Chapter 5
Stella
Work had always been my refuge and I took advantage of the distraction.
In the days since I’d fled The Players Club—since I’d left Tate without a goodbye—I’d thrown myself into my designs with a fervor that bordered on obsession.
If my hands were engaged in pinning fabric and my mind busy calculating seam allowances, then I couldn’t think about the way he’d looked at me.
The way he’d touched me. The way he’d murmured good girl while I trembled in his arms in the aftermath of numerous orgasms.
I couldn’t think about any of those things if I just kept my focus on what was most important. Work and creating new inventory and fulfilling the orders I already had.
The spare room in my apartment was my workshop, a plethora of organized chaos.
Fabric swatches were strewn across my drafting table and one of my dress forms was draped in the half-finished commissioned gown that was due next week, the intricate beaded bodice requiring the kind of attention to detail that left no room for wandering thoughts.
Sketches for my menswear line were pinned to a corkboard near my sewing machine, each one representing a piece of the dream I was determined to make a reality, no matter how many obstacles my parents dropped in my way.
I ran my fingers over the latest sketch—a tailored men’s shirt with a clean, masculine cut but subtle details no one would notice unless they were paying attention.
The collar was structured and precise, the sleeves meant to be rolled just once, perfectly.
But inside, the cuffs were lined with a soft, patterned fabric, almost indulgent against the skin and a bit of flare when folded back.
A hidden placket, delicate stitching along the seams, and buttons chosen for weight and feel, not just appearance.
It was exactly the kind of piece I wanted to make, with purpose in every detail. Classic and quietly daring, if you knew where to look.
As a result, the boutique I envisioned opening would be different from anything else in the city. High-end but accessible. Modern with an edge. A place where people came not just to buy clothes but to find custom and unique pieces that made them feel like the best versions of themselves.
Maybe I should start reaching out to independent fashion investors who understand my vision, I thought, not for the first time.
The idea terrified me almost as much as it excited me.
Pitching my business plan to strangers. Opening myself up to rejection or the possibility of someone saying yes to my brand and ideas.
Proving to everyone—especially my parents—that this wasn’t just a hobby but a viable and profitable career.
But every time I sat down to draft an email or research potential backers, my mind would drift. To dark eyes watching me from across a crowded room. To strong hands unbuckling leather cuffs from my wrists. To the sound of my name on his lips as he came deep inside me.
Stop it, I commanded myself, jabbing my needle through the gown’s delicate fabric with more force than necessary. He was one glorious night with a stranger. That’s all he was ever supposed to be. Nothing more.
My phone buzzed, and I grabbed it like a lifeline, grateful for the distraction.
I glanced at the text from Melissa. How about coffee? You have some explaining to do about Saturday night.
I hesitated, thumbs hovering over the screen.
I’d given Melissa the abbreviated version when I’d texted her that evening—Had to leave early, tell you everything later—but I’d been dodging her calls ever since.
Partly because I was busy. Mostly because talking about what happened with Tate made it real, and I wasn’t ready to admit how deeply he’d affected me.
But I couldn’t avoid her forever.
I sighed and typed out a quick response. Your place or mine?
Mine. I have better coffee.
She wasn’t wrong. Melissa liked the finer things in life, including her imported coffee beans that she treated like contraband.
Forty-five minutes later, I was curled up on Melissa’s sleek gray sofa, cradling a cup of her admittedly excellent Brazilian French roast pour-over while she studied me with knowing eyes.
“So,” she said, tucking her legs beneath her. “You going to tell me why you ghosted one of the hottest men at the club, or do I have to guess?”
I winced. “I didn’t ghost him. I just... left.”
“While he was getting you water and snacks, from what I heard.” She arched an eyebrow. “That’s the definition of ghosting, babe.”
“It was supposed to be one night,” I said weakly. “No names, no numbers, no complications. That was the whole point of going.”
“And yet here you are, three days later, looking like someone stole your favorite dessert.” Melissa sipped her coffee, watching me over the rim. “What really happened?”
I stared into my cup, watching the steam curl upward.
“The whole experience was... intense. More intense than I expected. He was...” I shook my head, unable to find words that captured everything that embodied Tate.
“I panicked, okay? He went to get me water and I just—I couldn’t stay.
If I’d stayed, I would have wanted more, and more wasn’t part of the plan. ”
She tipped her head curiously. “Would more have been so terrible?”
Yes, I wanted to say. Because more would have meant letting him see the real me. The struggling designer with the overbearing parents and a life so tightly regulated that I had to sneak off to a sex club just to taste a bit of freedom and rebellion.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” I said instead. “It’s not like he was looking for a relationship. You said yourself he’s a regular there.”
Melissa’s expression shifted into something almost apologetic. “Yeah, Tate’s definitely a player. Hot as sin and he knows it. I’ve never seen him with the same woman more than a few times. He’s not the type to get attached.”
I should have felt relieved. Validated, even. I’d made the right call by leaving. He would have moved on regardless—probably already had. Some other woman was probably wrapped in his arms right now, hearing him call her kitten in that low, rough voice.
The thought made my chest ache in a way I refused to examine.
“See?” I forced brightness into my voice. “It’s better this way. Clean break. No messy feelings.”
Melissa didn’t look convinced. “If you say so. But for what it’s worth, I’ve known you a long time, Stella.
If he meant nothing to you, you would have stayed for the water and made polite excuses on your way out.
Instead, you clearly Cinderella’d your way right out of there without leaving a glass slipper.
Whatever happened in that room with Tate shook you, and that’s not ‘nothing’. ”
I remained quiet, neither confirming nor denying my friend’s statement, but we both knew the truth. Still, knowing something and admitting it out loud were two very different things, and I wasn’t about to give voice to feelings I had no intention of acting on.
Even if some traitorous part of me still wondered what would have happened if I’d stayed.
* * *
The next week passed in a blur of work and carefully constructed denial when it came to Tate and those residual feelings that lingered, no matter how hard I tried to dismiss them.
I finished the commissioned gown—a gorgeous cascade of scarlet silk and hand-sewn crystals that made my client gasp when she tried it on.
I refined three more sketches for the menswear line, drummed up the nerve to send two emails to potential investors with interest in fashion design, and only thought about Tate approximately every seven minutes instead of every three.
Progress.
I was in the middle of adjusting a sleeve pattern on one of the men’s shirts when my phone rang. The caller ID made me pause. Dad.
My father and I had what could generously be called a complicated relationship.
Charles Hayward was one of the most respected defense attorneys in Las Vegas—previously a prosecutor before transitioning into a more lucrative branch of the law.
He was brilliant, driven, and absolutely certain that he knew what was best for everyone around him. Especially his daughter.
We usually communicated through stilted dinner conversations and the occasional text. Phone calls were rare, reserved for holidays and emergencies.
I answered with a knot already forming in my stomach. “Dad?”
“Where are you?” He demanded in a sharp, clipped tone.
I frowned, setting down my scissors. “I’m at home. Why? Is everything okay?”
My father was in his office by seven every morning because he was a workaholic who’d never met a case he couldn’t obsess over. But not everyone operated on his schedule, and it was barely nine.
“I’m sending a car to pick you up,” he replied, not answering my question. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“What do you mean, don’t go anywhere?” I shook my head, trying to make sense of his tone. There was something underneath the sharpness. Something that sounded almost like fear. “What’s going on?”
“Just stay there,” he insisted. “And don’t answer the door for anyone but my driver. George is on his way.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
I stared at my phone for a long moment after the call ended, my heart beating faster than it should. In twenty-six years, I’d never heard my father sound like that. Commanding, yes. Demanding, absolutely. But never... rattled.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t good.
I had twenty minutes to make myself presentable and spiral through every possible worst-case scenario before the sleek black car pulled up outside my building.
The driver—a man I vaguely recognized from my father’s staff—offered no explanations, just a polite nod and silence for the entire ride to Dad’s office.