14. Shadow Games
Shadow Games
CONNOR
Rachel's asleep in the bedroom, door closed, light finally off.
I've been sitting on this penthouse sofa for the past hour, laptop open, watching the damage spread like wildfire across fashion media. Sleep isn't happening. Not tonight.
The sixth designer pulls out at 6:47 AM.
I've been awake since six fifteen, watching my laptop screen like it's a ticking bomb. Giulia Rossetti's team canceled first. Two-line email, no explanation. Then the dominoes started falling.
Rachel's phone erupts through the bathroom door. A dozen notifications in rapid succession, each one another knife.
I close my eyes. She's seeing it now.
The water shuts off. Silence stretches for thirty seconds. Then her phone buzzes again. And again.
When the bathroom door opens, I'm already standing. Already bracing.
She's wrapped in my shirt from last night, hair damp, face pale. But it's her eyes that destroy me. That look of someone who just watched their world tilt sideways.
"Don't look at your phone," I say.
Her mouth curves. Not a smile. Something harder. "Too late."
"How bad?" Rachel asks.
I've already run the numbers. Six designers gone. Milan Fashion Council "reviewing" her participation. Someone leaked a fabricated story to Vogue Italia—claims she sabotaged Chiara Fontana's spring collection.
The lie is so absurd it would be laughable if it wasn't working.
I decide in real-time how much to tell her. How much I can handle silently. Her hands are trembling—barely visible, but I notice. I always notice.
"Manageable," I say. "That's not an answer."
She's right. It's not.
"Six designers have pulled out of collaborative events. The Milan Fashion Council is reviewing your participation in Fashion Week. Someone leaked a story to Vogue Italia that you sabotaged Chiara Fontana's spring collection."
I watch her face. Gauging. Ready to catch her if this is the blow that breaks her.
The floor seems to tilt under her feet.
"I've never even met Chiara Fontana."
"I know." I cross to her. Hands gentle on her shoulders because I need to ground her. Ground us both. "It's fabricated. All of it."
"But people believe it."
"People believe what they're told to believe." My eyes search hers, looking for the fighter I know is still in there. "We'll fix this."
She wants to believe me. I see it in the way she's looking at me—like I'm the answer. Like I'm the hero in this story.
If she knew what I did before Paris?—
No. Not now. After we win.
"Maybe I should just go home," she whispers.
Every muscle in my body locks.
"No."
"Connor—"
"No." The word comes out sharp. Dangerous. "You don't get to quit. Not now. Not when we're this close."
"Close to what? Losing everything anyway?" She pulls away, wrapping her arms around herself. "My reputation is destroyed. My shows are being boycotted. Designers I've admired for years think I'm some vindictive saboteur. Maybe Fawn won."
Something cracks open in my chest.
I move. Fast.
Back her against the wall. Hands planted on either side of her head. Not trapping her. Just there. Solid. Immovable. Close enough to ground her, not close enough to cage her.
"Listen to me." My voice drops. The tactical mask slips and something raw bleeds through.
"Fawn Moreau is a spoiled trust fund brat who plagiarized her way through design school and bought her way into relevance.
You? You built an empire from nothing. You create art that makes people stop and stare.
You're brilliant and talented and you scare the hell out of people like her because you earned every single thing you have. "
Her breath catches. I feel it against my face.
I'm close enough to see the green flecks in her hazel eyes. Close enough to count her heartbeats.
"She's winning?—"
"She's desperate." I mean every word. Can't stop them even if I wanted to. "This boycott? The sabotage rumor? It reeks of panic. She's throwing everything at you because her original plan failed. The fake scandal didn't destroy you. The threats didn't break you. And now she's scrambling."
"How do you know?"
"Because I do the same thing when I'm cornered." A muscle jumps in my jaw. "When someone won't go down easy, you escalate. You get messy. You make mistakes."
She's staring at me. At this man who's seen the worst of humanity and somehow still believes she can win.
"I'm tired, Connor."
"I know."
"I don't know if I can keep fighting."
My hand cups her face. Thumb stroking her cheek. The jasmine scent of her skin nearly undoes me.
"You can," I say quietly. "You're the strongest person I've ever met. And I don't say that lightly."
"Why are you doing this?" Her voice breaks. "Really doing this? It can't just be about winning anymore."
My eyes hold hers. For a moment, I can't answer. Can't breathe.
Then my thumb traces her lower lip and the truth slips out before I can stop it.
"Because watching you give up would destroy me," I say. Raw. Honest. "And I'm not ready to be destroyed."
The air between us ignites.
She rises on her toes. Closing the distance I left between us.
And I pull back.
Just enough to hurt.
"Get dressed," I say. Rough. Unsteady. "We have work to do."
Rachel disappears into the bedroom. Returns ten minutes later in jeans and a silk blouse, hair pulled back, face composed.
The devastation from an hour ago is locked away. Replaced by the designer who built an empire from nothing.
This woman. This impossible, brilliant woman.
I clear space on the dining table. Spread out the files Marc sent overnight.
"Sit. We need to strategize."
She sinks onto the sofa. I join her, laying out everything we have on Fawn. Her connection to Helix Communications. Her fiancé Julian Thorne's attempted hostile takeover of Rachel's company. The offshore accounts funding the smear campaign.
Rachel scans the papers. Her designer's eye cataloguing every detail.
"It's not enough," she says quietly. "Her uncle is a senator. Julian Thorne has lawyers who could tie this up in court for years. By the time we prove anything, my career will be over."
"So we don't go to court."
She looks up. I let her see the dangerous edge I usually keep hidden.
"We go public," I say. "Press conference. You lay out everything. The threats. The surveillance. The fabricated scandals. You tell your story before they can spin it."
"That's insane."
"That's the only play we have left."
Rachel leans over the table, studying the financial records. Trusting every document I've put in front of her.
She doesn't know I have files she's never seen. Documents I compiled before we ever met.
The guilt sits like lead in my chest.
Her pulse races. I can see it in her throat. "If I do this," she says slowly, "I need to control the narrative. No handlers. No script. Just me, telling the truth."
Something close to pride flares in my chest.
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
We spend the next three hours planning. I map out media strategy while Rachel drafts talking points. We debate every angle, every possible question, every way this could blow up in our faces.
It's terrifying.
It's exhilarating.
And somewhere in the middle of it, I realize she's right. We're not ready to quit. Not when we're this close to exposing Fawn for exactly what she is.
"We'll do it tomorrow," I say, checking my watch. One-forty PM. "I'll arrange a venue. Invite the key outlets. Control the environment."
"Tomorrow?"
"Strike while they're scrambling. Before Fawn can mount a defense."
She nods. Her hands tremble but her resolve is steel.
"Okay. Tomorrow."
The silence stretches.
Rachel closes her laptop. Looks up at me across the war room we've built in this penthouse.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For believing I could fight."
I'm across the room before I decide to move.
Three steps. Her back against the window. My hands framing her face.
"Tell me to stop."
Her eyes search mine. Green flecks catching the afternoon light filtering through Milan's skyline. "No."
I kiss her.
Not desperate like the limo. Not rushed or frantic or fueled by adrenaline and fear.
This is deliberate.
My mouth moves over hers slowly. Tasting. Memorizing. My hands slide into her hair. Silk between my fingers, the faint scent of her shampoo mixing with jasmine.
She makes a sound. Low in her throat. Her hands find my chest, fisting in my shirt.
I pull back just enough to see her face.
"Rachel."
"Don't stop," she whispers. "Please don't stop."
I couldn't if I wanted to.
My hands move to the buttons of her blouse. One. Two. Three. She's watching me, eyes dark and open, trusting me with everything.
The silk parts. I push it off her shoulders, let it fall.
She's beautiful.
Curves and soft skin and strength wrapped in vulnerability. I trace the line of her collarbone. The dip of her waist. Every touch deliberate because I'm memorizing her.
Her hands find my shirt. She tugs it free, pushes it up. I help her, yanking it over my head.
Then her hands are on my skin and I forget how to think.
We move to the bedroom. Slow steps. Mouths fused. Her back hits the mattress and I follow her down, bracing my weight on my forearms.
"Connor." My name on her lips does something to me. Cracks something I've kept locked for fifteen years.
I kiss her throat. Her shoulder. The curve of her breast. She arches into me, hands tangling in my hair.
This isn't about tactics or strategy or winning wars.
This is falling.
The realization hits somewhere between her gasp and my name on her lips. This isn't just attraction or crisis or adrenaline pushing us together.
This is something real.
And I've spent fifteen years building walls specifically to prevent this moment. To stay in control. To never need anyone enough that losing them would shatter me.
But Rachel...
Her hand cups my face. Thumb stroking my jaw. Eyes open and locked on mine.
She's not running. Not hiding. Not pretending this is anything less than what it is.
I kiss her again. Pour everything I can't say into the way my mouth moves over hers. The way my hands worship every inch of skin.