On the screen, Eve moves to her bedroom. I switch to the bedroom camera, watching her change out of her work clothes. I should look away—should give her this privacy. But I don't. I can't. Every inch of her is precious to me, sacred. The soft curve of her stomach as she pulls her dress over her head. The weight of her breasts in her bra. The thickness of her thighs.
She's perfect. And she has no idea I'm watching her most intimate moments.
But I don't just want to watch anymore. I want her to know I'm here. Want her to feel my presence in her life. Want her to understand that someone sees her, knows her, cherishes every detail of her existence.
I've been planning it for weeks. I will do small things at first. Just enough to let her know someone is paying attention. Moving a book slightly out of place—I will wait until she is at work, use my key to her apartment, move it exactly oneinch. I want to watch the confusion flicker across her face. It’s intoxicating.
And her perfume—I've had an exact replica made, with just one small change. A note of sandalwood. My scent. I'll swap the bottles, and then I'll come back here and watch through the cameras as she discovers it.
It's possessive. It's wrong. It's crossing a line I swore I'd never cross.
But I've realized something in these years of constant watching: I don't want to be her silent guardian anymore.
I want to be her everything.
Because she is mine.
Mine alone.
Chapter 1 - Eve
The silk catches the light like liquid silver, and I can't help but smile. This is what I live for—the moment when a design transcends the sketch and becomes something real, something that makes a woman feel like she can conquer the world.
"It's perfect," Rachel Shields breathes, turning slowly in front of the mirror. The dress moves with her, hugging her curves before flowing into a dramatic train. "Eve, you're a genius."
My throat tightens with emotion. It never gets old, this moment. Seeing a woman light up when she realizes she's beautiful, powerful, worthy. "The neckline needs to come down just a fraction," I say softly, stepping closer to adjust the drape at her shoulder. My fingers work carefully, reverently even. "Lucy, make a note."
Lucy's fingers fly across her tablet. "Got it. The samples for the rest of the line arrive on Thursday. We're still on schedule for the show."
"Good." I step back, studying the dress with a critical eye, but also with pride. Every stitch, every seam is a testament to the empire I built from nothing. Well, not nothing—from grief and rage and the desperate need to prove that I was more than what he left behind.
More than the "chunky little sister" Alex used to tease me about before wrapping me in bear hugs that made everything okay. God, I miss those hugs. More than the girl who learned to armor herself in black clothing and sharp wit because the fashion industry wasn't made for bodies like mine. More than the woman who spent years perfecting her designs for otherwomen because she was too afraid to stand in front of a camera herself.
I built Sinclair Designs on the premise that every woman deserves to feel powerful in her clothes, regardless of her size. That beauty isn't a number on a scale. It's a radical idea in an industry that still worships at the altar of sample sizes, and it's made me both celebrated and controversial.
And God, how I love proving them all wrong. It's not about revenge—though there's a little of that, I'll admit. It's about giving women what I needed when I was younger: the knowledge that they're enough, exactly as they are.
Rachel catches my eye in the mirror, and there are tears shining in hers. "Seriously, Eve. This collection is going to make fashion week. I'm honored to be wearing it. You've made me feel... I don't know how to explain it. Like I matter."
My own eyes prickle with tears, but I blink them back. "You do matter, Rachel. You always did. The dress just helps you see it."
The praise settles warmly in my chest, but I'm already cataloging the adjustments needed. The hem needs to be taken up a quarter inch on the left side. The beading on the bodice could be more dense near the waist. Perfection is in the details, and I've spent sixteen years learning that the details matter.
Lucy walks Rachel out, chattering about the photo shoot schedule, and I'm left in the quiet of my office. The late afternoon light streams through the windows, painting everything gold. I move to my desk and sink into the chair, suddenly exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally. These fittings take everything out of me in the best way.
My desk is organized—not obsessively, just... organized. Pens in their holder, sketchbook nearby, coffee cup that I keepmeaning to take to the kitchen. I glance at my calendar and see the red circle around next week's date.
Sixteen years. Sixteen years since the accident that took Alex.
The familiar ache blooms in my chest, sharp and relentless even after all this time. I pick up the photo on my desk—the only personal item I keep here. Alex, at seventeen, grinning at the camera, his arm around my shoulders. I was fifteen in that photo, still soft and uncertain, not yet hardened into the woman I'd become. We're at some family barbecue, and he's making me laugh about something I can't remember now.
What I'd give to remember that joke. What I'd give for one more laugh with him.
"I miss you," I whisper to the frozen image, my voice cracking. "Every single day. You'd be so proud of what I've built. At least, I hope you would be."
But he doesn't answer. He never does. The dead stay silent while the living try to move forward and pretend the hole in their heart isn't still bleeding.
I set the photo down gently, like it might break, and gather my things. My routine for leaving is simple—laptop in bag, phone checked, lights off, door locked. Nothing unusual. Just the habits of someone who lives alone and likes things tidy.
