Luca’s eyes narrowed.“We lead by setting a commercial standard, not by indulging every half-baked idealist with a sewing machine.”
The word“indulging” hung in the air, poisonous and cruel. It reduced her professional opinion to a personal fancy, a whim he was tolerating.
“Right,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet. She stood up, gathering her notes.“I see.”
She didn’t look at him for the rest of the day. He tried to catch her eye, sent a terse email about another project, but she ignored it all. The thrill of their secret romance curdled into a sickening feeling. In his office, he was her lover. In a meeting, she was just another employee whose ideas could be publicly dismantled.
That evening, he was waiting for her outside her building, leaning against the brick wall, hands in his pockets. The spring evening was soft, a stark contrast to the tension between them.
“Isla.”
She tried to walk past him.“I’m not in the mood, Luca.”
He fell into step beside her.“That was work. You can’t separate the two?”
She whirled on him.“Can you? Because from where I was sitting, it felt very personal.‘Indulging’? You made me sound like a child.”
“I was making a business decision!”
“You were being a condescending bastard! My idea had merit and you shredded it because it didn’t fit your narrow view of what Chroma should be. You didn’t even try to see it.”
“My narrow view is what keeps this magazine at the top!” he retorted, his own temper fraying.
“And my ideas are what will keep it there in the future! Or did you forget that the‘love letter to architecture’concept you loved so much was mine?”
They stood on the pavement, breathing heavily, two rivals in a silent London square. The romantic partner she knew was gone, replaced by the immovable Creative Director.
“I can’t do this,” Isla said, the fight draining out of her, leaving only a hollow ache.“I can’t have a relationship where I have to fight for my professional dignity in front of our colleagues. Where my boyfriend is also my… my general.”
The word from their rooftop truce landed like a brick. Luca flinched.
“So that’s it?” he asked, his voice low.“One fight and you’re done?”
“It’s not about the fight, Luca. It’s about the hierarchy. And in that room, I was at the bottom of it.” She turned and walked towards her door, her key already in her hand.“Don’t follow me.”
She didn’t look back. Upstairs, in the silence of her flat, the absence of him was a physical pain. The secret masterpiece of their relationship had its first, deep crack, and she had no idea if it could ever be repaired.
Chapter 7:
The Gala and the Unspoken Rule
The silence that followed their fight was a cold, heavy blanket over the office. Isla buried herself in work, avoiding Luca’s gaze, speaking to him only when necessary in clipped, professional tones. He gave her space, his own demeanor a mask of cool detachment, but she could feel the tension radiating from his office. The easy collaboration was gone, replaced by a stilted, painful formality.
The annual Chroma“Future of Fashion” gala was the following Friday. It was the event of the season, a glittering constellation of designers, models, and industry titans under the vaulted glass roof of a converted railway station. Isla had a ticket, of course, but the thought of putting on a brave face and a designer dress felt impossible.
She was about to invent a last-minute migraine when a large, flat box was delivered to her desk. There was no card. With a sinking heart, she lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a dress. It wasn't from a current collection; it was a vintage piece, a slip of a thing in deep, liquid emerald silk. It was simple, elegant, and utterly breathtaking. She knew, with a certainty that stole her breath, that it was from him. He had remembered the dress from the Felix de Winter show. The dress that had saved the day.
It was an apology. A plea. A declaration, all without a single word.
That night, standing in her bedroom wearing the emerald silk, she felt a flicker of her old self. The dress fit perfectly, as if it had been made for her. When she arrived at the gala, the room was a whirl of colour and noise. She saw him immediately. He was holding court across the room, the centre of a gravitational pull of important people, but his eyes found hers the moment she entered.
He excused himself and began to move through the crowd towards her. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. The unspoken rule—that they were a secret—was about to be tested in a room full of the most gossiping people on earth.
He stopped in front of her. The music, the chatter, it all faded into a dull roar.
“You’re here,” he said, his voice hushed.
