"Ms. Jensen!" a voice called.
A woman in her fifties approached — black suit, hair in a tight gray bun, sharp as a blade.
"Ms. Rossini." Elena released my arm and greeted her with a cheek kiss. "Thank you so much for coming."
"Of course. I'd never miss it." Ms. Rossini smiled. "Working with you was the right decision."
She stepped back and took Elena in. "You look divine tonight. That dress — it's one of the new pieces?"
"Yes." Elena turned to show the embroidery and the velvet. "Hand-stitched waist pattern, tasteful cutouts in the back."
"Perfect." Ms. Rossini beamed. "Elegant without being old, sexy without being trashy."
She then turned to me. "You must be Mr. Vorontsov. I've heard so much."
"Igor's fine." I shook her hand.
"Igor it is." She laughed and turned back to Elena. "Good news — your last collection sold out in three days at our flagship."
Elena's eyes lit. "Really?"
"I don't lie," Ms. Rossini said. "Customers keep asking when you'll restock. It made the brand hotter. I'm here to talk long-term."
"I'd love to hear that," Elena said.
"Excellent. But first, let me introduce you to a friend. Paul, over here!"
A man in his early forties in a sharp navy suit appeared. Classic Italian features, hair neat, beard trimmed.
"Paul runs several high-end boutiques in Paris," Ms. Rossini said. "Paul, this is Elena — the designer behind Stella."
Paul extended his hand and let his eyes linger a fraction too long on Elena. "Rossini's been raving. Seeing you in person, I must say, you're even more…reserved than I expected."
That extra second tightened my jaw.
"You flatter me." Elena took his hand politely, then introduced me. "This is Igor Vorontsov — my date."
I squeezed his hand a little harder than necessary. Paul's smile flickered. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Vorontsov."
I kept my arm around Elena's waist, guiding her close.
The rest of the evening turned to business. Ms. Rossini laid out sales figures; Paul spoke about carrying Stella in Paris. I stayed by Elena's side, one hand resting lightly on her hip.
A few men stared too long. I warned them with my eyes. One of them was so rattled by my stare that even his hand shook when he picked up his champagne glass.
"Igor," Elena murmured, close enough that only we could hear, "you look intimidating. You're scaring people."
"Good," I whispered in her ear. "Better they be scared than get too close."
She smiled and resigned herself. Another manapproached.
"Ms. Jensen," he said — mid-forties, bespoke suit, Rolex on his wrist. "I'm Michael Brown. I run a few boutique hotels in Florence. Ms. Rossini mentioned your work; I'm very interested."
"Hello, Mr. Brown." Elena replied politely.
"Just call me Michael." He smiled and let his gaze travel over Elena — face, neck, bare shoulder, then the waist. Only a few seconds, but the intent was obvious. My grip at her waist tightened. She pressed my hand to calm it.
"My hotels are always looking for unique art and decor," Michael continued. "I was thinking you could design custom pieces for us. Compensation would be generous."
