Chapter 49
ADRIAN
Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse. I blinked awake slowly, disoriented by how late it seemed to be. If the sun was already that bright, it meant I had slept well past my usual early rising.
My body felt heavy with exhaustion and relief in equal measure. The past two weeks had been the most intense of my life—four countries, five shows, a fake engagement that became real, a scandal that almost destroyed everything, and finally, miraculously, getting the woman I loved back.
I hadn’t slept for days. That’s what kept me in bed.
Well, that and the warm body next to me. I had a feeling I would be sleeping in a lot more often these days.
I rolled over carefully, not wanting to wake her. I just needed to look. To confirm she was really here. I needed to confirm last night hadn’t been some elaborate dream conjured by exhaustion and desperation.
But nope. There she was. Her hair was spread across my pillow with her face peaceful in sleep, one hand tucked under her cheek.
Was it a little creepy to sit and watch her sleep? Probably. But I just couldn’t look away.
I still couldn’t quite believe it. Twenty-four hours ago, I’d been convinced I had lost her forever. I thought my cowardice had cost me the only woman I’d ever truly loved.
And now she was in my bed breathing softly beside me like she belonged there.
“You’re staring,” she murmured without opening her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips.
“Guilty.” I didn’t even try to deny it. “Can you blame me?”
She opened one eye, then the other, green eyes still hazy with sleep but sparkling with amusement. “I suppose not. Though it’s a little creepy.”
“I thought I lost you. I keep expecting to wake up and find out this was all a dream.”
“Not a dream.” She shifted closer, fitting herself against me like we were puzzle pieces designed to connect. “Very real. Very awake. Very much in your bed.”
I pulled her closer, burying my face in her hair, breathing her in. She smelled like my shampoo from the shower we had shared last night. We stayed like that for several minutes, just holding each other. I felt like we were making up for the days of distance and doubt.
“We made it,” I said finally. “We actually made it.”
“We did. And we don’t have anywhere to be today, right? No shows, no press conferences, no crisis management?”
“Nothing. We’re completely free.” I kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her lips. “No one to answer to but ourselves. No schedule, no obligations. Just us.”
“That sounds amazing.” She snuggled deeper into my embrace. “Though I should probably check my phone eventually. See if the internet still hates me.”
“About that.” I reached for my phone on the nightstand, pulled up the trending topics. My own phone had been blowing up since last night. I’d been ignoring all of it, focused entirely on Elizabeth. I slid my finger across the screen, reading the messages and the headlines Brigg had sent via text.
“You might want to see this,” I said.
“Oh no,” she groaned.
She took the phone, her expression wary, like she was bracing for more cruel attacks.
She stared at the screen. Then her eyes went wide.
“Elizabeth Laramie collection breaks the internet,” she read aloud. “Are you serious? Did you see this?”
I grinned. “I did.”
“Adrian, these headlines are amazing.”
“Keep going.”
“Fashion world demands Elizabeth Laramie solo show,” she read aloud. “And they claim I’m the new designer to watch!” She looked up at me, tears forming. “This is real?”
“It is.” I took the phone back and pulled up more articles.
I showed her more headlines, scrolling through dozens of pieces all praising her talent, vision, and designs.
“It turns out the fashion world loves a good redemption story. And they especially love being in on what they think was an elaborate reveal strategy.”
“What do you mean?”
“They think we planned it. That letting my name appear on your designs in Milan was intentional—a way to generate buzz and controversy that would make the real reveal even more impactful.” I grinned.
“They’re calling it a genius masterstroke of marketing.
Four-dimensional chess. Some blogger wrote a whole think-piece about how we ‘weaponized the patriarchy’s tendency to credit men for women’s work’ as a commentary on the industry. ”
She laughed, disbelieving. “But it was a mistake. A technical error.”
“They don’t know that. And honestly? We’re not going to correct them. We’ll use this to fuel your first solo show.”
“A solo show?” She looked terrified and thrilled in equal measure. “Adrian, I’m not ready for that.”
“You are. You’re more than ready.” I set the phone aside, taking her hands in mine. “You already have the logo. Do you have a name for your line?”
She bit her lip, thinking. I loved watching her mind work, loved the little furrow that appeared between her brows when she was concentrating. “What about… EL by Blackwell?”
“Perfect.” I kissed her softly. “Elizabeth Laramie, official Blackwell designer. Has a nice ring to it.”
“It does.” She was smiling now. “So I guess I better get started on some new designs?”
“Eventually. Not today though.” I pulled her back down into the pillows. “Today we rest. We celebrate. We enjoy the fact that everything worked out despite our best efforts to screw it up.”
“Everything is awesome,” she agreed, laughing. “How is this my life?”
“Our life,” I corrected. “Get used to saying that.”
“Um, there’s something I should tell you,” she said.
I did not like the sound of that. “What is it?”
Elizabeth took a deep breath, not quite meeting my eyes. “The leak. The one that told Clara about our arrangement.”
“What about it?” My body tensed despite my best efforts to stay calm. We’d been over this. Someone had betrayed us, and I still had no idea who. Briggs had launched a full investigation, questioning everyone who’d had access to the information.
“It was Chris,” she said quietly. “He’s the one who told Clara.”
For a moment, I just stared at her, certain I’d misheard. “Chris? My Chris? Your brother Chris?”
“Yes.” She finally looked at me, guilt and misery written all over her face. “He met Clara at a party. He didn’t know who she was—didn’t recognize her as a supermodel or your ex. I think she targeted him, looking for information. I can’t prove it, but it’s too much of a coincidence.”
“So he just told her everything?” I asked.
“Well, get this. They hooked up, and afterward, while they were talking, he mentioned me. Mentioned the job offer at Blackwell, the engagement. He thought he was just making conversation.”
I shook my head. “Dumb ass.”
“He didn’t know,” Elizabeth continued quickly, words tumbling out in a rush. “He had no idea she knew you, or that she had any reason to use that information. She played him, Adrian. She targeted him specifically because he’s my brother and your friend. She used him.”
Relief that it hadn’t been someone at Blackwell washed over me. But also frustration that this whole disaster could have been avoided if Chris had just kept his mouth shut.
“Say something,” Elizabeth whispered. “Please.”
“I’m trying to figure out what to say,” I admitted. “Part of me wants to be furious. This could have destroyed everything—almost did destroy everything. Your reputation, my company, my family’s legacy. All because Chris couldn’t resist bragging to a beautiful woman.”
“I know. He knows. He feels terrible about it. He wanted to come to the show last night to apologize to you in person, but I told him to give us space.”
“Clara played him,” I said. “She knew exactly what she was doing. I’ll talk to Briggs and see what we can do about her little game. At the very least we can issue a cease and desist.”
“I don’t want to sue her,” Elizabeth said. “Is that weird? She tried to destroy me, but I just want to move forward. Not spend months or years entangled in legal battles. She’s not worth it.”
“Not weird. Actually very you.” I traced patterns on her bare shoulder, following the curve down to her elbow. “Though I reserve the right to make her life difficult in other ways.”
“Such as?”
“She’ll never work a Blackwell show again.
And I have friends at other houses—lots of them.
” I smiled grimly. “Her career is about to get a lot less exciting. She’ll find herself mysteriously unavailable for the good jobs, passed over for the prestigious shows.
She’ll still work, but never at the top tier again. ”
“My knight in designer armor.”
“Always.”
“It’s Sunday,” I said, sitting up slightly.
“All day.”
“Sunday dinner. With my family.” I looked down at her and debated asking my question. “Would you like to come with me?”
She propped herself up on one elbow. “To family dinner? Are you sure? That seems serious. I don’t want to intrude.”
“Elizabeth, I declared my love for you on live television in front of the entire world. I think we’re past worrying about things being too serious.” I brushed hair back from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “Besides, you’re basically family.”
She kissed my palm. “Okay. Yes. I’d love to come to Sunday dinner.”
I watched her get up and head to the bathroom, admiring her perfect ass peeking out from under my shirt.
I slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, padding barefoot to the kitchen. Sunday morning. Just me and Elizabeth and an entire day stretching out ahead of us.
Elizabeth had a serious weakness for pancakes. I remembered her telling me that over breakfast in Paris. Or maybe it was London.
My refrigerator was embarrassingly bare—some leftover takeout, bottled water, and a container of yogurt. But I did have eggs. Milk. Flour. The basics.
I pulled out my phone and googled pancake recipes. I was about to learn how to make them. It couldn’t be that hard, right? People made pancakes every day. How difficult could it be?
“Okay,” I muttered to myself, as I got busy. “You can negotiate billion-dollar deals. You can run a fashion empire. You can make fucking pancakes.”
I heard Elizabeth’s footsteps behind me and tried to casually position myself to block her view of the disaster happening in my mixing bowl.
“What are you doing?” she asked. I could hear the smile in her voice.
“Making you breakfast. Pancakes.”
“Adrian Blackwell is making me pancakes?”
“Attempting to,” I corrected.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“Please,” I said with a laugh. “I’m a little lost here.”
We spent the next thirty minutes with her showing me the trick to fluffy pancakes. What started as me making her pancakes ended up the other way around.
But she seemed to be enjoying it.
I was a quick learner. Next weekend, I would be making her pancakes. Maybe even bacon if I was feeling brave.