"Tonight, actually. I'm going to his studio so he can take measurements."
"Tonight?" Lydia glanced at the clock on the wall. "Viv, it's already three-thirty. What time are you supposed to be there?"
"Seven."
"That gives us time." Lydia stood abruptly, coffee forgotten. "What are you planning to wear tonight?"
"I... hadn't really thought about it. Something professional?"
"Do you have a little black dress?"
"I think so, somewhere in the back of my closet."
"Perfect. Wear that." Lydia's voice was gentle but firm. "Trust me on this. Men don't offer to design custom clothes for women they're not seriously interested in. This isn't just measurements. This is him sharing his work with you, his creative space. You want to look like you belong there."
At 6:55 p.m., I was second-guessing every choice I'd ever made as I stood outside the sleek glass building that housed Julian's studio. The address he'd texted led me to a converted warehouse in the arts district—clean lines, industrial elegance, and a sense that creativity and money both lived here. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see glimpses of a workspace—cutting tables, dress forms, bolts of fabric in every conceivable color.
You can do this,I told myself, smoothing down the simple black dress Lydia had convinced me to wear.It’s just measurements.
But even as I thought it, I knew it wasn’t true.
The lobby was minimalist and intimidating, all white marble and modern art. A heavily muscled man in a black t-shirt that left his arms on display was leaning against a white marble reception desk as a young man in a sharp suit and slicked back hair was furiously typing away.
“And when Viper gets a moment,” the muscled man was saying, “Make sure he gives me a call. I know how he gets when he’s in his ‘creative space.’” The man’s large hands came up into air quotes for that last bit.
Muscles turned at my entrance as I walked forward clutching my purse with nerves. He gave me a onceover as I made my way towards them, his bearded face holding a smile and laughing eyes.
The receptionist continued his typing as he responded to the man, “You know he doesn’t go by Viper here. And yes, I’ll let him know.” He said with finality. His entire focus on the computer screen in front of him.
“Hate to take you away from your all-important work,” the guy standing at the counter said, “But it looks like we’ve got a visitor."
That got the typer’s attention. He looked up from his computer with a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Vivienne Ellis. I have an appointment with Julian at seven."
The change in the receptionist's expression was subtle but unmistakable. His polite mask slipped for just a moment, replaced by something that looked like curiosity mixed with surprise.
"Of course," he said, leaving his keyboard and standing smoothly. "Mr. Thorne is expecting you. I'm Roy, his assistant.”
“Wonderful to meet you Ms. Ellis.” Muscles interjected before Roy could say another word.
He stretched out a large hand and I shook it, noting the rough calluses against my palm.
“I’m Diesel, one of Julian’s oldest friends.”
“Nice to meet you, Diesel.”
“None of that now,” cut in Roy, “Please follow me this way Ms. Ellis."
Roy came out from behind the counter and threw over his shoulder, “I’ll be sure to let Julian know, and he’ll be in touch soon. I’m sure you can see yourself out Diesel.”
I felt those laughing eyes follow us as Roy led us away from the reception area and we turned down a hallway.
As we walked through the studio, I tried not to gawk at my surroundings. It was like stepping into another world—a place where creativity and commerce merged in perfect harmony. Sketches covered the walls, some rough and immediate, others polished and precise. Bolt after bolt of fabric lined one wall, organized by color in a rainbow that seemed to shimmer under the carefully placed lighting.
"He's never invited anyone here before," Roy said suddenly, breaking the professional silence.
I glanced at him, surprised by the observation. "What do you mean?"
