Prologue
Softest Touch - Excerpt
Prologo
DEREK
It’s been months since I’ve been in London, but the idea claws at me more and more each day—like a whisper I can’t ignore.
I never gave much of a thought to expanding. We’re new to the market as a luxury brand but still affordable.
My world has always been structured—runways, sketches, silk swatches, and silence.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that friends don’t come easy when you’re rich.
Everyone either wants a favor or thinks you’re too much.
Or worse, they want you as an accessory to their ambition.
Sebastian was the exception. The outlier.
I didn’t know who he was when he walked into one of my boutiques in D.C.
, a unicorn in a suit, apparently slumming it among mortals.
I don’t usually deal with clients directly.
That’s not my vibe. I’m the ghost in the sketchpad, the name on the label, the one who shows up on runaways and big events.
My sister-in-law, Sienna, handles suppliers and models.
My brother deals with contracts and the never-ending parade of NDAs. I’m the one who creates, nothing more.
But, that day, Sienna told me I needed to go to the boutique downtown. Her tone had that tight edge that said “If you ignore me, I’ll ruin your life.”
So I listened.
When I got there, he was waiting—leaning slightly against the edge of the counter while his bodyguard and my staff loaded a sleek black car with suit bags like they were prepping for war. His back was to me. He was on the phone, his voice low and lethal, and I froze.
There was something about his posture, relaxed, yet so controlled. Like a lion lounging before it struck. The fabric of his suit hugged him like it had been stitched directly onto his skin, and every word that rolled off his tongue sounded like an order.
I didn’t know why, but my first instinct?
Trouble.
The kind that either ruined you or remade you.
Before I could clear my throat, his bodyguard stepped beside me, silent as a damn ghost, and I nearly jumped out of my Italian shoes.
Then Sebastian turned. Eyes cool and unreadable. Voice steady. “I want you to be my personal designer.”
I blinked again. “Excuse me?”
Sebastian turned to fully face me now, hands in his pockets like he’d got all the time in the world. His gaze didn’t waver. “You heard me.”
I folded my arms, my posture instinctively defensive. “I don’t do custom designs.”
He lifted a brow. “That a policy or a personality trait?”
“Both,” I deadpanned.
A slow, smug smirk crept across his face. He didn’t argue. Didn’t even look disappointed. Instead, he gave a subtle nod to the mountain-sized man beside him. The bodyguard reached into his jacket and handed me a business card.
I accepted it out of reflex, still frowning. “Seriously, I don’t do—”
But Sebastian was already walking past me, his tone breezy as he threw over his shoulder, “You’ll call.”
The door opened. The door closed. They were gone.
I looked down at the business card in my hand. Matte black, edges like a razor. No phone number. No email. Just a golden embossed phoenix that looked like it was about to rise right off the damn cardstock, and beneath it:
Sebastian A. III
Nothing else.
I almost rolled my eyes into next week. Who the hell didn’t include contact info? What was this, Hogwarts? A prank? Maybe mafia?
I tossed the card onto my desk when I got back in my office. I had fittings, fabric emergencies, and a model crying in the bathroom because the sample pants made her “look like a potato.” I moved on. Kind of.
* * *
Two weeks later, I was at one of those black-tie charity events in New York where everyone pretended they cared about saving the world, but they were really just flexing their money and designer gowns.
I came for the PR, stayed for the champagne, and mentally sketched designs on the backs of napkins just to survive the small talk.
I was chatting with some editor from Vogue Scandinavia—I thought her name was Ingrid—when I heard someone call out, “Derek freaking Wilson!”
I turned, and there was Trevor Nylander, grinning ear to ear, tux slightly rumpled in that charming jock way, like he’d just jogged over from a stadium instead of arriving in a town car. My longtime friend, and one of the very few people who had actually liked me before the brand made headlines.
“T,” I smirked, pulling him in for a quick hug. “Look at you, trying to outshine me in a room full of sequins.”
“Always.” He laughed. Then he turned to the man beside him and said, “Sebastian, let me properly introduce you. This is Derek Wilson—genius, pain in the ass, and the guy who made my suit for the ESPYs look like it walked off a Milan runway.”
I blinked as Trevor added with a grin, “Derek, meet His Highness Sebastian Alexander III, Prince of Greendale.”
Prince.
Of course.
Sebastian nodded politely, and for a second, it was like déjà vu. The same cool gaze, that ridiculously poised stance, and the tailored tux that made half the room look underdressed. His smirk was still the kind that made you want to punch it and sketch it at the same time.
“A pleasure,” Sebastian said smoothly, offering a hand.
“Likewise,” I managed, trying not to let my expression betray how off-balance I suddenly felt.
Trevor looked between us with a knowing grin. “I’ll leave you two to talk. The ambassador of Luxembourg just walked in, and I owe her a drink and a dance.”
And like that, he vanished into the glittering crowd.
Silence settled for a beat. I took a sip of my drink. So did Sebastian.
“You were really a prince?” I asked, arching a brow.
He smiled. “Only on weekdays.”
“Should’ve known. The smirk gave it away.”
He chuckled. “Still thinking about my offer?”
“You mean the one you dropped like a royal grenade then left without a single contact detail?”
“I left a business card,” he said innocently.
“Right. The one with a phoenix and nothing else. What was I supposed to do—send a raven?”
His grin widened. “You were here, weren’t you?”
I sighed. “I don’t do custom work. I’d said that.”
“Yet you were here talking to me.”
“Told you. I came for the champagne.”
“And stayed for the royalty?”
“You’re insufferable,” I muttered, but there was no heat in it.
He leaned in slightly, voice low. “I want you. Not just any designer. You’ll get a title—Royal Dressmaker. Design for special events. You’ll still run Wilson Creations, still be your own brand. You’ll just also be ours.”
“Ours?”
“The royal house,” he clarified. “Greendale. Me.”
I studied him. This man had walked into my boutique like he owned the world and now stood here offering me a crown I hadn’t asked for—but one part of me wanted to reach for.
“Why me?”
“You’re brilliant. And you said no.”
That stopped me.
“I liked people who didn’t try to impress me,” he added with a shrug. “They usually did.”
I exhaled a laugh, unsure whether I wanted to punch him or toast him.
“You were serious about this?”
“As a constitutional monarchy.”
That earned him a smirk of my own. “You really didn’t take no for an answer.”
“Not when I knew the right answer was yes.”
I glanced around the room, then back at him. “Fine. I’ll consider it.”
His smile was all satisfaction and subtle triumph. “You’ll say yes.”
Spoiler?
He was not wrong. And the rest, as they say, was stitched into the seams of history.
In the last year alone, Wilson Creations had opened six new boutiques across the States.
New York, L.A., Miami, Chicago, Seattle, and Dallas.
Each launch had felt like birthing a new child—if that child wore silk, needed permits, and cost a fortune in marketing.
But the real dream? Europe. I wanted Wilson Creations to be as global as the chaos in my sketchbooks.
Paris, Milan, Berlin… London. Especially London.
But business in England was a different beast. Between the legal systems, tax nightmares, and import duties that made me want to punch something, I knew I’d need a sharp legal mind to even dream of expanding here.
“Ask Isabel,” Sebastian had said one night over drinks, as if it had been the easiest thing in the world. “If she doesn’t do that stuff, she’ll know someone who does.”
Yeah, sure. Who was also probably still wrapped in bedsheets and bliss somewhere on a secluded island, sipping something with a tiny umbrella and not thinking about zoning laws.
I didn’t want to bother her. Not because she wasn’t the kind to help—she absolutely was. But because she and Nate had just gotten married, and I wasn’t about to interrupt newlywed heaven with my real estate woes.
Besides, life had a funny way of working itself out.
Sebastian might have walked into my boutique as a customer, but somewhere between fittings and fittings for his entire family tree, he became more than just a client.
He was my boss, yeah, but more than that, he was my best friend.
The kind of friend who bulldozed into your life and reorganized your priorities, then pretended it had been your idea all along.
I’d met Isabel and Nathan months ago—right before her last name came with a title.
Sebastian had dragged them into my D.C. boutique in a whirlwind moment of chaos. I’d been in the back, finishing mockups, when Sienna called me out. “You might want to handle this one personally.”
Sebastian had stood in the center of my studio like he owned the place—which, given the amount he spent, might not have been far from the truth. Beside him, Nate looked every bit the composed person, but it was Isabel who caught my eye.
Flushed cheeks, storm in her eyes but an ethereal beauty. She tried three wedding dresses. One almost did it—a silken thing with a plunging back—but it wasn’t her. I could tell by the way she exhaled when she looked in the mirror.
Then it hit me. I excused myself, went into my private collection room, and pulled out the dress.