Chapter 7 - Eve
The call comes at nine in the morning, just as I'm reviewing the final sketches for the modified collection. Mr. Chen's number flashes on my screen, and I answer with a smile, grateful for something normal in the chaos my life has become.
"Mr. Chen, perfect timing. I wanted to confirm the delivery schedule for—"
"Miss Sinclair." His voice is strained, apologetic, and my stomach immediately drops. "I am so sorry. I have... I have terrible news."
My smile freezes. My hand tightens around the phone. "What kind of news?"
"The order. Your order. I cannot fulfill it." The words come out in a rush, like he's forcing them. "There have been... complications. Unforeseen circumstances. I must cancel."
No. No, this can't be happening.
I set down my pen carefully, trying to keep my hands steady even though they want to shake. "Mr. Chen, that's our entire spring line. Forty thousand yards of custom silk. We have a contract."
"I know. I know, and I will pay the cancellation fee, of course. But I cannot produce the fabric. I am so very sorry, Miss Sinclair. Please understand, this is not—" He stops abruptly. "I cannot explain. I am sorry."
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone, disbelief turning slowly to cold fury and rising panic.
This makes no sense. Chen Textiles has been our primary supplier for three years.
They're reliable, professional, and we've never had so much as a delayed shipment.
Mr. Chen himself told me last month how excited he was about this collection.
And now, six weeks before fashion week, he's cancelling our largest order?
My vision blurs. I press my palm against my desk, trying to ground myself. Breathe, Eve. Just breathe.
But I can't breathe. Because this is everything. My entire spring line. Months of work. My reputation is already hanging by a thread after Dubois's article, and now this?
"Lucy!" I call out, my voice sharper than intended, cracking slightly.
She appears in the doorway of my office, tablet in hand, and her face immediately shifts to concern. "What's wrong? You look—"
"Chen just cancelled our silk order. All of it."
Her face goes pale. She actually sways on her feet. "He can't. We're in production. The samples are already—Eve, we don't have time to find another supplier."
"I know." I stand, needing to move, needing to do something before I fall apart completely.
I pace to the window, my heart racing, my hands trembling.
Below, the city goes about its business, oblivious to the fact that my empire is crumbling.
First the vicious review, now this. "Get everyone in the conference room. Now."
My voice sounds stronger than I feel. That's something, at least.
Ten minutes later, my core team is assembled—Lucy, our production manager, Fred, our lead seamstress Yuki. They all look worried, and I don't blame them. Their jobs depend on this. Their families depend on this. And I'm the one who's supposed to protect them.
But I won't let them see me panic. I won't let them see how terrified I am.
"We have a problem," I say, standing at the head of the table, channeling every ounce of strength I have left.
"But we also have solutions. Fred, I need a list of every textile supplier on the East Coast who can produce custom silk at this volume.
Yuki, pull the designs and see what we can modify to use alternative fabrics without compromising the vision.
Lucy, contact our PR team and make sure this doesn't leak before we have a plan. "
Lucy's hands are shaking as she takes notes, and seeing her fear makes mine worse. "Eve, what if we can't find a replacement in time?"
"We will." My voice is steel, even though inside I'm screaming. "We didn't build this company by accepting defeat. Start making calls. I want options by the end of the day."
They scatter, energized by purpose even in crisis. When the room clears, I allow myself one moment of weakness—pressing my palms against the cool glass of the window, closing my eyes, breathing through the panic attack that's threatening to consume me.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. You've survived worse. You can survive this.
This isn't a coincidence. The timing is too perfect. First, Bryce's threat, then Dubois's hit piece, now Chen's inexplicable cancellation.
Someone is orchestrating this. Someone wants to destroy me. Someone is systematically dismantling everything I've built.
And I don't know how to stop them.
The thought makes me want to curl up on the floor and cry. But I don't. I can't. Too many people are counting on me.
So I straighten my spine, smooth my skirt, and get back to work.
***
That evening, I force myself to attend the VIP opening at the new Rothko exhibition. It's important to be seen, to project confidence even when everything is falling apart. Even when I feel like I'm drowning.
I choose a black dress that hugs my curves and spend extra time on my makeup, hiding the dark circles under my eyes, the evidence of the tears I finally let fall in the shower.
I arrive fashionably late, paste on a smile that feels like it might crack my face in half.
The gallery is transformed, all soft lighting and champagne and people who collect art the way others collect shoes. I smile, I network, I pretend everything is perfect.
I pretend I'm not falling apart inside.
And then I see Bryce.
He's across the room, already drunk by the look of him, his face flushed and his movements too loud. When he spots me, his expression turns ugly, and my stomach clenches with dread.
Oh God. Not here. Not now.
He starts toward me, and I consider leaving. But no—I won't run from this pathetic man. I won't give him the satisfaction.
"Eve!" His voice carries across the polite conversations. People turn to look, and I feel the familiar burn of humiliation creeping up my neck. "Eve Sinclair, fashion's biggest fraud!"
I stand very still, my champagne glass steady in my hand, even though I'm shaking inside. Security is already moving toward him, but he's still talking, still making a scene.
"You think you're so special, don't you? But you're nothing. Nothing! And soon everyone will know it."
Two security guards take his arms, and he struggles briefly before allowing himself to be escorted out. The crowd returns to their conversations, the disruption already forgotten by them.
But not by me. Never by me.
I feel the familiar crawl of disgust on my skin, mixed with shame and fury and the horrible, helpless feeling of being publicly humiliated. Bryce's desperation is pathetic, but it's also dangerous. He's unraveling, and I'm his fixation.
And I'm so tired of being everyone's target.
I turn away, needing air, needing to escape before I break down in front of all these people, and that's when I feel it—the weight of someone's gaze, heavy and intent.
Different from the crowd's curious stares. This feels... warmer. Protective, almost.
I scan the room and find him.
A man stands near the west wall, partially in shadow. He's tall, powerfully built, dark-haired, impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that fits him like it was made for his body alone.
And he's staring at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch, that makes everything else—Bryce, the humiliation, the crumbling business—fade into nothing.
Not casual interest, not polite attention. This is focused, absolute, consuming.
Our eyes lock across the crowded room, and something electric passes between us. Recognition—or is it? My mind flashes to the masked ball last week, to the stranger who held me on the dance floor and whispered promises in my ear. Could it be...?
No. I never saw that man's face. But the height is right. The build. And those eyes—God, those dark green eyes that seem to see straight through me. That look at me like I'm not a fraud or a failure or a woman whose life is falling apart.
That look at me like I'm precious.
Heat floods my body as memories of that dance crash over me. The way his hand felt on my lower back. His breath against my ear. The hardness of his body pressed against mine. The way my body responded to him like it recognized something my mind couldn't grasp.
The way he made me feel safe. Protected. Seen.
Is it him?
He doesn't smile. Doesn't look away. Just watches me with those dark, unreadable eyes, and I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my dress. Stripped bare. Known.
And somehow, it doesn't feel like a violation. It feels like... relief.
My pulse races. My skin flushes hot. Between my thighs, I feel a throb of want that makes my breath catch, that makes me forget for just a moment that my world is crumbling.
He takes a step toward me, and my heart pounds so hard I'm certain everyone can hear it. Another step. The crowd seems to part for him, or maybe I'm just so focused on him that I don't see anyone else.
Please. Please be him. Please be real.
Someone speaks to me—a donor, asking about my upcoming show—and I force myself to break eye contact, to respond politely even though I want to scream at them to go away. My voice sounds strange to my own ears, breathless and distracted.
When I look back, he's gone.
The disappointment is crushing. Physical. I actually feel my chest constrict with it.
But I can still feel the ghost of his gaze on my skin, burning like a brand. My hands are trembling as I raise my champagne glass to my lips. My body is still humming with awareness, with a want so visceral it frightens me.
I scan the gallery for him, desperate for another glimpse of those eyes, that mouth, that powerful body. But he's vanished as completely as the masked stranger did.
Except I know—I know in my bones—that they're the same man.
And I know, with equal certainty, that he'll be back.
The thought both terrifies and comforts me in equal measure.
I leave the exhibition earlier than planned, unsettled and unable to focus on small talk. Unable to pretend anymore. The mysterious stranger has lodged himself in my thoughts, in my body. I can't shake the feeling that the encounter was significant somehow.
That he was significant.
That something inevitable has been set in motion, and there's no stopping it now.
The car service drops me at my building, and I take the elevator up to my floor, my mind still churning. Chen's cancellation, Bryce's public meltdown, the stranger's intense stare—it all feels connected, though I can't see how.
I'm so tired. So bone-deep exhausted. I just want to sleep for a week and wake up to find this was all a nightmare.
I unlock my door and step inside, and immediately know something is wrong.
There, on my dining table, sits a package.
My heart stops. Then starts again, racing.
I didn't order anything. I didn't give anyone permission to enter my apartment.
But there it is—a box wrapped in brown paper, tied with black ribbon.
I should run. Should call the police. Should call Lucy.
But my hands shake as I approach it, drawn like a moth to flame.
I untie the ribbon and tear away the paper.
Inside is a book.
Not just any book—a first edition of "The Odyssey," translated by Robert Fitzgerald. The exact edition, the exact printing, that Alex and I spent hours searching for in used bookstores when we were younger. We never found it. We joked that it was our holy grail, our impossible dream.
Our secret quest. Our private joke. Something we never told anyone because it was ours.
And here it is, in perfect condition, sitting on my dining table.
I can't breathe. My vision tunnels. This isn't possible.
I open the cover with trembling fingers. There's an inscription on the inside page, written in a hand I don't recognize:
"For Eve—some journeys lead us home."
A sob tears from my throat. I clutch the book to my chest and sink into the nearest chair, my legs giving out.
This isn't possible. No one knew about this except Alex. We never told anyone about our literary treasure hunt, our private jokes about being adventurers seeking ancient texts. It was ours, just ours. Something that belonged only to us.
So how does my stalker know?
The terror that floods through me is visceral, primal. This man—because it has to be a man, has to be the person leaving me roses and moving my books—has access to my most private memories. Things I've never shared with anyone.
He's not just watching me now. He's excavated my past, dug into my grief, found the tender places where Alex still lives.
I should be screaming. Should be running. Should be calling every police department in the city.
But I'm crying instead. Crying and holding this impossible book and feeling something crack open in my chest. Because beneath the fear, there's something else. Something I don't want to name but can't deny.
Someone knows. Someone sees. Someone understands the parts of myself I keep hidden from the world.
I think of the stranger at the gallery, his dark eyes stripping me bare but somehow making me feel whole.
I think of the black rose in the poetry section, beautiful and impossible.
I think of my note—"You have my attention"—and wonder what I've invited into my life.
Whoever he is, he knows me. Really knows me. Sees me in ways no one has since my family died.
And God help me, there's a part of me—small, reckless, desperately lonely—that wants to know him too.