“Milan,” Creed said softly.“Paris.And the assistant who signed an NDA so airtight she still shakes when she hears your name.”
Silence.
“I know how often people clean up after you,” Creed continued.“And I know exactly what you were doing when I walked in.”
Manny straightened, bristling.“You can’t prove anything.”
Creed’s mouth curved—not a smile.
A warning.
“I don’t need to.”
Manny lashed out.“Fine.I’ll pull my designs.Let’s see how your magazine survives without me.”
Creed didn’t blink.
“If you remove a single garment from this building,” he said quietly, “no fashion house will touch your work again.No investors.No buyers.No international shows.”
Manny laughed—too loud.“You don’t have that reach.”
Creed finally turned his head, just enough for Manny to see his eyes.
“I own three of the firms underwriting your expansion,” Creed said evenly.“The other two answer my calls.”
The room went hollow.
Manny’s bravado collapsed in on itself.
Creed’s grip tightened.
I saw the line then—not crossed, but right there.His knuckles white.His breathing too steady.
This wasn’t about protection anymore.
This was about erasure.
“Creed.”
My voice cut through—soft, but sharp.
His name landed.I saw the pause.The fraction of a second where his eyes flicked toward me, blazing, reminding himself who he was standing beside.
He leaned in, voice dropping even lower.“You will leave.Now.The designs stay.And if your name ever touches hers again—”
Footsteps approached outside the door.
Creed straightened and called out, “Gentlemen.”
Two security officers stood there.
“Manny,” Creed said calmly.“You’re done.”
Manny shot me one last look—angry, humiliated—then stormed out.The guards followed.
The door shut.
Silence rushed in.
