August Creed POV:
Steam curled from the stovetop as August Creed worked with quiet precision, his movements fluid and practiced. The early morning light filtered through the restaurant windows, catching the flour dusted across his forearms and the faded ink of a tattoo peeking from beneath his rolled-up sleeves.
Dressed in a black fitted tee and his signature grey apron, the fabric clung to his muscular frame, broad shoulders, tapered waist, the body of a man used to long hours on his feet and heavy lifting in and out of kitchens.
He tasted the sauce with the edge of a spoon, eyes narrowing in concentration before he reached for a hint of rosemary. Around him, the kitchen staff moved quietly, respectfully, aware that this wasn't just cooking, it was a ritual.
Then came a tug at his apron.
August glanced down. "Liam," he murmured, the corners of his lips twitching. "You're supposed to be sitting."
"I'm bored," the three-year-old whined, clutching a half-eaten croissant.
August crouched and wiped the boy's mouth with his thumb. "Well, I'm cooking. People like you get cranky when food isn't ready."
Liam huffed, plopping on a stool near the prep table, swinging his legs.
August rose, his eyes distant for a moment, thinking of the woman from yesterday. The fire in her eyes. The pain she tried to hide behind that expensive coat.
"Unruly kids, huh?" he murmured with a faint smirk, then went back to slicing.
A familiar voice rang through the open kitchen door.
"August."
He stiffened.
The sound of heels, sharp, confident, unnecessary, clicked against the polished floor. He turned slowly, wiping his hands on a cloth, only to meet the perfectly made-up face of Marissa. Her red lips curved into a smirk, like she still owned the room… like she still owned him.
His mood dimmed instantly.
"What are you doing here, Marissa?"
She shrugged, stepping closer like she belonged. "I came to see my son."
"I have a restraining order against you," he said coldly. "You're not allowed near him."
Her eyes narrowed, but she recovered quickly. "August… you don't have to be like this."
"Like what? Protective?" he snapped. "He doesn't even know who you are."
"I just want to talk," she said sweetly, but her voice was laced with venom.
"No," he said firmly. "You want something. You always do. What is it this time, money?"
She tilted her head, still smiling. "Can't a woman visit her family?"
"You gave that up the moment you walked out of our lives. I don't owe you anything." His voice lowered with quiet fury. "Not my money, not my time, and definitely not my son."
Her smirk faltered.
"I see you've changed," she said, voice low.
"I healed," he replied without looking up. "Something you never learned how to do."
"You think you're better now? Hiding your son from his own mother?"
"I'm protecting him from the kind of pain you bring," he said, finally glancing her way, jaw clenched. "Liam doesn't know you. He doesn't need to."
"I can fight you for custody," she snapped.
He smiled, dark, humorless. "Try. The courts already heard your story, and they chose me. One slip, and you'll be back in jail. You know that."
Marissa's breath caught, her smirk cracking.
"Get out," he said, voice like steel.
Still trying to hold onto her pride, she turned sharply, heels echoing through the kitchen like war drums. Just before she left, she muttered, "This isn't over, August."
But to him, it was. She was his dirty past.
He let out a slow breath, then wiped the counter like she was never there.
From the hallway, Liam's little voice rang out, "Daddy, who was that lady?"
August paused, his heart pulling, then turned with a soft smile.
"No one important, bud. Just someone from the past."
***
The glass doors of House of C swung open, and silence rippled through the floor.
Celine walked in, crisp, composed, untouchable. No words, just the sharp rhythm of Louboutins against marble.
Stacy's voice floated behind her, calm and steady, reading off the day's relentless schedule.
"Ms. Celine, your 10 a.m. client is waiting in the lounge. They've been here for fifteen minutes."
Celine didn't break stride, but her eyes flicked to the sleek glass walls lined with mannequins dressed in her latest collection, effortless elegance in every seam.
She barely glanced at the bustling studio where models adjusted poses and stylists flurried about like controlled chaos.
With a subtle nod, she acknowledged Stacy, the only person who truly understood the mask she wore every day.
The boardroom door loomed ahead, a stage set for deals and dominance. She pushed it open, stepping in like the empire was hers alone.
And today, it was.
Celine entered the sleek conference room, the subtle hum of the city just audible beyond the glass walls. A man stood by the large window, his back to her. He turned smoothly at her approach.
He offered a subtle nod. "Ms. Celine."
She returned the gesture, her tone cool but respectful. "Mr. Zen."
A brief pause hung between them, charged with unspoken expectations.
"Shall we begin?" he asked, motioning toward the leather chairs around the table.
"By all means," she replied, taking her seat with composed confidence.
The man in his late thirties settled into the chair with a confident ease, his tailored suit sharp but understated, exactly the kind of presence Chanel's dealer embodied.
"So, Ms. Celine," he began, voice smooth but businesslike, "Chanel is very selective with its collaborations. What's in it for my boss if we join forces?"
Celine didn't flinch. Her voice was steady, controlled.
"Exposure in untapped markets," she said, eyes locking with his. "We're launching a campaign targeting young, affluent professionals who crave luxury but demand authenticity. Chanel's heritage paired with our innovative designs will redefine relevance."
He nodded, intrigued but cautious.
"And profit margins?" he pressed. "High fashion demands exclusivity, but your brand operates differently."
"True," she smiled slightly, "but we're not just selling clothes. We're curating experiences, limited editions, exclusive events, and digital integration that speaks directly to the consumer's lifestyle. The revenue will follow the loyalty."
He leaned back, calculating. "And the risk?"
"Minimal," she said firmly. "Our established infrastructure means production and distribution are already efficient. Plus, our marketing analytics reduce guesswork. We don't just sell luxury, we sell desire, consistently."
The dealer's eyes gleamed with interest. "A bold proposition. I'll report this back. But Ms. Celine," he added, voice dropping slightly, "we value integrity. This partnership needs to be more than just profitable, it must honor the Chanel legacy."
Celine nodded, unshaken. "Agreed. And that's exactly why it will succeed."
"We're not just a label. We're the future."
Mr. Zen's lips curved in a faint smile. "I look forward to seeing it."