His By Contract

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

G eorgia balanced the silver tray of champagne flutes with practiced ease, weaving through the sea of designer gowns and custom tuxedos. The crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across the marble floor of the grand ballroom, a stark contrast to the fluorescent lights of her tiny workshop where she’d spent the morning hunched over a sewing machine. Even now, she could feel the phantom ache in her shoulders from those hours of meticulous work.

A woman in a red dress breezed past, the fabric brushing Georgia’s arm. She recognized her own handiwork in the careful alterations of the hem—a job that had barely covered last month’s rent. The silk moved exactly as she’d intended, flowing with perfect grace that brought a bittersweet pride.

“Champagne?” She offered the tray to a cluster of socialites, their necks dripping with diamonds that could have paid her mother’s medical bills ten times over. The weight of those unpaid invoices pressed against her thoughts as heavily as the tray on her palm.

“Oh, look at this one.” A blonde in azure silk plucked a glass from the tray. “I swear I’ve seen her somewhere.”

“You’re Georgia Phillips, aren’t you?” The redhead beside her tilted her head. “Didn’t you design that gorgeous piece for the Morrison wedding?”

Georgia’s fingers tightened around the tray. “Yes, that was one of my designs.” The memory of that creation, her finest work, flickered through her mind, along with the crushing realization of how far she’d fallen since then.

“And now you’re serving drinks?” The blonde’s perfectly painted lips curved into a smirk. “How… resourceful.”

The crystal glasses clinked together as Georgia steadied her hands. Six months ago, she’d been attending these events as a guest, showcasing her designs to potential clients. Now she was on the other side of the champagne tray, watching her dreams slip away one unpaid bill at a time. The humiliation burned hotter than the blisters forming on her feet from hours of standing.

Georgia squared her shoulders, channeling her mother’s quiet dignity. The same dignity that had gotten them through countless lean years, through her father’s abandonment, through every setback life had thrown their way. She’d climb her way back up. She had to. Her mother’s face, worn but determined, flashed in her mind—a talisman against despair.

Georgia kept her expression neutral as she moved away from the gossiping women, though her cheeks burned. The practiced smile she’d perfected over weeks of service work felt brittle on her lips.

The weight of the fresh tray, this time filled with Cabernet, was heavy as she navigated through the crowd. The rich aroma of the wine reminded her of better days, celebrations of her early successes that now seemed like distant dreams.

A flash of white caught her attention. Celeste Montgomery stood near the center of the room, holding court like the queen she believed herself to be. Her ivory designer gown hugged every curve, the fabric probably worth more than Georgia’s entire wardrobe. A circle of admirers surrounded her, hanging on her every word. The mere sight of her sent a cold ripple of anxiety through Georgia’s chest.

Georgia’s stomach clenched. She’d met Celeste once, at a fashion week event where the woman had dismissed Georgia’s entire collection with a single raised eyebrow. That look had cost Georgia three potential buyers. The memory of that casual cruelty still stung, like salt in a wound that refused to heal.

She angled away, intent on serving the opposite side of the room, but a gentleman flagged her down. He stood right beside Celeste’s group. Her heart sank as she realized there was no escape from this collision course.

Georgia’s feet dragged with each step, as if wading through thick syrup. The crystal glasses caught the light, throwing sparkles across the floor. Just a few more minutes, then her shift would end. She concentrated on her breathing, trying to quiet the nervous flutter in her chest.

“Watch it!”

The warning came too late. Another server knocked into Georgia’s elbow. The tray tilted. Time slowed as the wineglasses toppled, their contents arcing through the air in a crimson wave. Horror washed through her as she watched disaster unfold in slow motion.

Celeste’s scream pierced the ballroom. Red wine bloomed across the pristine ivory fabric of her gown, spreading like blood across snow.

The music stopped. Conversations died. Every head turned toward them. The sudden silence pressed against Georgia’s eardrums like water.

Georgia stood frozen, the empty tray trembling in her hands. Her heart slammed against her ribs as Celeste’s gaze locked onto her face. The world narrowed to just those merciless eyes, promising retribution.

“You.” Celeste’s voice dripped venom. Recognition flickered across her features. “Georgia Phillips.”

Georgia’s fingers tightened around the empty tray as Celeste’s manicured hand traced the spreading stain. The wine seeped deeper into the fabric, transforming the immaculate ivory into a bleeding disaster. Each second of silence crushed against Georgia’s chest like a vise. She could almost hear the ticking of her career’s final moments.

Celeste’s perfectly lined lips pressed together as she examined the damage. Her circle of admirers held their breath, their jewelry glinting under the chandeliers as they leaned closer.

“This gown,” Celeste’s voice carried across the marble floor, soft yet cutting, “is a custom Valentino.”

Georgia’s throat closed. The price of that dress flashed through her mind, more than she’d made in the past year, more than enough to destroy her completely if demanded as compensation.

Celeste lifted her head, her eyes sweeping over Georgia as if she were less than the dirt beneath her Louboutins. A slight tilt of her chin, a quarter turn of her shoulders: every movement screamed old money, bred-in-bone superiority. Georgia recognized the choreography of public humiliation beginning to unfold.

“I remember you.” Celeste’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “The little designer who thinks she can play in our sandbox.”

Heat crawled up Georgia’s neck. Around them, whispers rippled through the crowd. Phones appeared in manicured hands, recording her humiliation for posterity. Each camera flash felt like another nail in her professional coffin.

“I’m—” Georgia’s voice cracked. The apology died on her tongue, tasting of ash and futility.

Celeste raised one finger, silencing her without a word. She adjusted her diamond bracelet, letting the moment stretch until the air felt thick enough to choke on. Georgia recognized the power play, the deliberate extension of her suffering for maximum effect.

“Tell me.” Celeste’s gaze raked over Georgia’s server uniform. “Was this really the best career move after your collection failed?”

The murmurs started like a slow tide, washing through the ballroom in waves of silk and judgment. Georgia’s fingers twitched against the tray as the cold truth sank into her bones. This wasn’t about wine on a dress—this was Celeste Montgomery ensuring everyone remembered their place in her world. The calculated cruelty of it made Georgia’s blood run cold.

A woman in midnight blue silk stepped forward, her diamond earrings catching the light. “Oh, darling.” She touched Celeste’s arm with practiced grace. “These things happen. Though perhaps if the help was properly trained…” Her gaze slid over Georgia like oil on water.

The implications hung in the air. Not just about tonight, but about everything: Georgia’s small business, her dreams, her right to exist in their world at all. The casual dismissal stung worse than any direct insult could have.

A man in the back chuckled, the sound echoing off the marble floors. Two women exchanged knowing looks over crystal champagne flutes. The room shifted, invisible lines being drawn between those who belonged and those who didn’t. Georgia felt those lines cutting through her, severing her from the world she’d fought so hard to enter.

Her chest tightened as she watched her career dissolve in real time. These weren’t just party guests; they were potential clients, investors, the very people she needed to impress. And now they saw her as nothing more than hired help who couldn’t even carry a tray properly. The weight of their judgment pressed against her like a physical force.

“Such a shame,” someone whispered loud enough to carry. “I heard her designs showed promise.”

Past tense. Already dismissed. Already forgotten. Each word twisted like a knife between her ribs.

Their stares burned into Georgia’s skin, each smirk and sidelong glance another nail in the coffin of her ambitions. She stood frozen, a butterfly pinned to velvet, watching as everything she’d worked for unraveled in the space between heartbeats. The room seemed to spin around her, faces blurring into masks of contempt.

Georgia’s hands shook as she lowered the tray to her side. The wine stain on Celeste’s dress spread like a wound, but the real bleeding happened inside Georgia’s chest as her dreams crumbled around her. Each heartbeat felt painful, too loud in her ears.

Celeste’s lips curved into a predatory smile as she caught the eye of Marcus Sterling, owner of the city’s most prestigious design gallery. Her perfectly manicured fingers beckoned him closer. Georgia recognized the death knell in that simple gesture.

“Marcus, darling.” Celeste’s voice dripped honey-coated venom. “I think we should do everyone a favor and ensure this… person never steps foot in a respectable atelier again.”

Marcus adjusted his bow tie, his expression hardening as he assessed Georgia. “Consider it done.”

The blood drained from Georgia’s face. Marcus Sterling’s word was law in the fashion world. His approval could make careers soar, and his disapproval could bury them. The finality in his tone sent ice through her veins.

“Such a waste of space,” drawled Victoria Chen, the designer whose latest collection had just shown in Paris. She swirled her champagne, her rings catching the light. “She won’t be working with us.”

The words hit Georgia like physical blows. Victoria Chen’s studio had been her dream workplace since design school. Now that door slammed shut forever. Another piece of her future crumbled away, leaving nothing but dust.

Whispers rippled through the crowd. Phones appeared again, this time accompanied by rapid typing. Texts and emails flew between the industry’s gatekeepers. Georgia could almost see her name being struck from lists, her portfolio being deleted from consideration.

Blacklisted. The word echoed in her mind as faces turned away, as conversations shifted, as she became invisible. In the span of minutes, every connection she’d fought to build, every opportunity she’d hoped to grasp vanished like smoke. The reality of it hollowed her out from the inside.

Her throat closed as reality settled over her. She’d never design again—not in this city, not anywhere that mattered. These people would make sure of it. Years of education, countless sleepless nights, every sacrifice she’d made—all rendered worthless in moments.

Her knuckles were white against the silver surface of the tray. The urge to beg, to plead, to drop to her knees and apologize clawed at her throat, but her mother’s voice whispered in her mind.

Never let them see you break.

She lifted her chin, meeting Celeste’s stare. The woman’s perfect features twisted into something cruel, expectant. She wanted tears. She wanted Georgia to shatter right there on the marble floor. The realization of what Celeste was waiting for sparked something defiant in Georgia’s chest.

The tray trembled in Georgia’s grip. With deliberate care, she placed it on a nearby table. The soft clink of metal on wood echoed in her ears like a gunshot.

Celeste’s lips parted, another barb ready to strike. But Georgia denied her the chance. Without a word, without lowering her gaze, she turned away from the crowd of vultures who’d just destroyed everything she’d worked for. Each step dragged the full force of what had just happened behind it, but she moved anyway.

Her steps carried her across the ballroom floor. Whispers followed. Judgmental eyes tracked her retreat. But she kept her spine straight, her shoulders back, her head high. Her mother’s face floated in her mind again, nodding with fierce approval.

Only when she pushed through the service entrance did her composure crack. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she blinked them back. She wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not where they might see. The trembling started in her fingertips and spread through her body, but still she held herself together.

Her mother had taught her better than that.

The November wind cut through Georgia’s thin server’s uniform as she stumbled away from the building. Her breath came in short gasps, each inhale burning her lungs like broken glass. Behind her, the strings of classical music leaked through the walls, the sound of privilege and power continuing without pause, the same music that had flowed so elegantly while her career was being dismantled note by note.

Her fingers shook as she pulled her phone from her pocket. The screen blurred, forcing her to blink hard to clear her vision. She scrolled to Jacob’s number: her most reliable client, the one who’d promised her three wedding dress commissions next spring. The one whose wife had smiled so warmly when Georgia had adjusted the hem of her anniversary gown just last month.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

Georgia’s stomach dropped. She opened her email, the blue light harsh against her face in the darkness. Three new messages waited in her inbox, their timestamps just minutes apart. The familiar names of clients she’d thought were friends glared back at her.

“After careful consideration, we must withdraw our offer…”

“Due to recent developments…”

“We regret to inform you…”

The words swam together, each rejection letter another nail in the coffin of everything she’d worked for. She shoved the phone back into her pocket and started walking, her feet carrying her through empty streets. Each step felt heavier than the last, like chains wrapped around her ankles.

The city lights blurred around her. A couple passed, laughing about their dinner plans. A taxi honked. Life went on while her world crumbled, the casual indifference of strangers somehow more painful than direct cruelty.

Her mother’s medical bills flashed through her mind. The rent due next week. The fabric she’d already ordered for next month’s projects. The way her mother’s face would fall when Georgia told her the treatments might have to wait.

Georgia wrapped her arms around herself, but the cold had settled deeper than skin. It reached into her bones, into the hollow space where her dreams used to live. Everything she’d built, every connection she’d fought for, every sleepless night spent hunched over her sewing machine—gone. Destroyed by one spilled glass of wine and a woman who wielded power like a weapon.

She’d never felt so small. So powerless. So utterly alone.

Georgia’s key scraped against the lock of her apartment door. Three tries before her trembling hands steadied enough to open it. The darkness inside matched her mood. Empty, cold, suffocating.

She flicked on the lights, illuminating her makeshift studio. Fabric draped across every surface, half-finished designs hung like ghosts on the clothing rack. A red cocktail dress she’d stayed up three nights to complete. A bridal gown with intricate beadwork she’d planned to showcase next season. All of them worthless now. All that passion and creativity suddenly reduced to expensive scraps.

Her fingers traced the silk of an azure blue evening gown. The material had cost two weeks’ worth of groceries, but she’d convinced herself it would be worth it. That this piece would finally catch the right person’s eye, open the right doors. The silk felt cool against her fingertips, still beautiful, still perfect, even if no one would ever see it now.

The fabric slipped through her fingers as she sank onto her threadbare couch. Bills covered her coffee table: rent past due, utilities on final notice. She’d been counting on those wedding dress commissions to catch up. Those commissions had been her lifeline, her salvation.

Georgia stared at her reflection in the dark window. The girl who’d dreamed of dressing celebrities, of seeing her designs in magazines, looked so young now. So naive. That girl had believed talent and hard work were enough, that the world would recognize genuine passion. How foolish she’d been.

For the first time in years, she felt something close to despair. But she wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t break. Georgia Phillips had survived worse than this, even if right now she couldn’t remember how.