The elevator doors slid open on the thirty-eighth floor with a soft chime, releasing a whisper of
cool, scented air jasmine and polished leather, the signature fragrance of Maison Velluto.
Isabella Moreau stepped out, heels clicking against the marble like hesitant heartbeats. At
forty-one, she had expected nerves, but not this particular brand of vertigo. The lobby stretched
before her like a runway: high ceilings, walls of smoked glass, and a single massive abstract
sculpture in burnished bronze that looked like it cost more than her entire childhood home.
She smoothed the front of her charcoal pencil skirt simple, tailored, bought on sale two years
ago from a department store clearance rack and reminded herself why she was here.
Independence. A paycheck that didn't come with guilt. A life that was finally hers again, after the
divorce papers had dried and the last of her ex-husband's apologies had faded into silence.
The receptionist, a young woman with flawless skin and a name tag reading "Lila," smiled with
practiced warmth. "Ms. Moreau? Welcome to Maison Velluto. Ms. Laurent is expecting you."
Isabella nodded, throat dry. "Thank you."
She followed Lila down a corridor lined with framed editorials: models in flowing silk gowns
against dramatic backdrops, the Velluto logo a stylized, elegant "V" entwined with a crescent
moon gleaming in gold foil. The company had been founded twenty years ago by Camille
Laurent, a visionary who'd turned a small atelier in the heart of the city into one of the most
coveted luxury houses on the continent. The city itself—known as the glittering fashion
epicenter of the West Coast, with its endless coastline, fog-kissed mornings, and relentless
ambition—had embraced it like a native son.
Camille Laurent. Isabella's college roommate. Best friend. The woman who'd once shared
late-night dreams over cheap wine in their cramped dorm, laughing about how they'd conquer
the world together. Until life had pulled them apart like threads from a seam.
Lila knocked once on the double doors at the end of the hall before pushing them open. "Ms.
Laurent, your new executive assistant is here."
The office was everything Isabella had imagined and more: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking
the bay, where sailboats dotted the water like scattered diamonds; a sleek white desk that
seemed carved from a single block of marble; and behind it, Camille.
She looked almost unchanged. The same sharp cheekbones, the same cascade of dark auburn
hair now streaked with silver that somehow made her more striking. She wore a tailored cream
blazer over black silk, sleeves rolled to the elbows in that effortless way only certain women
could pull off. Her eyes—still the same piercing hazel—widened for a fraction of a second before
her face settled into a professional smile."Isabella." Camille rose, voice warm but measured. "It's been… a long time."
"Sixteen years," Isabella said, surprised at how steady she sounded. "Give or take."
Camille crossed the room and pulled her into a brief, careful hug. She smelled like expensive
perfume and memories. "You look good. Really good."
"You look like you never left the runway," Isabella replied, stepping back. "CEO suits you."
Camille laughed softly. "It's exhausting, but the view is worth it. Sit. Please."
They settled into the low leather chairs by the window. Camille poured sparkling water from a
chilled carafe, the ice clinking like tiny applause. "I was surprised when your resume came
through HR. I almost thought it was a mistake."
"I needed a change," Isabella admitted. "After the divorce… I spent too long hiding. Living with
my parents, helping with the house, pretending I wasn't suffocating. This job felt like a lifeline."
Camille nodded slowly. "I'm glad you applied. We need someone who understands the rhythm
of this place. Someone with experience, discretion, and—frankly—someone who won't faint at
the sight of a three-million-dollar fabric shipment delayed in customs."
Isabella smiled despite herself. "I've handled worse. My ex once tried to convince me a
weekend in Vegas was 'business.'"
Camille's laugh was genuine this time, bright and familiar. "Some things never change. You
always did have a dry sense of humor."
They talked for nearly an hour—catching up in careful increments. Camille's rise had been
meteoric: married briefly in her late twenties, divorced amicably, one son. The company had
doubled in size under her leadership. Isabella shared the bare bones of her own story: the
marriage that had started with hope and ended in quiet resentment, the years of trying to be the
perfect wife, the slow realization that perfection was a cage.
"I'm proud of you for starting over," Camille said quietly when the conversation lulled. "Not
everyone has the courage."
Isabella looked out at the water. "I'm not sure it's courage. More like necessity."
Before Camille could respond, the door opened without a knock.
A man stepped in—tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair slightly tousled as though he'd run a hand
through it one too many times. He wore a charcoal suit that fit like it had been sewn onto him,the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms. His presence
filled the room instantly, the way a storm front changes the air pressure.
"Mom, the Milan samples arrived early. I need you to sign off before—" He stopped when he
saw Isabella.
Their eyes met, and time did something strange: it stretched, thinned, snapped taut.
He was young. Twenty-five, maybe twenty-six. Too young to carry that kind of quiet intensity.
Too young to look at her the way he was looking—like he'd just recognized something he hadn't
known he'd been searching for.
"Ethan," Camille said, rising smoothly. "This is Isabella Moreau, my new executive assistant.
Isabella, this is my son, Ethan Lawson. He's our creative director."
Ethan. The name landed like a stone in still water.
He extended a hand. "Ms. Moreau."
"Isabella," she corrected automatically, taking his hand.
His palm was warm, calloused in a way that suggested he did more than sit in boardrooms. The
contact lasted a beat too long. When he released her, his gaze lingered on her face—searching,
curious, almost amused.
"Welcome to Velluto," he said. His voice was low, smooth, with a faint undercurrent of something
darker. "We're glad to have you."
Camille glanced between them, brow faintly furrowed, then smiled. "Ethan, why don't you show
Isabella the creative floor? She'll be working closely with both of us, so she should see where
the magic happens."
Ethan's mouth curved. "Happy to."
Isabella followed him out, heart thudding harder than it should. The corridor felt narrower now,
the air thicker. He walked with easy confidence, hands in his pockets, every step deliberate.
"So," he said once they were alone in the elevator, "you're the famous college friend Mom never
shuts up about."
"She talks about me?"
"More than she admits." He leaned against the wall, studying her. "She said you were brilliant.
Practical. The one who kept her from burning down the dorm kitchen."Isabella laughed despite herself. "Someone had to stop her from trying to make flambé with
instant noodles."
The elevator dinged. They stepped onto the creative floor—a vast open space of drafting tables,
mood boards pinned with swatches of silk and velvet, mannequins draped in half-finished
gowns. Sunlight poured through skylights, turning everything golden.
Ethan led her to a corner office with glass walls. Inside, sketches covered every surface: flowing
evening wear, sharp tailoring, pieces that felt both timeless and dangerously modern.
"This is where I live most days," he said. "Or where I pretend to work when I'm avoiding
meetings."
"It's beautiful," Isabella murmured, touching the edge of a charcoal sketch a woman in a
backless gown, the fabric cascading like liquid night.
He watched her fingers trace the lines. "You have an eye."
"I used to sketch a little. Nothing professional."
"Show me sometime."
She met his gaze. There it was again that spark, electric and uninvited.
"I should get back," she said, stepping away. "Your mother probably needs me."
He nodded, but didn't move. "We'll be seeing a lot of each other, Isabella."
The way he said her name soft, deliberate sent a shiver down her spine.
She turned to leave, pulse racing.
As the elevator doors closed behind her, she pressed a hand to her chest. This was supposed
to be a fresh start. Safe. Controlled.
But Ethan Lawson had just walked in like he owned the air she breathed.
And something inside her something she'd buried years ago stirred awake.