Chapter 22
I was happy—if only in a careful, provisional way.
The realization came without ceremony, slipping in quietly, like something fragile I wasn’t sure I trusted myself to name.
It wasn’t joy exactly. It was relief threaded with caution.
The kind that settled into my bones only after someone else finally saw the full scope of what I’d been carrying—the fear, the constant vigilance, the way my mind never quite shut off.
Creed understood now. Not just the facts, but the weight of them.
He believed me. Believed in us. And that certainty eased a pressure I hadn’t realized I’d been living under for months.
For the first time since Ray died, I didn’t feel like I was standing alone at the edge of something dangerous.
Creed had reached out to the Barone family himself.
Pulled the right strings. Asked the questions that needed asking.
Marco Vincenzo was done with me, with the money, with whatever shadow had lingered between us.
Creed had paid him in full, wiped the slate clean in a language men like Marco respected.
That should have brought relief.
In some ways, it did.
But relief, I was learning, didn’t arrive without consequences.
Because Marco stepping back meant something else entirely—that whoever had been watching, calling, waiting... wasn’t him. The threat hadn’t vanished. It had simply shifted shape. Gone quiet. Unnamed. Unseen.
And then there was Francesco.
The memory surfaced uninvited, the way unresolved things always did.
He’d called just after Thanksgiving, his voice smooth and polite, the conversation brief enough to seem harmless.
He hadn’t asked for anything. Hadn’t made a demand.
But there had been something measured in his tone, a quiet curiosity beneath the civility—as though he were checking to see whether I was still standing exactly where he’d left me last.
At the time, I’d brushed it off. I told myself it was nothing more than courtesy. A loose thread from Ray’s past finally settling.
Now, stripped of distractions, that call lingered in my mind like a question without an answer.
Celine handled the closure of Elite Staffing with the same quiet efficiency she brought to everything else.
Utilities scheduled for disconnection. Lease terminated without penalty, no refund.
Clean. Final. The office would officially close at the end of the month.
She’d worked for Ray for years, knew every corner of the business, and would shut it down without sentiment.
One less tie to him.
One less place for the past to reach out and grab me.
Still, the unease didn’t fully lift.
The rest of the week blurred into preparations for the annual Spring Fashion Show at the Richmond Convention Center. The kind of event that hummed with pressure and promise in equal measure. Designers. Buyers. Editors. Cameras everywhere. A thousand eyes watching for brilliance—or failure.
Manny Lennox’s spring collection was the centerpiece this year.
No previews. No leaks. Just rumors—whispers of control and precision from a designer known for both. I was scheduled to meet him privately in the dressing room the morning of the show, just after breakfast. My first glimpse of the designs that would anchor IWM’s May edition.
I kissed the twins goodbye at the bus stop, waited until the yellow doors folded shut and the bus pulled away, before driving across town to my mother’s house. Olivia was already there, spreading omelets and Danishes across the table from one of our favorite brunch spots.
She was glowing.
She’d shared everything with Mommy—the gallery showing, the owner’s interest in a full exhibit this fall—and my mother looked quietly undone by it.
Painting had been the one thing that truly belonged to her.
The one part of herself my father hadn’t managed to take.
Other than the two girls she’d raised and loved fiercely, it was all she’d had left.
And now, finally, it was being seen.
“So,” I asked, biting into a cheese Danish, “what did Daddy have to say about you doing the show this fall?”
My mother smiled, then looked between Olivia and me, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “He drove me to the gallery so we could see it together,” she said softly. “He’s happy for me.”
The moment settled heavy and meaningful.
Was my father changing? Had he loosened his grip enough to let her step out from under his shadow? Or was this simply one small mercy offered late?
Either way, my mother had been living in the attic ever since—painting into the night, lost in color and light, breathing life into something new.
Maybe things really were shifting.
I glanced at Olivia, her hand resting instinctively over her growing belly. She’d be giving birth in just a few weeks—a dream she’d carried since we were little girls whispering futures to each other beneath shared blankets.
I stayed long enough to finalize baby shower plans, hugged them both goodbye, then headed for the convention center.
Manny was waiting.
And whatever calm I’d managed to gather tightened, instinctively, as I stepped into the day.
* * *
I STEPPED INTO THE private fitting suite, and the world narrowed to light, fabric, and breath.
The room was immaculate to the point of sterility—white walls, seamless mirrors stretching from floor to ceiling, polished concrete underfoot.
Rolling racks lined one wall, each draped in garment bags stamped with Manny’s name in sharp black script.
Soft, directional lighting washed over the gowns, coaxing life from the fabrics so they looked almost liquid where they spilled over the hangers.
Silk. Satin. Chiffon so sheer it barely existed until it caught the light.
Hand-beaded bodices glimmered subtly, every crystal sewn with obsessive precision.
Nothing here was accidental. Every stitch, every seam spoke of control.
Exquisite. For a suspended moment, I forgot myself.
I moved closer, fingers hovering before I allowed myself to touch.
The fabric was cool and impossibly smooth beneath my skin, like water that remembered its shape.
One gown—midnight black with a sculpted corset and a skirt that fell like ink—tightened something low in my chest. Another, a bone-colored slip with a slit cut daringly high, radiated a quieter kind of danger. The kind that didn’t need permission.
These weren’t dresses meant to flatter.
They were designed to claim.
I imagined them on the runway—models moving like they owned the air, every step a challenge. The secrecy made sense now. The control. Manny wasn’t designing clothes. He was constructing dominance, stitch by deliberate stitch.
A faint awareness prickled at the back of my neck.
I wasn’t alone.
Manny stood near the far rack, his back to me, sleeves rolled up, dark hair perfectly arranged. He turned slowly, watching me the way a man watches someone touching something he believes belongs to him.
He smiled.
From a distance, it might have read charming. Up close, it felt like a warning.
“I’m glad you came,” he said.
The door clicked shut behind me.
Not slammed. Just... closed.
My spine stiffened—not panic yet, but alertness. The kind that came from instincts honed by experience... and his reputation.
“I needed to see the designs before the show,” I said evenly, letting my hand fall away from the fabric. “You’ve been very secretive.”
He laughed softly. “I like control. It keeps people attentive.”
He stepped closer.
Too close.
I shifted back, my heel brushing the base of the mirror. His gaze tracked the movement—not to my face, but to my throat, my collarbone, the slow rise of my breath. The air thickened. The room shrank.
“They look even better on a woman who understands power,” he murmured. “Fashion isn’t about beauty, Peyton. It’s about ownership.”
My pulse spiked, sharp and immediate.
“Well,” I said, steady despite it, “I think I’m done here. Thank you for delivering such strong pieces.”
His hand lifted—not touching but hovering near my waist. Close enough that I felt the heat of him. The intention.
“You’re nervous,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t be. I take care of women who stay loyal.”
The word hit wrong. Sharp. Possessive.
I swallowed. “I’ll see you later.” I tried to move past him. Manny caught me around the waist.
“Let go,” I ordered.
His smile thinned. “You don’t give orders in my space.”
Fear slid clean and sudden down my spine. Not imagined. Not exaggerated. Real.
He pulled me closer, lowering his mouth toward mine—
“Step away from her.”
Creed’s voice cut through the room like steel drawn clean from its sheath.
Manny froze.
I turned, heart slamming, and there he was in the doorway—dark suit, no tie, posture loose in the way only truly dangerous men ever allowed. His gaze locked on Manny, cold and assessing, like he was already ten moves ahead.
Manny scoffed. “This is a private—”
Creed stepped fully inside and shut the door behind him.
The sound echoed.
“Back,” Creed said quietly. “Away. Now.”
I twisted free as Manny’s grip loosened.
Manny laughed, brittle. “You don’t get to barge in and—”
Creed moved. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just enough to place himself squarely between us, his back to me, his presence absolute.
I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself together until my shoulders sagged behind him.
I’d seen Creed angry before—controlled, calculating, ruthless when required. This was different. This wasn’t the man who ruled boardrooms. This was something older. Something that lived under the skin.
Manny’s smile faltered. “You’re misunderstanding—”
Creed didn’t answer. He reached out and closed his fingers around Manny’s arm.
Not hard.
Not yet.
But the instant contact was made, something in Creed shifted. His shoulders locked. His jaw tightened just enough that I heard his teeth grind.
The sound scraped straight down my spine.
Manny sucked in a breath. “Hey—”