Chapter 7 Julian
Julian
I watched Vivienne's face as she took in my workspace, noting the way her eyes widened at the dress forms, the careful way she moved around the midnight blue gown as if afraid to disturb even the air around it.
The expression of genuine awe on her features did something to my chest, a tightening that had nothing to do with professional pride and everything to do with the woman standing in my most private sanctuary.
She gets it.
The thought came with a rush of relief I hadn't expected.
This space was more than my office—it was where I bled creativity onto fabric, where ideas became reality through my hands.
Very few people had ever been allowed past Roy's desk into my inner sanctum, and none of them had been women I was… whatever I was with Vivienne.
"Perfect. Then let's get started," I said, moving toward a cabinet that held my measuring tools.
The truth was, I had been thinking about this moment all day.
Hell, I'd been thinking about it since Sunday morning when I'd left her house still carrying the scent of her skin.
The idea of designing something specifically for Vivienne had consumed me in a way that was entirely new—not just professionally, but personally.
I'd sketched and re-sketched, considered and reconsidered, driven by a need to create something that would be uniquely hers.
I'd never designed for a specific person before.
My collections were built around concepts, movements, historical periods, not around the curve of one particular waist or the exact shade of one particular pair of eyes.
But Vivienne had changed that, had made me want to create something that existed solely because she existed.
"I should warn you," I said, retrieving my measuring tape and notebook, "I'm very thorough when it comes to measurements. Details matter."
Vivienne nodded, but I caught the slight flush that colored her cheeks. "Of course. Professional."
Professional. The word felt inadequate for what was about to happen. There was nothing professional about the way my pulse had quickened the moment she'd walked into my studio, nothing detached about the anticipation that had been building in my chest all day.
"I'll need you to remove your dress," I said, proud of how steady my voice sounded. "You can keep your undergarments on, of course. There's a changing area behind that screen."
I gestured toward a corner of the office where a decorative screen provided privacy.
While she changed, I tried to center myself, to find the professional distance that had served me well throughout my career.
But this was Vivienne, and everything about her seemed designed to unravel my carefully maintained control.
When she emerged from behind the screen in a simple black bra and matching panties, my breath caught despite my best efforts.
She was beautiful—curves in all the right places, soft where I was hard, everything my hands remembered from Saturday night but somehow more intimate in the bright lights of my workspace.
"Where would you like me?" she asked, and I had to swallow hard before I could answer.
"Here is perfect," I managed, indicating a small platform in the center of the room. "Just stand naturally."
Vivienne stepped onto the platform, and I found myself eye-to-eye with her. I dropped my gaze, only to have it stop at her shapely legs, her hips, the gentle curve of her waist. Focus, I commanded myself. This is about the design.
But as I began taking measurements—wrapping the tape around her waist, noting the precise circumference in my leather-bound notebook—I discovered that touching Vivienne, even through my gloves, even in the most clinical way possible, was a form of exquisite torture.
"Arms out, please," I murmured, positioning the tape to measure her bust. My gloved fingers brushed against her skin as I adjusted the tape, and I felt her sharp intake of breath.
"Sorry," she whispered. "Your gloves are cold."
I paused, the tape measure in my hands. She'd noticed them, of course. The skin-tone leather that I'd chosen specifically for today, hoping they'd be less obvious, less intrusive to the process. But even these felt wrong somehow, a barrier between me and the work I was trying to do.
"They're necessary," I said simply, not trusting myself to explain further.
I continued working, my movements precise and practiced, but every measurement felt charged with meaning. The curve of her hip, the length of her torso, the delicate line of her collarbone—I was mapping her body not just for fabric, but for memory.
"What made you want to become a designer?" Vivienne asked softly, breaking the concentrated silence.
I glanced up from where I was measuring the distance from her waist to her knee. "Control, I suppose. The ability to create something perfect, something that serves a specific purpose."
"Control?"
I considered how much to reveal. "When I was young, I felt... powerless in many situations. Design gave me a way to impose order, to create beauty from chaos. Every seam, every line, every detail serves a purpose."
Just like my gloves. Just like the careful distance I maintained between myself and everyone else. Everything in my life served a purpose, followed a plan.
Everything except Vivienne.
"Turn, please," I said, needing to move to keep my thoughts from wandering into dangerous territory.
She rotated slowly, and I found myself face-to-face with the elegant line of her spine, the way her shoulder blades moved beneath her skin. I'd touched this back, kissed this skin, but seeing it in the clinical light of my workspace made it somehow more intimate, not less.
The trust she had in me to bare herself to scrutiny and measurements nearly made me come undone.
I measured the width of her shoulders, the length from her neck to her waist, each notation in my notebook bringing me closer to the design taking shape in my mind.
Emerald green silk, I'd decided. Cut on the bias to skim her curves without clinging.
A neckline that would showcase her collarbones, a hemline that would make her legs look endless.
But more than that—I wanted to create something that would make her feel as beautiful as I saw her. Something that would give her confidence in a room full of people who judged worth by net worth and value by visibility.
"You're very focused," Vivienne observed, and I realized I'd been silent for several minutes, lost in my vision.
"This is more challenging than usual for me," I admitted.
"I can usually tell someone's measurements just by looking at them.
Years of working with models who are all essentially the same size.
But you..." I paused, considering my words carefully.
"You're different. Unique. I want to get every detail exactly right. "
What I didn't say was that this was the first time I'd designed for someone with curves like hers, real curves, the kind that demanded a completely different approach to construction and fit.
The models I usually dressed were tall and angular, interchangeable in their uniformity.
Vivienne was something else entirely, a challenge and an inspiration all at once.
"This piece..." I started, then stopped. How could I explain that I was designing more than just a dress? That she'd made me want to throw out every rule I'd ever learned about who wore my clothes and why?
"This piece is important to me," I said finally, keeping the deeper truth to myself.
Vivienne's breath caught, and I saw something shift in her expression.
"That means a lot to me," she said softly.
"I know this might sound silly, but I'm not really sure what this is between us.
I just know that every moment I've spent with you has been…
extraordinary. And I can't wait to see what you'll create. "
My hands stilled on my measuring tape, her words hitting me with unexpected force.
Standing this close to her, seeing the trust in her eyes, I was suddenly transported back to Saturday night, the way she'd felt in my arms, the soft sounds she'd made, the perfect way she'd fit against me.
My gloved fingers lingered at her waist where the tape measure rested, and for a moment I considered closing the distance between us, professional boundaries be damned.
But this was my sanctuary, my workspace, and some lines couldn't be crossed. Not here. Not now.
I forced myself to step back, clearing my throat. "All done," I said finally, helping her step down from the platform. "You can get dressed."
As Vivienne disappeared behind the screen again, I stared down at my notebook, at the careful notations that would become her dress.
She was right to be uncertain about what this was—I didn't have a name for it either.
But whatever it was, it felt significant in a way that made my chest tight with possibility.
When she emerged, fully dressed and looking slightly flushed, I found myself reluctant to let her leave.
"How long will it take?" she asked.
"I'll have it ready by Friday afternoon. I'll have Roy arrange for delivery."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to," I interrupted. "I want everything to be perfect."
Before I could process what was happening, Vivienne stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me in a brief, warm hug. The contact was unexpected, and for a moment I went rigid with surprise before allowing myself to return the embrace.
"Thank you," she whispered against my chest. "For all of this. For taking such care with… everything."
My arms tightened around her for just a moment before she pulled back, leaving me with the lingering scent of her and the warmth of human contact I rarely allowed myself.
Vivienne's cheeks flushed pink, and I felt the familiar pull of attraction, the desire to close the distance between us. But this was my workspace, my sanctuary, and some boundaries were too important to cross.
Instead, I stepped back, professional distance reasserting itself even as my body protested the separation.
"Friday," I said. "Seven o'clock. I'll pick you up."
"Friday," she agreed, gathering her purse and moving toward the door.
After she left, I stood alone in my studio, surrounded by the dress forms and fabric samples that had always been enough before. But tonight, they felt like poor substitutes for the joy and life that Vivienne brought to the space.
I looked down at my notebook, at the measurements that would become her dress, and felt something I'd never experienced before—the absolute certainty that I was creating something not just beautiful, but necessary. Something that would change everything.
Just like she had.
Within an hour of Vivienne leaving, I was deep in the kind of creative fugue that consumed me completely.
I pulled bolt after bolt of emerald silk, testing the way the light caught the fabric, the way it moved, the way it would skim over Vivienne's curves.
Nothing was quite right. Close, but not perfect.
Perfect. That's what this had to be.
By Tuesday morning, Roy found me still in the studio, surrounded by fabric swatches and half-finished muslins, my usually immaculate appearance disheveled from a night spent chasing the exact vision in my head.
"Sir," Roy said carefully, setting down a cup of coffee I didn't remember asking for. "You have the Bergdorf's meeting at ten."
I looked up from the dress form where I'd been draping silk, my eyes bloodshot but focused. "Cancel it."
"Sir?"
"Cancel everything this week. Hold all calls unless it's an emergency."
Roy nodded, though I caught the concerned look he threw over his shoulder as he left.
My phone buzzed throughout the week—texts from Vivienne that I glanced at but barely processed.
Her messages were sweet, asking about my day, mentioning something funny a student had said, wondering if I was free for lunch.
I responded with brief acknowledgments: Not today, sorry. Looking forward to Friday.
I knew I was being curt, but I couldn't spare the mental energy for conversation. Every fiber of my being was focused on the creation taking shape under my hands.
Roy did his best to keep me fed, but most food sat untouched until he forced me to take a moment to eat.
Wednesday bled into Thursday. I barely slept, surviving on coffee and a single-minded obsession that had built my empire. I'd dismissed my team of seamstresses, needing to do this work myself, every stitch personal and precise.
The dress was unlike anything I'd ever created. But it was more than construction—it was poetry in fabric form, a love letter I couldn't write in words.
By Thursday night, my fingers were nearly raw beneath my gloves, my back ached from hunching over the sewing machine, and my eyes burned from the precise detail work. But the dress was finished, and it was perfect.
I stepped back, looking at my creation on the dress form, and felt something like religious awe. This wasn't just a dress—it was Vivienne, translated into silk and thread, everything beautiful about her given physical form.
But I wasn't done.
I called my contact at Louboutin, waking the man up to demand shoes in emerald silk to match the dress exactly.
I had my jewelry designer craft delicate earrings that would complement without competing.
I sourced undergarments in matching silk, because every detail mattered, every piece had to be perfect.
By the time I'd arranged for everything to be delivered to Vivienne Friday afternoon, along with a hair and makeup artist I trusted implicitly, it was nearly dawn on Friday. I finally allowed myself to collapse on the couch in my office, my phone set to silent, my body surrendering to exhaustion.
I slept the sleep of the dead, dreaming of emerald silk and golden skin, of Vivienne in my creation, of the moment she would see herself as I saw her—absolutely extraordinary.