Chapter 15
fifteen
VANESSA
I had been sketching like a madwoman.
I never started a line with a gown; I started with a theme.
Once I had the vision, the rest fell into place.
The gown I was sketching now was one I needed to draw.
It had been nagging at me since Morgan’s dress fitting—the bare-bones design I’d first scribbled in Elliott’s car.
I couldn’t get it out of my head. And honestly?
I was in love with it. I figured if I returned to designing something that excited me, the rest would follow. So far, the plan was working.
“Hey.”
The soft voice made me jump, and my heart leapt into my throat. My hands flew to my chest, nearly knocking my iPad over.
“Jesus, you scared me.” My hand stayed over my heart as if I could hold it in place, keeping it from pounding right out of its cage. That was the thing about working in silence—any noise felt like a small heart attack.
Inspiration had been hitting me at all hours, sometimes in the dead of night. I had already designed seven gowns and landed on my theme: The Great Gatsby. Old Hollywood glamour. It felt perfect. I knew in my bones this was the best work of my career.
Before I realized it, Elliott was standing in the doorway, staring at the chaos around me—sketches pinned to mannequins, spread across the desk, covering the floor.
“Ness, these are… wow.”
He didn’t know it, but that was the best compliment he could have possibly given me. My chest tightened at the thought. He paused at the mannequin plastered with my random doodles, and then something soft and warm dropped into my lap.
Steve. Stealthy like a panther.
“Does he just follow you around the house all day?” I asked, scratching the dog’s head.
“Yeah. He’s my biggest fan,” Elliott said. He said it casually, but it melted a piece of my icy heart. We really didn’t deserve dogs. “It’s a shame you don’t draw people, because some of these are good.”
Some? Please. They were all amazing.
When I needed a break from dresses, I drew what I loved: my family, my parents’ house, the sky, hearts.
And, okay—sometimes Elliott. Usually in devil’s garb.
In one sketch, he was holding a pitchfork with a wicked grin and horns.
In another, he had a forked tail. My personal favorite was Devil-centaur Elliott, his forehead distorted, other centaurs laughing at him in the background.
I watched his body language carefully as he flipped through them. If he was offended, he didn’t show it. When he got to the one of himself in a literal dumpster fire, he laughed—loud and unrestrained. The sound made my chest ache, so I looked away.
Steve abandoned my lap for Elliott’s feet.
Without thinking, Elliott scooped him up and stroked his fur like it was second nature.
That was when I really looked at him—and I noticed how tired he was.
No, exhausted. My heart ached. I hadn’t seen him look this worn out since his parents died.
That had been another lifetime ago. Back when our relationship was different.
When we were different. His eyes finally met mine, and I saw the exhaustion there, too.
“You okay?”
He sidestepped the question completely. “Are you hungry?” He set Steve down and raked a hand through his hair—a nervous tell, though I couldn’t imagine why. “I got food from that Thai place Morgan told me you love.”
I hesitated. The thought of an awkward dinner with him made me want to crawl back into my studio.
I knew myself too well—I’d ruin it with the wrong question or push him into topics he didn’t want to touch.
I was a pusher. A nosy one. Sometimes it was a curse; sometimes it was a gift.
(Like when I’d spied on Catherine’s designs and learned more than I ever should’ve.)
“Mario and Gina said you haven’t been eating much. That you mostly stay in here. Your mom would kill me if she thought I was starving you. Please, Ness. Eat. You don’t even have to talk. Just… eat.”
Mario helped with the upkeep of the house and Gina handled the cooking from time to time, though I was secretly convinced he had hired them to spy on me whenever he wasn't home. Every report they gave him felt like a breach of contract, a tiny betrayal tucked into a Tupperware container.
Worry. That’s what I heard in his voice. He was worried about me. It made no sense—my mom fed us all like we were preparing for hibernation. If we were ever kidnapped, we could have survived for weeks on body fat alone.
“Did you get spring rolls?”
The tired smile he gave me was so breathtaking it made my heart stumble. Honestly, why hadn’t Colgate signed him already?
“Yeah, I got spring rolls.”
That was all it took to convince me. I followed him into the kitchen, where his massive white island overlooked the pool glowing in the sunset.
He rolled up his sleeves and unpacked the food with effortless efficiency.
I found myself staring—at his hands, his movements, and especially his forearms. I’d always had a thing for forearms. Too bad these belonged to Elliott.
They were perfect, though. Veins like a roadmap. My mouth watered, and I looked away.
“Elliott, you have enough food here for a family of six. I’m not eating all this.”
He shot me a look that said, Girl, please. I’ve seen you eat.
“That’s fair,” I admitted. “But still. I’ve never finished a plate there. They give way too much food.”
“Stop talking, Ness. Just eat.”
He slid a container toward me, already armed with a fork. I dug in. I sat at one end of the island, him at the other. Every now and then, I glanced up. Every time he caught me, I snapped my gaze away.
“It’s quiet here. You’re quiet.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. Maybe the silence had finally gotten to me. Maybe it was just my usual verbal diarrhea.
“You need the noise,” he said, almost as if he were realizing it as he spoke. “I thought you liked the quiet to focus. That’s why I’ve been giving you space.”
It hit me then—something I’d always known but never said out loud. I needed people. I grew up in a house packed full of them. The quiet depressed me. It felt wrong, unnatural.
“I focus best when there’s noise,” I admitted. The honesty made me uncomfortable, so I turned it back on him. “Your turn. Tell me something true.”
He hesitated, sifting through a dozen unspoken things before giving me a shy smile and a shrug. “Can’t really think of anything.”
Uncharacteristic. So I nudged him. “Do you cook?” I gestured toward the kitchen.
I had never seen him cook growing up, but his dad had been famous for his restaurant.
People still raved about Christopher James’s recipes, even though another chef owned the place now and had turned it into a chain.
Morgan and Elliott were still part-owners, but they weren't involved day-to-day—Morgan sat on the board, and Elliott ran Ever After instead.
“I do,” he said, clipped, like he wouldn’t elaborate.
That was the thing about Elliott—he never talked about his family. I’d learned not to pry, even though it killed me. I was a questions girl. Always had been. Curious to the point of danger. My mouth had saved me before, but it had also gotten me into plenty of trouble.
“Your turn,” he said, throwing my own challenge back at me. “Tell me something true.”
I twirled my fork through Pad Thai, buying time. I didn’t know what to share so I just shrugged my shoulders.
“Tell me about your knee.”
I nearly choked. “What about my knee? It works like yours, bends the way it’s supposed to,” I said way too quickly.
A lie. Some days it hurt so much I couldn’t get out of bed. Some days my limp was so bad people stared. The doctors had done what they could, but there hadn't been much to save. I glared at him, my eyes snarling like a caged lion. Maybe he was right about that cornered animal metaphor.
He didn’t push further. He just ate in silence, and so did I. Him, probably wondering what he’d said wrong. Me, wondering when the devil in my story had started to care.
And hating that I cared, too.