I glanced at Olivia, her hand resting instinctively over her growing belly.She’d be giving birth in just a few weeks—a dream she’d carried since we were little girls whispering futures to each other beneath shared blankets.
I stayed long enough to finalize baby shower plans, hugged them both goodbye, then headed for the convention center.
Manny was waiting.
And whatever calm I’d managed to gather tightened, instinctively, as I stepped into the day.
* * *
ISTEPPED INTO THEprivate fitting suite, and the world narrowed to light, fabric, and breath.
The room was immaculate to the point of sterility—white walls, seamless mirrors stretching from floor to ceiling, polished concrete underfoot.Rolling racks lined one wall, each draped in garment bags stamped with Manny’s name in sharp black script.Soft, directional lighting washed over the gowns, coaxing life from the fabrics so they looked almost liquid where they spilled over the hangers.Silk.Satin.Chiffon so sheer it barely existed until it caught the light.Hand-beaded bodices glimmered subtly, every crystal sewn with obsessive precision.Nothing here was accidental.Every stitch, every seam spoke of control.Exquisite.For a suspended moment, I forgot myself.
I moved closer, fingers hovering before I allowed myself to touch.The fabric was cool and impossibly smooth beneath my skin, like water that remembered its shape.One gown—midnight black with a sculpted corset and a skirt that fell like ink—tightened something low in my chest.Another, a bone-colored slip with a slit cut daringly high, radiated a quieter kind of danger.The kind that didn’t need permission.
These weren’t dresses meant to flatter.
They were designed toclaim.
I imagined them on the runway—models moving like they owned the air, every step a challenge.The secrecy made sense now.The control.Manny wasn’t designing clothes.He was constructing dominance, stitch by deliberate stitch.
A faint awareness prickled at the back of my neck.
I wasn’t alone.
Manny stood near the far rack, his back to me, sleeves rolled up, dark hair perfectly arranged.He turned slowly, watching me the way a man watches someone touching something he believes belongs to him.
He smiled.
From a distance, it might have read charming.Up close, it felt like a warning.
“I’m glad you came,” he said.
The door clicked shut behind me.
Not slammed.Just...closed.
My spine stiffened—not panic yet, but alertness.The kind that came from instincts honed by experience...and his reputation.
“I needed to see the designs before the show,” I said evenly, letting my hand fall away from the fabric.“You’ve been very secretive.”
He laughed softly.“I like control.It keeps people attentive.”
He stepped closer.
Too close.
I shifted back, my heel brushing the base of the mirror.His gaze tracked the movement—not to my face, but to my throat, my collarbone, the slow rise of my breath.The air thickened.The room shrank.
“They look even better on a woman who understands power,” he murmured.“Fashion isn’t about beauty, Peyton.It’s about ownership.”
My pulse spiked, sharp and immediate.
“Well,” I said, steady despite it, “I think I’m done here.Thank you for delivering such strong pieces.”
His hand lifted—not touching but hovering near my waist.Close enough that I felt the heat of him.The intention.
“You’re nervous,” he said softly.“You shouldn’t be.I take care of women who stay loyal.”
