My senses went on high alert. I pushed open the door to my office.
Alastair was in my chair. He’d swiveled it to face the window, his fingers steepled. Brielle was perched on the corner of my desk, flipping through one of my product binders. She’d dressed for the office in a shockingly inappropriate bodycon dress that stretched over her growing belly and ended mid-thigh.
Alastair didn’t turn. “The queen arrives. What’s the matter, Elara? Rough night?”
The smugness pissed me off. I let the door sigh shut behind me. “Get out of my chair, Alastair.”
He spun slowly, a smirk on his face that didn’t reach his eyes. They were hard, resentful. “Your chair? My parents own this company. That makes every chair in this building—including this one—mine to sit in.”
I dropped my bag onto the visitor's chair. “Why are you in my office?”
I wasn't playing theit's my family's companygame. It was old and tired. Before he could puff out his chest any further, I heard the tap of expensive shoes. I turned.
Julian.
He wore a black sweater, dark trousers, and a trench coat—looking effortlessly powerful and utterly out of place in this pastel hellscape. His eyes locked onto mine first—silent, intense. My nipples tightened. He had a way of entering a room and simply affecting me; I hated it.
When he finally pulled his eyes away from me, they swept the room, his expression turning to icy contempt.
“He’s here because of me,” Julian said, his voice a low rumble. “We’re shooting the first campaign for the Esmé collab today. Here. In your studio. Nobody told you, I see.”
A shoot. Today. In my building. Orchestrated behind my back. My scalp heated. I looked from Julian’s tight jaw to Alastair’s triumphant smirk.
My office door opened again, and Mira hurried in, her face tinged red with frustration. She was pushing a rack of laceand silk, pieces from our upcoming winter line, plus some provocative additions from Esmé.
“Mira,” I said. “When was this shoot scheduled?”
She couldn’t meet my eyes. “Mr. and Mrs. Ashworth called on Saturday, ma’am. They… they gave Mr. Alastair full creative control and budget approval for this project. I’m so sorry, I tried to call—”
“You don’t have to apologize to her,” Alastair snapped. “She reports to my family, same as you.”
Julian moved then. He walked to my desk, picked up the full cup of coffee Mira had placed there for me, and “accidentally” knocked into Alastair. The scalding liquid splashed directly onto Alastair's light trousers.
Alastair yelped, jumping up. “What the hell!”
“Clumsy me,” Julian said, his voice devoid of any apology. He didn’t even look at the mess. His gaze remained fixed on Alastair. “Let me be clear, Ashworth. I signed a contract to work with Elara. Her vision. Her direction. I don’t know you. I don’t know your work. And I certainly don’t work with people who ambush their own partners.”
The room froze. Brielle looked shocked. Mira looked pleased. Alastair’s face was a mask of fury and humiliation as the coffee stain spread.
A strange calm settled over me. His parents were setting him up to fail—or testing his competence against mine. Julian was standing up for me, but this was an opportunity.
“It’s okay, Julian,” I said. I walked around the desk and reclaimed my chair. I looked at my husband—at his poorly concealed panic. “Go on, Alastair. You’re in charge. Show us what you’ve got.”
Julian’s head whipped toward me, a question in his eyes.What are you doing?
I gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of my head.Let him hang himself.
The day was a masterclass in disaster. Alastair’s “vision” was a regurgitation of ads from ten years ago—stiff, male-gazey, and completely out of touch with the brand identity I’d painstakingly built. He didn’t know the photographers and kept referring to our inclusive size range as “the larger pieces.”
Julian watched with the detached horror of a sculptor watching a child smash clay. The temperature in the studio dropped ten degrees whenever he shifted his gaze to Alastair. He looked like he was stopping himself from committing a crime.
After two hours of painful chaos, Julian stood. “I’ve seen enough.”
He didn't look at Alastair. He looked at me—the promise of a later conversation burning in his eyes—and simply walked out. Alastair, however, clapped his hands together. “I think that went great! Julian’s on board… No, Mom, honestly, we didn’t even need Elara. I’ve got this.”
I didn't wait to hear more. I gathered my things, a slow smile spreading across my face. He was digging his own grave with a silver spoon.
I walked out of the building, and a black sedan pulled to the curb. Julian was inside.
