23. Natalie
NATALIE
The office still buzzes weeks after the show.
There’s a new energy here. People move with purpose.
The phones ring constantly with calls from publicists, stylists, even celebrities.
Our socials haven’t dipped either. Likes, tags, and DMs are still flooding in like the show happened yesterday, not three weeks ago.
Carter’s show got good reviews. It was polished and impressive, but it didn’t make waves. Not like ours.
Now that it worked, Cosmo pitches one wild idea after another like he’s just discovered adrenaline.
“Let’s do a mid-season drop downtown,” he said last week. “No permit. No warning. Just models in full Vue looks walking through traffic like it’s a runway. We film it, cut it to music, go viral.”
Or the actress he wants to collaborate with who’s two months out from a public meltdown on a red carpet.
“She’s raw. She’s real. People love that,” he said.
I don’t get it. He coasted for years, letting us go stale. Then I shift things slightly, and now he’s obsessed with fireworks and spectacle. Sure, spectacle got us noticed but if we keep chasing attention, we’ll trip. One misstep, one wrong headline, and the whole thing unravels.
So I’ve been working on him, carefully. He needs to think everything’s his idea. Push too hard and he’ll resist just to be contrary. So I drop things here and there. Small, pointed observations, never too direct.
“Altier’s starting to feel chaotic lately,” I said the other day, flipping through a spread. “It’s tipping into cheap, not bold.”
He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t disagree, either.
It’s slow work but it’s landing. He’s starting to settle down.
Like he’s remembering this is supposed to be a fashion house, not a circus.
Once I get him off the spectacle high for good, I’ll have one final hurdle: convincing him that me dating Henry doesn’t make me a liability.
I’m at the board near my window, pinning up swatches for the summer capsule when the door opens behind me. I turn, expecting one of the interns with samples. But it’s Cosmo.
He strides in and drops a folded copy of Fashion Journal onto my desk. Henry’s name is splashed across the gossip column, his picture front and center.
I skim it, my pulse kicking up a notch. Isla’s been seen with someone new, which of course means the tabloids are blaming Henry. The same tired commitment-phobic playboy angle, again.
“Is there a reason this is on my desk?” I ask, keeping my face neutral and voice even.
“I want you to draft something,” Cosmo says, his tone clipped and direct. “We lean in this time. Playboy Carter, reckless, inconsistent. Still riding on the family name, still making headlines for the wrong reasons. Not CEO material. Not even close.”
He flicks at the magazine like it offends him. “We shape the narrative.”
So much for progress. I get it. Reputation matters. Especially when your last name is Carter. When Henry steps into the CEO role, he needs to look like a leader, not a punchline. Not some heir tangled up in yacht photos and gossip about exes. But dragging him down doesn’t help us.
“I don’t think it’s the best use of our time,” I say carefully.
“I’m not asking for your opinion, Natalie. People are watching. We hit while it’s hot. Trash the reputation before he’s got the job.”
“For all we know, that could be a decade—” I stop myself. This is one of those moments. If I push, he’ll just double down out of ego. So I shift gears.
“You’re totally right. We need to discredit him.” I nod like I’m weighing it. “This is perfect...only thing is, apart from this, Vue’s the headline right now. Not Carter. Let’s say the article lands exactly how we want. Aren’t we just handing the attention to them?”
I watch him closely as he turns it over, eyes narrowing just slightly. The seed takes root.
“We’ll wait,” he says, like it was his idea all along. “Time it better. Let things cool off.”
“Brilliant,” I say smoothly. “Smart strategy.”
He leaves without another word and I sit back in my chair, staring at the door.
My heart is racing a little. A few months ago, I would’ve written that article without a second thought.
I didn’t shut it down because it would shift the spotlight to Carter.
I shut it down because I love him. I should feel guilty about that. I don’t.
When I open the door to Henry that night, he drops a bag at his feet, pulls me into his arms, and kisses me like it’s all he’s been thinking about since sunrise. I melt instantly.
When he finally pulls back, breathless and grinning, he says, “Hi.”
“Hi,” I say, still slightly dazed.
He taps the bag with his foot. “I brought dinner and wine.”
I peek inside. There’s a bottle of red, and two containers.
“You…cooked?” I ask, following him into the kitchen with a healthy dose of skepticism.
“Not exactly,” he says, unpacking the containers. “I asked Dean for a little help. He started helping, then took over. Completely.”
I lean against the counter, amused. “So basically, Dean cooked dinner, and you just carried it here.”
“I picked the wine,” Henry says, all proud of himself. “Which may or may not pair well. But the label’s classy, so.”
He opens one of the containers and the scent intensifies. It’s rich and comforting.
“Chicken piccata with roasted potatoes and green beans,” he says.
“Dean knows what he’s doing.” Then it hits me. “Does he know? About us?”
“No.” Henry’s answer comes fast. “I didn’t tell him who it was for.”
Good.
Dinner is incredible. The chicken is perfectly tender, the lemony herbs bright and sharp, and the skin just crisp enough to feel indulgent, even though I’m pretty sure this still qualifies as “clean eating.” I take another bite and let out a helpless groan.
“This is amazing.”
“It’s chicken,” Henry says, shrugging like that’s nothing. “You follow the recipe, it comes out.”
“You’ve followed recipes before,” I say, giving him a look.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, reaching for his wine. “No need to get smug about it.”
I hide a smile behind my glass. “I’m just saying it tastes really good. Is Dean secretly a chef or something?”
Henry hesitates, then shrugs again. “Apparently.”
There’s something in his tone. Mildly annoyed, a little impressed, maybe even a flicker of something sharper. I tilt my head.
“Did he go to school for it?”
“No idea,” Henry says. “He just knows how to do things. Cooking, painting. He fixed the dishwasher at my place last month.”
“He paints?”
“Used to,” Henry says. “He’s got a whole list of weirdly specific skills. Like he’s living a double life or something.”
That makes me laugh. “You sound a little jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” he says, defensive. “I’m…I just sat through a full lecture on lemon acidity ratios and then got judged for my knife grip.”
“That’s cute. He was trying to teach you.”
“It was not cute,” Henry says flatly. “It was stressful.”
I press my foot against his under the table. “Well, you can pass on my compliments to your very intense, highly competent culinary consultant.”
Henry raises an eyebrow. “Absolutely not. He already thinks he’s better than me at everything.”
“Maybe he is,” I tease.
“Great. Now you’re on his side.”
I grin. “I mean, when it comes to cooking. So far, Dean’s winning.”
Henry groans, dramatic and long-suffering, but he’s smiling too.
“Tell me more about your brothers,” I say, refilling both our glasses. “I don’t actually know much about them.”
Henry leans back, stretching out like we’re just getting started.
“Oh boy,” he says. “You’re going to regret that.”
After dinner, we curl up on the sofa with the TV humming in the background, half-watching some show neither of us is really paying attention to.
My head rests on his shoulder, his hand warm on my thigh.
The wine has left me loose, the food has left me warm, and for the first time all day, I feel still.
“It’ll be nice when we live together,” he says. “We could do this every night.”
“We do do this every night,” I tease, smiling. “But I know what you mean.”
He pulls me in closer, his chin brushing the top of my head.
I close my eyes, breathing him in, and let myself sink into the quiet.
At first, his hand just rests on my thigh but then his thumb starts to move, slow and rhythmic.
I shift slightly and glance up. He’s already looking at me.
We stay like that for a moment, and then he leans in and kisses me.
His hand slides higher, curling around my waist as he pulls me into his lap. I straddle him, my knees bracketing his hips, hands finding his face. His stubble is rough beneath my palms, his lips soft and warm and familiar. When we break apart, he doesn’t say anything at first, he just looks at me.
“I love you,” he says.
“I love you too.”
My fingers move to the top button of his shirt.
I slip it free. Then the next, and the next, until the fabric falls open.
My palms slide down his stomach. His skin is warm and the muscles underneath hard.
I press my mouth to his collarbone, then lower.
I keep going. Down his chest. His heart is pounding under my mouth, a wild, frantic rhythm.
My hands follow the trail down his torso.
He’s tight everywhere, clenched under my touch.
I shift down, kneeling on the floor between his legs and look up. His eyes are pure hunger. He cups my face, thumbs stroking my cheeks.
My gaze locks with his as my fingers find the cold, hard steel of his belt buckle.
The click echoes in the quiet. I pop the button, then drag the zipper down.
I wrap my hand around his hard cock, and a single, glistening bead wells at the tip.
I smear it with my thumb. His breath hitches.
Never breaking our stare, I lean down and my tongue flicks against that slick, salty skin. A raw groan is torn from his throat.
I draw him into my mouth, soft and slow, a perfect imitation of his own games.
All promise, no satisfaction. His hands fist in my hair.
A silent plea, not a command. I test his patience with my tongue, with gentle sucks, but his composure holds.
He wins. Frustrated, I take him deeper, harder.
A sharp inhale cuts the air, and his entire body goes rigid.
I work his cock with my mouth until I taste the climax building on him, in the tremble of his thighs and the desperate, clenching fist in my hair. Every fiber of him is taut, poised to break. Precisely then, I release him.
His eyes are bewildered and wild. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. His chest is heaving, shirt hanging open, he’s completely undone.
“I come first,” I say, rising on unsteady legs.
One moment we’re stumbling into my room, the next I’m beneath him, his hips pinning me to the mattress.
He tears my trousers off and then his mouth is on me.
Hot, wet, and devastatingly skilled. A low, choked cry escapes my throat as his tongue finds its rhythm.
There is no fighting it. I come apart in a matter of seconds, my vision whiting out into pure sensation.
He doesn’t stop until the last shuddering moan has been wrung from me.
Only then does he rise. I watch, my chest still heaving, as he takes a condom from the drawer and sheathes himself.
When he pushes inside, the frantic energy is gone, replaced by a slow, deep claiming. It is so gentle I can feel every inch.
Everything else dissolves. There is only the slick heat of our skin, the slow friction, the rough pad of his thumb circling my hipbone.
He kisses my neck. “No one’s ever felt like this,” he whispers. I know he isn’t talking about the sex.
“I know.” I pull him into a deep kiss. He breaks away with a low groan, his release shuddering through him as he buries his face in my neck.
Afterward, he collapses, a warm, heavy weight atop me. The only sound is our ragged breathing slowly settling. I never want to move.
Something warm and wet slides down my cheek. A tear. I wipe it away fast, but another follows. Then my face crumples and I’m crying, ugly and unstoppable. I don’t know why. It’s just happening.
“You okay?” Henry’s thumb brushes my cheek. “It wasn’t that bad.”
I laugh, swiping at my eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This never happens.”
He leans in and kisses the corner of my mouth. “Don’t worry,” he whispers. “I won’t tell anyone I rocked you so hard you cried.”
I laugh through the tears and let him pull me in, his arms strong and steady around me. I don’t know why I’m crying, not really, but I don’t fight it. I just let it happen.