?”
He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low, warm hum. “We can’t fall in love.”
You jolt back, caught completely off guard. You scoff, letting out a dry laugh. “Trust me I won’t have an issue with that,” you remark looking him up and down condescendingly.
His smirk falters. “Whatever you say.” He crosses his arms, looking up at the ceiling in mock boredom.
You’re too busy laughing to notice how your foot moves under the table–your heel accidentally brushing against his leg.
You freeze, your eyes flicking down as your breath catches in your throat.
He notices. Because why wouldn’t he? Smirking, his voice is slow now, teasing almost, “Relax.” h
He chuckles. “And trust me I won’t any issues either.”
The rhythmic clack of your Manolo Blahniks against the marble floors echoed through the towering Vogue lobby. It was 9:00 AM sharp—earlier than you had ever willingly stepped into the office—but today was different. Today, you weren’t just an intern. Today, you were walking in as Vogue’s newest junior designer.
Unable to contain your excitement a quiet giggle bubbles from your lips as you strut these floors like a runway. Your hair was in a voluminous blowout, framing your face as if you were Donna Summer yourself. You wore a chic brown knit turtleneck resting over a perfectly fitted pencil skirt, your favorite birkin hanging from your forearm stuffed with sketchbooks, notes, and ideas just itching to be turned into reality.
The way you walked these halls–head up high–was with a confidence that came with knowing that you worked for this and you belong here. No more stiff blouses and pinstripe trousers, you weren’t a shadow in the background waiting to be told what to do–Today, you were seen.
But as you neared the elevator, you quickly realized that half the office had gathered around it like it was the only source of oxygen in the building.
The new Political Correspondent was starting today—the so-called dreamboat that half the office was already obsessed with. But nothing was getting in your way today.
Rolling your eyes, you veered off, heading toward the stairwell instead. If you took the stairs to the second floor, you could avoid the mob altogether.
You glance at the gleaming elevator door, it looks practically untouched. You caught your own reflection in the kob before pushing it open, the creak of the heavy door echoing through the empty stairwell.
And then–almost so quiet you would’ve missed it if you weren’t so aware this morning–a shuffling sound.
Your eyes narrowed as something–or someone–shifted behind the staircase. You decide to brush it off, you couldn’t let something like this shake you on your first day. Who knows? Maybe this is normal for 9:00AM.
You carry along, making your way up the steps, but then–
A heavy exhale echoed through the space, sending a chill down your spine.
“Hello?” you called, hesitating to continue walking. “Are you okay?”
A heavy gasp escapes from your lips when you see it. Stepping out from the shadow–him.
Dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that fit him a little too well, his chest rose and fell in an attempt to catch his breath.
You tried–really tried so hard not to stare.
With an easy smile, he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, dabbing the thin layer of sweat that had gathered around his temples before jogging up towards you. “What are you doing here?” he asked extending a hand.
You blink, raising a brow. Slowly shaking his hand, you have no idea what the fuck is happening. “What are you doing here?”
He chuckled, still a little out of breath. “Oh didn’t you hear? I’m starting as Political Correspondent.”
You exhaled, chuckling. “Of course.”
“This your first day, too?” he asks.
His hands casually slid into his pockets as his gaze flickered over you, slow and deliberate. “Well, you clean up nice,” he murmured, like he was slipping in a secret before you could catch it. “What’s your job here?”
Suddenly you’ve got Deja Vu, always Harris–with the sly compliments.
You chuckle nervously. “I’m starting as Junior Designer.”
His smile widened, genuine and warm. “Really? Holy shit.”
You suddenly feel the warmth of his arm sliding around your waist, pulling you in for a side hug. “Congratulations, Y/N. You deserve it.”
He patted your shoulder like it was nothing, oblivious to how your heart stopped from his touch. “Feels like just yesterday when you were designing dresses for my mom and her friends,” he mused, chuckling.
You managed a small laugh, too flustered to form words.
By the time you two reached the second floor, your short catch-up was coming to an end. Harris exhaled, slowing his steps.
You sigh. “My floors right here, so…”
He stops you at the door, you turn back, eyebrows raised.
His voice was smooth casual–but there was a quiet confidence underneath. “We should do this again.” his lips quirked into a small, knowing smirk. “Find me at lunch.”
Fighting the urge to turn around you took a few steps forward–only to fail at the last second.
You turn to see Harris still standing there, leaning in the doorway, watching you walk away. When your eyes met again, he winked.
You turned back instantly, heartbeat hammering.
The room is completely silent, thick with that tension that only comes with being in the presence of someone who doesn’t tolerate mistakes, nor does she have time for them.
You–try–to mimic her, sitting perfectly poised, spine straight and your fingers sneakily skimming over the edge of your notepad, but your mind is restless. Across from you was Nova Kaine herself, you’d met with her enough times to not squirm at her presence but there was something about the way her dark brows furrowed in concentration as she pinned fabric swatches and editorial tear sheets onto the mood board, she was in her element.
You could see the slightest movement of her lips as she mumbled to herself, barely audible, as if she was having a back in forth with the ideas swirling in her head. “Turquoise…oh, and gold. Of course!” She steps back, analyzing her creation–figuring out what to do next. She leans in again, shifting a fabric scrap slightly.
Your fingers tighten around your pen as you take a quick glance at her open sketchbook, but you find yourself unable to shift your gaze, catching a glimpse of her designs. They are stunning–fluid yet structured, timeless yet impossibly modern. Her winter collection was inspired by the elegant silhouettes of traditional Egyptian gowns, you noticed how Nova often pulled from history for her designs–her last collection being a modern twist of the Regency Era of Great Britain. But she never failed to give them that unmistakable Nova touch–while the designs were classy they were also trashy, effortlessly cool. You could see the designs coming to life, shimmering under studio lights, sculpted against bodies out of paintings.
She sighs, her movements slowing as she taps her long acrylic nails against the edge of the board, she seems satisfied with the product–for now. Then, without missing a beat, she turns to you.
“Okay.” she exhales. “I need you to take this to Priscilla. Tell her it’s for the shoot.” She grabs a folder from her desk, holding it out without even looking at you.
You take it instinctively, gripping it tight, and repeating in your head, “Priscilla. Shoot. Priscilla. Shoot–” But before you can even register the task, she’s already onto the next thing.
“Then, go to the patterns department. Across the hall, and keep going left until you find Sebastian–ask him for the fabrics I requested.”
Reaching for your pen, you stammer. “Wait–sorry hold on.” You flip open your notepad. “What else?”
Nova barely glances at you. “Patterns, Sebastian, Fabrics. Then come back and look into…” she pauses tapping a pen against her chin, “Gabriette Beaumont. I want you to draft me a solid concept for a shoot featuring her in my Spring collection, that has to be done by tomorrow morning.”
You nod quickly, scribbling it down.
She takes a breath, but you know not to let your guard down just yet. “And you can do whatever after that, as long as your back by three,” she says, finally her gaze meeting yours. “We’re meeting with Sabine Sinclair about my next collection.”
The shock runs down your spine at the name–Sabine Sinclair, editor-in-chief, testamaker, and curator of Vogue. You’ve spent years studying her features in the glossy pages of Vogue, neglecting homework to listen to the sharp wit of her interviews, you’re fully aware that a single nod of approval from her could change the course of a designer’s career forever.
You swallow hard, trying to swallow down your anxiety with it. “Got it.”
Nova finally stops moving, she’s looking right at you now, taking you in like she’s measuring whetehr you can handle this, whether you should handle this.
It’s a lot but yet, instead of feeling overwhelmed, you feel something else entirely.
You’re not running errands anymore, fetching coffee.
This is real, you’re working under Nova Kaine–the Nova Kaine whose built her own empire with nothing but raw talent and ruthless determination.
This is exactly where you’re supposed to be.
The cursor blinks at the end of your last sentence. You exhale, stretching your fingers, resting from the relentless typing. Your lunch break started fifteen minutes ago. You glance over at Nova, who’s fully immersed in her work, the rhythmic whir of the sewing machine echoes through the studio.
Leaning back in your chair, you clear her throat. “The concept is ready. Would you prefer for me to print it out so you can have it on paper?”
Nova barely glances at you, entranced in her work, she only nods in approval. “Yes. Great work, Y/N.”
You blink, caught off guard by the praise. Nova Kaine–the Nova Kaine–just told you “Great Work.”
Your lips twitch into a small, grateful smile. “Thank you.” You nod trying to play it cool as you push back your chair and head toward the door.
Stepping into the hallway it all hits you, you’re in the Vogue building, where tall impossibly elegant models strut past. Where designers argue passionately over fabric swatches, while assistants–wide eyed and frantic–dart between rooms, balancing coffees and garment bags.
The air smells like Chanel and ambition.
You can’t help but revel in the chaos, it feels like home.
The hum of the printers fill the empty copier room, The air crisp, almost too cold as if the AC is working overtime. A stark contrast to the warmth still clinging to your skin from rushing around all morning.
You exhale, steadying yourself as you connect to the printer’s network. You watch as the moodboard prints, the images stacking–Soft summer hues, Marie antoinette draped in pastels, extravagant cakes adorned with sugar roses, sprawling gardens kisses by golden sunlight. The vision is coming together, you can’t help but smile at the photos.
That sound of polished loafers against marble echoes through the room, it’s a sound you instantly recognize. The once-quiet space tightens with his prescence, a chill crawls up your spine before you even see him.
“You’re not avoiding me, are you?” His voice, smooth and testing.
You glance over your shoulder, and there he is–Harris leaning lazily against a nearby printer, his smirk just as self-assured as ever.
Your breath catches for half a second, but you recover quickly, shaking your head with a dry laugh. “No–no, I just got on my lunch break,” you say, rolling your eyes.
He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “You didn’t expect me to come running right at noon, did you?” you add, turning to fully face him now.
He’s relaxed–you can’t help but notice his bicep flexing slightly through his linen shirt as he rests his arm against the copier, his gaze unmoving.
His laugh fades, but his smirk lingers. And then–his eyes flicker downward, just for a second where if you blinked you’d miss it. But how could you? His eyes flicker from your face to your hips, back to your face.
A warmth spreads up your neck before you can stop it.
“So you’re on lunch, then?” His voice casual, but something was lingering behind it–something knowing.
“Yeah,” you say, without hesitation.
Harris licks his lips, nodding as if he’s already decided something for you. “Get your stuff and meet me in the lobby in ten.”
He turns to leave but doesn’t go without leaving his mark–his hand slowly brushing over your shoulder, just enough to leave a ghost of warmth behind.
You stand there, completely paralyzed, gripping the printer pages as you take a deep breath, trying (and failing) the fight the uncontrollable smile tugging at your lips.
You take in the scent of fresh dough and melted cheese as you step into the cozy pizza shop. It’s small, warm, and busy to enough to feel lived-in without being overwhelming. The hum of conversation mixes with the faint sound of classic rock playing from an old jukebox in the corner. The booths are worn but comfortable, it’s the kind of place where regulars are greeted like family. Clearly, Harris is one of them.
He’s got an arm resting on your back, guiding you toward a booth near the window, his hand brushing against your lower back as he gestures for you too sit, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine. You slide into the seat, watching as he heads toward the counter to order.
You begin to notice how at ease he is here. He leans against the register, forearms resting casually on the counter, his expensive watch glinting under the warm lighting. He’s talking to the girl behind the counter–a host, maybe an old friend–whoever she is, she’s laughing. But it’s not just any laugh, it’s that soft, secret kind of giggle that your stomach twist.
She tucks a loose curl behind her ear, looking up at him through her lashes, while her murmurs something just low enough that you can’t hear. He leans in closer, grinning, and you swear you catch his fingers briefly graze her wrist.
You shift in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of the situation you’ve put yourself in, suddenly you can feel the way your blouse clings to your skin in the steamy room, the warmth of the booth pressing against your back. The way your jaw tightens as you watch him–observe him–effortlessly mimic that same smooth, irresistible charm he used on you.
The thought creeps in and before you can stop it your mind is racing. You drop your gaze to the menu, pretending to read it as if the words were at all conceivable.
You don’t care. You shouldn’t care.
But something about it unsettles you.
Maybe it’s the way the girl’s eyes flicker over to you, taking you in, analyzing you before leaning in just a little closer to Harris, like she was in on something you weren’t.
Or maybe it wasn’t her. Perhaps it was the realization sinking in–what did you think this was?
You’re sitting here in a pizza shop WAITING for Harris Vanderbilt, knowing full well the deal you entered with his brother not even two days ago.
But, for some reasons that you don’t want to admit, that whole ordeal least of your worries.
Harris effortlessly slides into the seat across from you, his signature, ever-present, easy smile playing on his lips. He rests his elbows on the table, leaning in slightly, the warmth of his gaze locking onto yours. You tell yourself not to react, but it’s the way he looks at you–curious, amused, like he’s almost solved a puzzle there’s just one last missing piece–it pulls you in. Before you know it, you’re inching closer, leaning in without realizing it.
His smirk widens. “So, what’s going on with you and my brother?”
The words land like glass shattering in the middle of the room. You jerk back in shock, a sharp breath catching in your throat. How the hell did that get to him so fast?
You struggle to stay composed, to play the part. “We’re dating,” you say, forcing a casual sigh, and avoiding his gaze.
Harris tilts his head, unimpressed. His smirk doesn’t falter, but there’s something behind it–teasing, skeptical. “Really?” He hums, his voice dropping just slightly. “You don’t look too happy about it.” He leans in even closer, his voice now a quiet murmur, only for you to hear. “Didn’t think he’d be your type.”
You shift in your seat, tugging at the last bit of nonchalance you have, but it’s so hard when he watches you like that, you know he’s noticing every little flinch–your fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the menu, the sudden dryness in your throat. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
You raise a brow, forcing composure. “And what did you think my type was?” Your lips curve into a smirk, inviting him to be honest.
For once, he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back, eyes scanning you slowly, chuckling as if he knew something you didn’t.
You struggle to maintain eye contact, raising your brows slightly, playing clueless.
He squints, lips twitching. “Nevermind.” He shakes his head, exhaling through his nose like he’s amused by his own restraint. “You know—”
At the worst moment he’s interupted, the girl from the register places a large margherita in front of you, her attention almost immediately flicking back to Harris. “Any drinks with that? Harris you’ll be having the Lemon Seltzer, I presume?” She flashes him a knowing smile.
Harris returns it, nodding. Then–almost like an afterthought–he glances back to you.
Your arms cross as you force tight lipped smile, nodding aggressively. “I’ll just take a water, thank you.”
The girl awkwardly nods and walks off. You can feel Harris’ eyes on you, waiting for something, but you give him nothing. Your gaze shifts to the menu, pretending to study it like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.
He doesn’t let you get away with it.
“So,” he starts, shifting in his seat, trying to pick the conversation back up quickly. “Your first day–how it’s going?” He nods eagerly, awaiting a response.
“Fine.” Your response is quick, detached, your eyes still scanning the menu. “What about you. Harris?” You ask, your tone almost dismissive, you keep your gaze occupied with the meaningless text just to avoid looking at him.
Before you can register, his hand is on the edge of your menum slowly lowering it, forcing your to meet his gaze. His fingers graze yours, a fleeting touch that shouldn’t make your breath catch the way it does.
Your heart jumps into your throat.
He’s not backing down. “Tell me about yours.” His eyes search yours, looking, waiting for something real.
Your lips part, but you hesitate. You could shut this down. Change the subject. Remind yourself why you’re even here in the first place.
But instead, you exhale, conceding, your voice quieter now. “It’s actually been so exhausting…”
And just like that, you’re talking.
The meeting room doors shut behind you with a soft clickm and you release a deep breath, rolling your shoulders and cracking your back. That Sabine Sinclair was ruthless–her critiques sharp as razors, her expectations were nearly impossible, But you and Nova fought for her collection and despite the brutal back-and-forth, you won. You can feel your body ache from exhaustion, but your excitement creeps in. You can already see it now, debuting in Paris, Nova’s vision coming to life.
Before you can trudge to the elevator, Nova’s voice pulls you back.
“Hey,” she calls, stopping you in your tracks. You turn to her, and for the first time today her expression isn’t embedded in deep concentration or stubborn determination–she’s smiling. “Great work today, keep it up and I’m sure you’ll be in my position someday.”
You blink, completely caught off guard. Praise isn’t something Nova gives out to everyone, but somehow you managed to get two compliments from her today, you must be doing something right. Right?
You manage a small, grateful nod. “Thank you so much, Nova.
She taps your shoulder lightly as she passes, her arm grazing yours. “See you tomorrow,” she adds before disappearing down the hall.
You step into the elevator, exhaling as the doors start to close, the hard part is over but you’ve got this weird feeling in your stomach like you’re forgetting something awfully to important to be forgotten–suddenly you feel your stomach drop at the sight a very familiar pair of loafers.
You lift your head slowly, and there he is.
You immediately look back down, avoiding him deliberately.
He stands leaning against the wall, one hand holding his phone, the other casually resting in his pocket. He doesn’t speak–not right away. Instead he tilts his head over so slightly, lowering himself just enough to meet your eye level.
“Everything okay down here?” His voice is soft, teasing, but the way he looks at you makes your breath hitch.
Your head snaps up. “Shit, sorry–I was just thinking about something,”
“All good.” His smirk doesn’t waver. “What are you thinking about?”
You hesitate for a second, looking up at him. His eyes are filled with curiosity, as he smiles warmly at you.
Suddenly the elevator dings, the doors sliding open at the first floor. Suddenly a wave of people flood in–sharp suits, chatter, the scent of sweat and cologne fills the small space.
A strong hand grips your waist, pulling you in.
Your breath catches as Harris moves you out of the way just before something nearly steps into you. But he doesn’t let go.
Your bodies a pressed against eachother, so much so that you can feel the slow rise and fall of his, the warm of his body against yours. The scent of him–woodsy and clean–invades your senses. You tip your head up, and suddenly, he’s right there. Face to face.
Your mouth parts slightly, as his hand, still resting on your waist, shifts–his thumb absentmindedly brushing against the fabric of your skirt.
You don’t dare move. Neither does he.
The hum of conversion surrounding you fades into static.
His grip tightens just a bit, fingers pressing into your waist. He lets out a soft chuckle, the sound vibrating between you. “Jeez, the finance floor is packed,” he murmurs, like that was the reason he was still touching you.
But his hand doesn’t move.
You stare at him through your lashes, blinking. “Mhm.”
His gaze flickers–first to your eyes, then, just for a second, to your lips.
“Yup,” he echoes, his voice now a quiet murmur.
Neither of you move, neither of you want to.
The sharp ding of the elevator pierces the air, your pulse hammers in your ears, your breath caught in your throat. He doesn’t move, his fingers grazing the curve of your waist, as if daring you to stay.
With careful precision, you reach down to your waist, slipping his arm away from your, the warmth of his skin vanishing in an instant. You step back, not daring to meet his eyes murmuring, “See you Harris,” before you turn on your heel making your escape.
The second you step outside, you keep your head low, moving quickly as your heart pounds against your chest. The cold air nips at your skin, but you barely feel it over the heat still lingering from Harris’ touch. You just pray he doesn’t follow you, that you can disappear into the city before–
Your heel catches onto the pavement. Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as you clumsily stumble forward, bracing for impact–
But instead of hitting the cold concert, you find yourself crashing into something solid.
His strong hands grip your arms, steadying you effortlessly. The scent hits you first, he reeks of tequila, tangled with the expensive spice of cologne. Your stomach drops.
Slowly–dreading what you’ll see–you look up.
Straight into the stormy, bloodshot gaze of Drew.
Your breath catches, heart slamming against your ribs. He’s leaning against his car, one hand still holding your arm, his expression; unreadable. His uniform is rumpled, unbuttoned just enough to hint that he didn’t just go to school today. His eyes, heavy-lidded, flicker over you–searching and assessing.
His fingers flex ever so slightly before letting you go. Then, in that quiet, raspy drawl–
“Jesus,” he tsks, shaking his head. “Get in.”
You jerk back in disbelief, you want to say something. Demand to know where he’s been, why he looks like this and why he’s even here. But Harris was inches behind and the last thing you needed was them crossing paths.
You slip into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut behind you.
Drew settles in beside you, his grip on the wheel lazy, but his entire body wound tight. The silence between you is suffocating, the air thick with the scent of leather, cologne, and weed.
He doesn’t start the car right away. Instead he exhales sharply, running a hand through his messy hair. His fingers drum against the wheel before he finally speaks. “You said you got out at four.”
It’s quiet, but there’s an edge lingering beneath it. A hint of frustration.
He inhale deeply, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry,” your murmur, the words feeling like poison on your tongue. “The meeting ran late.”
He lets out a deep sigh. The car hums as he starts the engine, focused on the road–his features unreadable.
The question makes you tense.
You don’t respond right away, studying him carefully. There’s a slight smirk tugging at his lips. The slow, heavy blink of his tired eyes. How pale his knuckles are as his fingers flex against the leather wheel. He seems… off.
“Pretty good…” You respond, your voice wary.
You hesitate, then finally ask, “Where have you been?”
Drew lets out a quiet, breathy chuckle, but his smile is stiff and unwelcoming. His grip on the wheel tightens. “Where have I been?” he replies while chuckling dryly.
Then, he deeply exhales through his nose. “What were you thinking?”
Your stomach drops, his tone is laced with something different now. It’s not teasing, not smug.
You stammer, caught off guard. “What?”
He doesn’t look away from the road, his jaw tightening and lips parting like he’s searching for the right words–before, finally.
“It’s amazing how you can act so clueless.”
Your heart jumps, could he know? There’s no way.
He finally looks back at you, his jaw tightens as he shakes his head. “Don’t you remember, going on a date with my brother?”
Your pulse spikes. “It wasn’t a date,” you argue, voice rising instintictively. “We work together, is getting lunch a crime?”
“Y/N, all we did was breathe in eachothers vicinity and now we’re ‘The Upper East Sides New It Couple!’. And you’re out with him before we even had the chance to–” He cuts himself off with an exhale, loosening his grip on the wheel. “We haven’t even made it official to the public and you’re jumping to go to lunch with another guy–my brother at that–if that got out I would’ve looked like a fool.”
You shake your head, frustration bubbling to the surface. You know you made a mistake but you can’t dare admit that to him.
“How’d you even find out, Drew?”
He scoffs in disbelief, jaw clenching. “How is that any of your business?”
You let out a humourless laugh. “Of course. Another fucking secret!” The words barely leave your mouth before–
The car jerks to violent stop as Drew takes a sharp turn into a driveway. Your body lurches forward, barely caught by the seatbelt as the tires scratch against the pavement. Your breath shudders as you grip on the edge of your seat, adrenaline spiking.
Drew doesn’t even flinch.
Without a word, he unclips his seatbelt, pushing opening the door, and slamming it shut behind him. You stay frozen in your seat, chest rising and falling quickly, trying to catch your breath. What the hell was that?
His voice cuts through the air as he knocks on your window, impatient. There he was–standing right in front of Valentina & Co., the most exclusive ball gown boutique on the Upper East Side.
Your lips part in realization. The Frost Gala was next week.
You exhale slowly, blood still thrumming with adrenaline. You grip the door handle, muttering under your breath,
Then with an aggressive shove, you push the door open and step out.
The moment you step into Valentina & Co, it almost all fades away, every ounce of resentment towards Drew, this entire situation infact, all fades away–just for a second.
The boutique is breathtaking.
Soft golden lighting glows against the pearl-white walls, illuminating the cascading fabrics and glistening embellishments that hang delicately on polished racks. The air hums with the faint scent of fresh roses and expensive perfume, wrapping you in the very essence of luxury. No matter how much you hate Drew right now, no matter how much you loathe being dragged here—you can’t deny it.
This store is the epitome of high fashion.
You can feel the stunning pieces flirting with you, begging for a closer look–gowns by Oscar de la Renta, Valentin Haute Couture–fine pieces of art that you’ve only ever admired from the background. At all those charity galas, brunches, and endless fundraises, you’d always slipped into the role of observer, quietly admiring the stunning dresses in the shadows.
Now, you’re expected to step into the spotlight.
You catch a glimpse of Drew, standing a few feet ahead. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a shift in him. The moment he notices eyes on him, his shoulders straighten, his lips curl into a perfectly rehearsed smile—effortless, practiced. “Just play along for now–we’ll talk about it later.” he whispers.
You force yourself to follow suit. The smile you offer is stiff, barely holding, but it’s sufficient.
Drew strides towards the front desk as you struggle to keep up, he leans in to whisper something to the concierge. The woman–polished and poised–nods rapidly before turning to the boutique floor.
“Close the shop!” she calls out, clapping her hands. “Everybody out–now!”
Your stomach drops, freezing mid-step. Close the shop?
Drew turns back, his expression unreadable as he tilts his head towards. His voice is softer now, almost gentle.
Against all your will, you don’t argue.
Within minutes the boutique is empty, leaving only the two your and the tired yet impeccably polished staff. You settle down onto plush velvet cushion beside Drew, smoothing your skirt instinctively.
A young woman approaches, handing you a cocktail menu. You blink, stunned.
You lean towards Drew, your voice lowering into a soft whisper. “Drinks? Really?”
He chuckles, stretching his arm lazily around the back of the cusion he leans towards you, “Well–”
Before he can finish, a frantic saleswoman rushes toward you, pushing a rack off dresses with delicate urgency. The hangers clanking together softly, silk and tulle swaying with the movement.
“There’s more coming, miss—please, enjoy!” she says, before hurrying back into the showroom.”
You barely manage to gasp out a, “T—thank you!” before she disappears.
Then, finally, you take in the sight before you.
Exquisite gowns, every stitch, every embellishment was it’s own piece of art. Breathtaking fabrics in deepl jewel tones, pastels that looked like they belonged in a fairytaile, icy blues and velvety blacks that exuded effortless power.
“But you’re looking for gold, aren’t you?”
Your head snaps towards him. He flashes a subtle smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. He doesn’t even glance at you–just idly skimming through the gowns, fingers grazing the fabrics.
“It’s almost all you wear,” he continues casually. “It;s what you wore to mother’s dinner party…the Sinclair Fundraiser in June…”
The way he says it so nonchalantly like it was just an observation–all he noticed and remembered sent something unfamiliar curling in your stomach.
You nervously chuckle, smoothing your hands over your lap. “Yeah, well…I mean, it’s not all I swear,” you deflect, trying to sound indifferent.
But it’s so hard to ignore.
Because the truth is–up until now–you hadn’t even noticed the pattern yourself.
Drew’s voice is casual but demanding, as if he wasn’t leaving room for argument. He holds up a gown–a delicate, dreamlike creation in baby pink, sheer, and adorned with floral embellishments.
The dress is something you’d never pick out on your own–soft, and ethereal isn’t your usual style–but it’s stunning nonetheless. The kind of dress that belongs in a garden at golden hour, whispering against the skin like a breeze. It was Emma Scervino, you think.
You take it from his hands, fingers trailing over the intricate embroidery. “It’s gorgeous.”
Something in his tone is different–softer, more genuine–you glance up but before you can catch him, he’s already looking away, shifting toward the saleswoman as she wheels in another rack.
“So these are your golds and silvers,” she announces straightening the dresses. “And we’ll bring out the brighter colors next if that’s what you’re interested in.”
You offer her a polite smile. “Thank you so much!”
Drew barely acknowledges simply nodding, he already begins to comb through the gowns, fingers grazing the shimmering metallics. “But I guess this is more your style.” His voice amused as he lifts a particularly reflective number, golden sequins catching the light in an almost blinding display.
You chuckle, shaking your head–but then you see it.
“Oh, but this…” Your breath catches as your fingers hover over a golden, glittering masterpiece–an Elie Saab gown dripping in sparkling embellishments, so decadent it looks like it was spun from pure stardust.
Drew steps back, eyes flickering between you and the dress.
“Doesn’t look too different from anything I’ve seen you in.” His voice is quieter now.
You scoff. “Drew this is Elie Saab, his Fall 2004 collection–I believe. Just look at the embellishments.” You hold the dress above your head, closer to him.
He leans in, taking a closer look as he inches closer, then putting the hanger down bringing the two of you face to face. “It’s pretty.” he teases.
Turning back to rack he skims through the dresses, “But have you ever tried wearing something different, don’t you want to be a designer–you need versatility.” Without hesitation he pulls another gown from the rack–this time it was an icy silver-blue that almost glowed under the boutique lights.
He turns it in his hand, eyes flickering to you for a brief second. “Something like this.”
You tilt your head curiously. “You’re taste isn’t half bad, Drew.”
Your fingers find the tag.
Before Drew can answer, one of the stylists perk up as if she was summoned. “Oh that collection isn’t out yet,” she beams. “New collection, SS25.”
You inhale sharply, eyes widening. “Really?” You nod rapidly, carefully handing the dress back to Drew after finding out its worth.
Drew chuckles at your reaction, clearly amused. “Look at you,” he teases. “You almost look impressed.”
As the evening stretches on you soon grow tired of the endless parade of silk, tulle, and sequins. Your mind dizzy with exhaustion, and too many martinis, can hardly keep up anymore.
You groan loudly, slouching onto the plush seat beside Drew after going through another rack, your limbs are heavy from the hours spent sifting through the detailed, and intricate garments. “Oh, God, we’ll never find the perfect one. Let’s just go with the gold one.” Your voice barely projecting through your exhaustion.
Drew, equally drained–and equally tipsy–lifts his head. His tie is loosened, his usual sharp composure dulled by the draining day. “Are you completely sure?” he glances to you, but before you can answer the saleswoman enters with one final rack.
“This is all we have.” She says with an exasperated sigh.
You barely glance up, expecting more of the same—until something catches the corner of your eye.
Your breath hitches. “Wait.”
Drew straightens his posture, eyes flickering to you he slowly stands up. “What?”
“Oh-oh…” You push yourself upright, admiring the garment.
Your all-time favorite designer.
The collection you’d obsessed over for months since its debut, traced in magazines, dreamed of wearing.
It was a light bubblegum pink, soft, sheer yet luminscent catching the light in a way that almost made it seem alive, sentient. Romantic. Otherworldly.
You swallow, fingers curling delicately at the fabric. “I want to try this one.”
Drew doesn’t hesitate, signaling to a staff-member nearby—his silent command met with a nod.
You try the dress on, heart pounding as it sleeps delicately onto you, hugging your form—as it was made for you.
You smooth your hands down the bodice, watching the way it hugs your form—as if it was made for you.
A whisper leaves your lips, barely audible. "Perfect."
You shakily open the door, the real test awaits.
You don't know why you feel so unsteady, so oddly nervous, but your gaze wavers, barely able to meet
You look up just in time to see it—his gaze flickering over you, then away, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.
He clears his throat, forcing a casual stance. "Mhm." His voice is lower, rougher.
Then he pushes himself up, smoothing his pants with a
quick, almost restless motion.
"Very..." He hesitates, his fingers ghosting over his lips, eyes dragging over you once more before he quickly-too quickly-steps forward.
"Good—" His voice is abrupt, and before you can react, his hand is at the small of your back, guiding you back toward the dressing room.
His touch lingers for a second longer than necessary.
"We'll take it!" he calls out to the employee, voice louder than before. Almost hurried.
You back glance to him, gripping the handle. His warm breath brushing across your shoulder, he glances down.
You quickly snap out of it, rushing into the room and slamming the door.
You try to ignore it, but the moment lingered in the air.
seriously thank u guys so much for the support, didn’t expect u guys to fw me like this ughh im so so srry for taking so long to post this i just never expected this type of love & support, thank u again for ur patience!
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