Chapter 13
ADRIAN
The first bottle of wine was empty, sitting on the coffee table next to the decimated charcuterie board.
Only a few lonely pieces of cheese remained.
Turned out, we were both hungry. And apparently thirsty.
The wine was the perfect pairing for the tangy cheese and salty meats.
I poured us each a glass from the second bottle.
The single floor lamp in what had to be the tiniest apartment I had ever seen provided adequate light.
I said nothing about her home, but damn, I felt like such a spoiled prick after seeing her place.
It wasn’t just that it was smaller than my master bath, it was just so rundown.
When I found the building, I’d been a little worried.
But when I stepped inside and started the climb up, I was a lot worried.
I couldn’t believe she lived here by herself. The woman was braver than I thought.
And that’s what I was going to tap into. If she was cool living here and didn’t feel like she was going to be murdered, then she was going to handle the press just fine.
We’d migrated from opposite ends of the couch to something closer to the middle. I was keeping a respectable distance between us. I knew she was skittish and I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. The whole night was about making her feel more relaxed around me, not less.
The photo album lay open across my lap. Elizabeth was curled up beside me, legs tucked under her, looking more at ease than I’d ever seen her. The first bottle had definitely relaxed her. Or maybe it was the fact that we were just talking, no cameras, no pressure, no performance required.
“Oh my God, is that you?” Elizabeth pointed to a photo of me at maybe seven years old, standing next to a dress form with scissors in one hand and a guilty expression on my face. Behind me, fabric scraps littered the floor like crime scene evidence.
“That was the day I decided to join the family business.”
“What happened?”
“I wanted to fix some of Dad’s dresses. Thought I could make them better.” I traced the edge of the photo with my finger. “Turns out, a seven-year-old with scissors and no adult supervision should not be left alone with haute couture.”
Elizabeth laughed. “How many did you destroy?”
“Three. Three very expensive dresses that were supposed to go in the show that weekend.” I cringed at the memory. “Dad was not pleased. My first designs were not well received. The world wasn’t ready.”
“What did he do?”
“Made me apologize to every single person on his team who’d worked on those dresses.
Then made me sit through the entire design process for the replacement pieces so I could understand how much work goes into each one.
” I smiled despite the embarrassing memory.
“Best punishment he could have given me, actually. I was hooked after that.”
“Sounds like he was a good teacher.”
“The best.” The familiar ache settled in my chest, but softer than usual. “He had this way of turning our worst impulses into learning opportunities.”
I turned the page, revealing a photo that made me laugh out loud. Four young boys—the Blackwell brothers at maybe ages six, eight, ten, and twelve—stood in a backstage area, all wearing bras on their heads like bizarre hats, arms outstretched.
“Oh no,” Elizabeth said, leaning closer to see better. “What is happening here?”
“We were moon men,” I said. “Obviously. The bras were our space helmets.”
“Obviously.”
“Sebastian’s idea, naturally. We were backstage at one of Dad’s shows—we were always backstage at his shows. We got bored. Found a box of samples and decided we were astronauts exploring the alien planet of Fashion Week.”
“Please tell me there are more photos of this.”
“God, I hope not. Some of the models thought it was hilarious. Took pictures, encouraged us. Dad, however, did not share their amusement.” I pointed to the edge of the frame where you could just see an adult hand reaching in. “That’s him about to murder us.”
Elizabeth’s laughter did something funny to my chest. It was joy. Shit, when was the last time I felt joy? I found myself grinning at the memory despite the lecture we’d all gotten about respecting the work environment and professional behavior.
“We were banned from backstage for six months,” I added. “Had to watch the shows from the audience like normal people. It was devastating.”
“I can imagine.” She took a sip of her wine. “Did you guys get in trouble a lot?”
“Constantly. We were four boys with too much energy and too much access. Mom used to joke that she should have just gotten a leash with four attachment points.”
We turned more pages. I found myself sharing stories I hadn’t thought about in years.
The time Dash accidentally dyed all our school uniforms pink in a laundry mishap.
When Briggs got his head stuck between the bars of the stair railing and the fire department had to be called.
Sebastian’s brief phase where he insisted on wearing a cape everywhere.
Elizabeth matched me story for story, telling me about growing up with Chris and the tiny apartment they’d shared with their parents.
“Since it was so small, we usually needed to be quiet. I’d spend hours sketching dress designs, teaching myself to sew on this ancient machine my grandmother gave us.
” She smiled at the memory. “Chris would make these elaborate meals in our tiny kitchen, practicing to be a chef. We were both dreamers, I guess.”
I turned another page and stopped at a photo of Dad and me sitting at a table covered in model airplane parts. I was maybe ten, tongue sticking out in concentration as I glued a tiny piece onto a wing. Dad was watching me with a patient smile.
“What’s this one?” Elizabeth asked, leaning in closer to see.
“Model planes.” My voice came out a little scratchy. “We used to build them together. Just the two of us.”
“That’s sweet.”
“It’s nice that you think so, but everyone else thought it was lame.
My brothers wanted to play basketball or video games.
Mom didn’t understand the appeal. But Dad and I?
” I touched the photo gently. “We’d spend hours on these things.
He’d tell me stories about the real planes, about the pilots who flew them and the wars they fought in.
Made history come alive. We went to a lot of air museums.”
“Do you still build them?”
“No.” The word came out flat. “I haven’t since… I found him in his office.”
I realized I sounded ridiculous admitting up until a year ago, I still built model planes. But she didn’t say anything about it. She had a soft, forlorn smile on her lips.
Damn it. Too heavy. I’d meant to keep things light, not trauma dump all over her.
But when I glanced at Elizabeth again, I found only understanding.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “That must have been horrible.”
“It was.” I took a long drink of wine. “Anyway. Your turn. Tell me something about your family.”
“My mother taught me to sew. When I was really young, maybe seven or eight. We used to make dresses together. For each other, for my dolls. It was our thing.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It was. Until I ruined it.” She laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“I wanted to make her something special. I’d seen this perfume ad on TV—” She glanced at me, like she expected me to be zoned out or bored.
I nodded, encouraging her to keep talking.
“It might have been one of your dad’s designs, actually.
This gorgeous evening gown, all glamorous and sophisticated.
The model was wearing the perfume my mother loved. ”
“Which one?”
“Midnight Rose.”
“Dad designed the campaign dress for that,” I confirmed. “I remember it. Dark red, off the shoulder, split up the thigh.”
“That’s the one. I was obsessed with it. And I thought if I could make my mother a dress like that, she’d feel as beautiful as the woman in the commercial.” Elizabeth’s voice got quieter. “So I saved up my allowance for months. Bought fabric from the discount store. Worked on it in secret.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight. Maybe nine.”
“That’s impressive for that age.”
“The construction was terrible,” she said with a slight smile. “All my seams were crooked. The hemline was uneven. But I was so proud of it. I gave it to her on her birthday, and she opened the box, and her face just fell.”
I waited, sensing there was more.
“She said the neckline was too low. That it was inappropriate, revealing and very disrespectful. She yelled at me about modesty and respecting myself as a lady.” Elizabeth’s hands twisted together in her lap. “She made me feel like I’d done something shameful.”
“Damn,” I said softly.
“Yeah. I never made her another dress after that.” She looked up at me with sadness in her eyes. “That’s when I started keeping my designs to myself. Stopped showing my parents what I was working on.”
“Your mother thought an eight-year-old made her something too revealing?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief out of my voice.
Elizabeth laughed, a real one this time. “Yeah, Mom was pretty strict. Still is. If she met Sebastian, she’d probably faint on the spot. I try very hard to keep this part of my life separate from her.”
“That must be lonely.”
“Sometimes. But it’s safer. She doesn’t understand this world, and she never will.” She gestured around her small apartment, at the fabric and sketches and evidence of her passion. “This is who I am. And she doesn’t approve of who I am. So I just don’t tell her.”
The contrast between our upbringings hit me then.
I’d grown up with a father who encouraged every creative impulse and turned our mistakes into lessons.
He’d built an empire from nothing and wanted his sons to reach even higher.
Our mother encouraged us to be feral. And we were, but when it was time to rein it in, she gently pulled us back. Even now she parented us that way.
Elizabeth had grown up hiding her talent and keeping her dreams secret, like they were something to be ashamed of.
“My dad started as a simple dressmaker,” I said. “Did you know that? Not a designer—a dressmaker. He worked in a shop, taking in hems and fixing torn seams. But he had vision. And he had determination. Built Blackwell Couture from nothing into what it is today.”
“That’s incredible.”
“What’s incredible is that he never forgot where he came from. Never stopped believing that anyone with talent and drive could make it in this industry. He would have loved your designs.”
“You’ve never seen my designs.”
“I saw your portfolio, remember? The one you showed me before I told you they were too safe.”
She winced. “Thanks for that memory.”
“I wasn’t wrong. But I also wasn’t wrong when I said you had potential. Dad would have seen that immediately. He would have encouraged you, pushed you, believed in you.” I met her eyes. “The way I do.”
Something shifted in her expression—surprise, maybe, or hope. “You believe in me?”
“I wouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t. Not just for the fake engagement but for after, too. The job I promised you is real, Elizabeth. I meant every word of that.”
We were closer now. I hadn’t noticed it happening, but somehow the space between us had disappeared. Her shoulder was pressed against mine as she leaned in to look at another photo in the album. It was one of me at thirteen, holding up a finished model plane, grinning at the camera.
“You look happy there,” she said softly.
“I was. Dad had just told me I could display it in his office.” I could smell her shampoo. Or maybe it was a fading perfume. It was light, barely noticeable, and absolutely perfect. “I felt like I’d won the lottery.”
“It’s really cool. You should start building them again.”
“Maybe.” The word came out quiet and thick with emotion I hadn’t meant to show.
She looked up at me then, her face so close I could count the faint freckles across her nose. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes searching mine for something.
The air between us felt electric, charged with possibility.
I should move back. Put distance between us. This was supposed to be about getting comfortable, about helping her see me as human, not about—
She tilted her head slightly, the movement unconscious, instinctual. All my good intentions evaporated.
I leaned down and kissed her.
I gave her every chance to pull away. But she didn’t. Instead, she made a small sound in the back of her throat and leaned into me too, one hand coming up to rest against my chest.
The album slid off my lap onto the couch cushions. I cupped her face with one hand, angling her head to deepen the kiss. She responded with an eagerness that made heat pool low in my stomach.
She tasted like wine. I wanted more. Wanted everything.
This was a mistake. Exactly what Briggs had warned me about.
But God help me, I couldn’t stop.