Chapter 7
The Gala and the Unspoken Rule
The silence that followed their fight was a cold, heavy blanket over the office.
Isla buried herself in work, avoiding Luca’s gaze, speaking to him only when necessary in clipped, professional tones.
He gave her space, his own demeanor a mask of cool detachment, but she could feel the tension radiating from his office.
The easy collaboration was gone, replaced by a stilted, painful formality.
The annual Chroma “Future of Fashion” gala was the following Friday.
It was the event of the season, a glittering constellation of designers, models, and industry titans under the vaulted glass roof of a converted railway station.
Isla had a ticket, of course, but the thought of putting on a brave face and a designer dress felt impossible.
She was about to invent a last-minute migraine when a large, flat box was delivered to her desk. There was no card. With a sinking heart, she lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, was a dress.
It wasn't from a current collection; it was a vintage piece, a slip of a thing in deep, liquid emerald silk.
It was simple, elegant, and utterly breathtaking.
She knew, with a certainty that stole her breath, that it was from him.
He had remembered the dress from the Felix de Winter show. The dress that had saved the day.
It was an apology. A plea. A declaration, all without a single word.
That night, standing in her bedroom wearing the emerald silk, she felt a flicker of her old self.
The dress fit perfectly, as if it had been made for her.
When she arrived at the gala, the room was a whirl of colour and noise.
She saw him immediately. He was holding court across the room, the centre of a gravitational pull of important people, but his eyes found hers the moment she entered.
He excused himself and began to move through the crowd towards her. Her heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. The unspoken rule—that they were a secret—was about to be tested in a room full of the most gossiping people on earth.
He stopped in front of her. The music, the chatter, it all faded into a dull roar.
“You’re here,” he said, his voice hushed.
“You sent the dress.”
“I didn’t know if you’d wear it.” He looked vulnerable, standing there in his impeccably tailored tuxedo. The powerful Creative Director was gone. This was just Luca.
“It was the right dress,” she said softly.
He held out his hand. Not to shake it, but an open, public offering. “Dance with me.”
It was a line, drawn in the shimmering air of the gala. To take his hand was to step over it, to announce to everyone that they were more than colleagues. Isla looked at his hand, then into his eyes, seeing the apology, the respect, the awe from the night of the kiss.
She placed her hand in his.
A subtle, collective intake of breath seemed to ripple through the crowd nearest to them as he led her to the dance floor. Whispers started, cameras flashed. Luca ignored it all, his focus entirely on her as he drew her into his arms.
“I was wrong,” he murmured into her hair, his voice for her alone. “About Rhiannon. Your idea was brilliant. I was being a narrow-minded, arrogant prick. I’m sorry.”
Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back. “You were.”
“I’m not used to being challenged,” he admitted, his hand warm on the small of her back. “And I’m certainly not used to being challenged by someone I’m in love with. I handled it terribly.”
They moved together, a small island of truth in a sea of fabrication. The secret was out. The hierarchy, for this moment, was dissolved.
“I’m not done being challenging,” she whispered.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, the first real one she’d seen in days. “Good.”
As they danced, the whispers and the stares no longer felt threatening.
They felt like a victory. He had chosen her, publicly and unequivocally, over his own pride and the office’s gossip mill.
The crack was still there, but as he held her in the shimmering light of the gala, she knew they had just begun the work of repairing it. Together.