Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Igor
"Milan's reached out again," Anna called from the studio doorway, a stack of papers in her hands, excitement barely contained.
"This time it's the editor of Vogue Italy," she said, stepping in and dropping the folder on Elena's desk. "She wants you at a fashion dinner next week. And Gucci's creative director wants a meeting — possible collaboration."
I was on the sofa watching Elena. She sat at the desk, her blond hair pinned up with a pencil; a few strands had fallen against her cheek. She was bent over the sketches, brow furrowed, biting her lower lip until it went pale.
That look was all too familiar. She always did that when she was thinking — like a focused student.
"Anything else?" she asked without looking up, her pencil flying over the paper.
"Three boutiques want to carry your new line," Anna rattled off, flipping through her notebook. "Two investors want meetings — one from Switzerland, one from New York. Oh, and the Florence Academy invited you to be a guest lecturer. The dean says your work is exactly what their students need."
Elena finally lifted her head and set the pencil down. She rubbed her temples; the gesture made her look tired.
"Tell them I need time to think. This all came on too fast. I have to weigh it carefully."
"Okay, boss." Anna nodded.
"And the celebration tonight? Are we ready?"
Elena's Milan deal had put her designs on the map. She'd arranged a celebration — part party, part industry showcase.
"All set," Anna said, turning a page. "Ms. Rossini flew in from Milan and is at the hotel. The hall's decorated. Champagne and catering are exactly as you asked. Most guests have RSVP'd."
She checked her watch. "It's five now. The party starts at eight. You've got three hours."
"Thanks. Good work," Elena said.
Anna left, and the studio quieted — only the distant hum of traffic beyond the window. I rose and moved to her side, coming up behind her. From there, I could see the dress on the sketch: a summer maxi, clean, flowing lines, elegant.
She leaned back and looked at me. From that angle, her neck seemed long and delicate; I could see the faint pulse at her throat.
"Feeling the pressure?" I asked, my fingers finding her temple.
"A little." She closed her eyes and let me. "It all feels unreal sometimes. I worry I'll wake up and it's gone."
My fingers paused. Something tightened in my chest. She still didn't feel safe. Even now, with her career taking off and me beside her, she feared losing it all. That fear was my fault. My betrayal five years ago had left a scar she hadn't healed.
"This isn't a dream." I bent and kissed her forehead. "You earned every bit of this. Your talent deserved to be seen. Your designs belong on the world's best runways."
A real smile broke across her face.
"Go get ready. Tonight I want to see you in one of your own gowns. Make everyone unable to look away."
"Everyone?" She looked up, a mischievous light in her eyes. "Including you?"
"Especially me," I said, my thumb brushing her waist. "Though I'd rather hide you so no one else could see."
"Jealous?" she teased.
"Never stopped," I admitted. "Especially knowing there'll be so many men staring tonight."
She rose on her toes and left a soft kiss on my lips. "Then control yourself, Igor. I need a respectable date tonight, not a jealous lunatic scaring off clients."
"I'll try," I said. We both knew it was a joke.
At seven, I stood by the suite window, adjusting my cuff links. Tuscany outside had gone gold at dusk, the valley glowing orange.
"Igor, can you zip me up?" Elena's voice came from the bedroom.
I turned. Damn. My breath stalled.
She stood in the doorway in a deep blue gown — a color between midnight and ocean, shifting with the light.
It was strapless, cut to show her collarbones and shoulders.
The front sculpted her curves tastefully; the waist cinched tight, and the skirt fell from the hips, tapering around the ankles to reveal silver-strapped heels.
Her hair was in an elegant updo, exposing that long neck.
"How's it?" she asked, spinning; the skirt swayed.
"It's one of the main pieces from the new line," she added. "I hesitated, but Anna said I had to wear it so guests could see the effect."
I moved closer. The dress's back was cut away, leaving a broad, smooth expanse of skin. My eyes wouldn't leave it.
"Perfect," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. "You look…criminal."
She laughed, unaware of the hunger in my eyes.
"I want to kidnap you." I slid behind her, fingers trailing along the bare skin of her back. "Take you back to the room. Keep you from that damn party."
"Igor." Her voice trembled an inch. "Don't. We'll be late."
"Then let me zip you up." I found the hidden zipper and began to pull it, deliberately slow, my fingertips brushing her spine. She shivered.
"You're doing it on purpose."
"Yeah," I admitted, kissing the spot where her shoulder met her neck. "Because I like watching you tremble for me."
When the zipper reached the top, I turned her to face me. My thumb stroked her flushed cheek. "A lot of men will be staring at you tonight, Elena. Promise me one thing."
"What?"
"Don't leave my sight," I said low. "If anyone tries to lay a hand on you, I don't know if I can hold back."
She rolled her eyes. "This is a business dinner, not a nightclub."
"Businessmen are worse," I said. "Polished masks, rotten insides."
"Is that you?" she shot back.
"I never pretended." I wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. "I'll tell you straight — I want you."
Her face flushed. "We're late."
I glanced at the clock. 7:30. "Alright." I let her go and grabbed my coat. "Come on, my queen."
The ride to the Platinum Hotel took fifteen minutes. The ballroom glittered — crystal chandeliers, European elegance, art on the walls, flowers in the corners. Guests mingled, champagne and perfume mingling in the air.
Heads turned when we entered. Elena linked her arm in mine, posture straight, smile poised. She looked confident and flawless.
"Ms. Jensen!" a voice called.
A woman in her fifties approached — black suit, hair in a tight gray bun, sharp as a blade.
"Ms. Rossini." Elena released my arm and greeted her with a cheek kiss. "Thank you so much for coming."
"Of course. I'd never miss it." Ms. Rossini smiled. "Working with you was the right decision."
She stepped back and took Elena in. "You look divine tonight. That dress — it's one of the new pieces?"
"Yes." Elena turned to show the embroidery and the velvet. "Hand-stitched waist pattern, tasteful cutouts in the back."
"Perfect." Ms. Rossini beamed. "Elegant without being old, sexy without being trashy."
She then turned to me. "You must be Mr. Vorontsov. I've heard so much."
"Igor's fine." I shook her hand.
"Igor it is." She laughed and turned back to Elena. "Good news — your last collection sold out in three days at our flagship."
Elena's eyes lit. "Really?"
"I don't lie," Ms. Rossini said. "Customers keep asking when you'll restock. It made the brand hotter. I'm here to talk long-term."
"I'd love to hear that," Elena said.
"Excellent. But first, let me introduce you to a friend. Paul, over here!"
A man in his early forties in a sharp navy suit appeared. Classic Italian features, hair neat, beard trimmed.
"Paul runs several high-end boutiques in Paris," Ms. Rossini said. "Paul, this is Elena — the designer behind Stella."
Paul extended his hand and let his eyes linger a fraction too long on Elena. "Rossini's been raving. Seeing you in person, I must say, you're even more…reserved than I expected."
That extra second tightened my jaw.
"You flatter me." Elena took his hand politely, then introduced me. "This is Igor Vorontsov — my date."
I squeezed his hand a little harder than necessary. Paul's smile flickered. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Vorontsov."
I kept my arm around Elena's waist, guiding her close.
The rest of the evening turned to business. Ms. Rossini laid out sales figures; Paul spoke about carrying Stella in Paris. I stayed by Elena's side, one hand resting lightly on her hip.
A few men stared too long. I warned them with my eyes. One of them was so rattled by my stare that even his hand shook when he picked up his champagne glass.
"Igor," Elena murmured, close enough that only we could hear, "you look intimidating. You're scaring people."
"Good," I whispered in her ear. "Better they be scared than get too close."
She smiled and resigned herself. Another man approached.
"Ms. Jensen," he said — mid-forties, bespoke suit, Rolex on his wrist. "I'm Michael Brown. I run a few boutique hotels in Florence. Ms. Rossini mentioned your work; I'm very interested."
"Hello, Mr. Brown." Elena replied politely.
"Just call me Michael." He smiled and let his gaze travel over Elena — face, neck, bare shoulder, then the waist. Only a few seconds, but the intent was obvious. My grip at her waist tightened. She pressed my hand to calm it.
"My hotels are always looking for unique art and decor," Michael continued. "I was thinking you could design custom pieces for us. Compensation would be generous."
"That sounds interesting," Elena said. "I'd need to see the details before I agree."
"Of course." He gestured, asking her to dance. "Would you honor me with a dance? It's easier to talk business on the floor."
He extended a hopeful hand.
Danger flared like a hot coal in my chest. The man acted as if I didn't exist. I opened my mouth, but Elena's palm stopped mine — she pressed my hand, calming me with her touch.
"Sorry, Mr. Brown," she said, sweet but firm. "My partner is here."
She looked at me, and something hit me hard.
"Oh." Michael's expression shifted from surprise to disappointment. "That's a shame."
"If you want to discuss business, my assistant can schedule a meeting," Elena added, polite but distant. "Forgive me, but I must excuse myself now."