Eliana threw herself into work like it owed her peace.
There was no time to think. No time to feel. No time to remember the shape of Nicky's cock pressed between her thighs or the sound of him breathing softly.
Fashion Week was coming.
Which meant Luca was unhinged, the design team was caffeinated into a collective panic, and Eliana had six back-to-back fittings, four interview calls, two lost shipments, and zero room to cry over a man who didn't even want her.
Perfect.
She stormed through the studio in heels she hadn't broken in, clutching swatches in one hand and an iPad in the other. Models floated by in silk and eyeliner. Seamstresses cursed in three languages. Luca was talking to himself in the corner while stabbing a sketchpad with a pink highlighter.
"Eliana!" he snapped. "Where the hell is the bleeding tulle? I need despair in fabric form!"
"I ordered more," she said, not looking up. "It's in customs hell."
"Well expedite the trauma! We need to make grief look sexy!"
She didn't roll her eyes. Not anymore. She didn't have the energy.
Instead, she inhaled sharply through her nose and told herself: you are fine.
Nicky wasn't here.
Maybe he was at some real estate gala with his wine baroness aunt or working on his third building renovation in Montauk or whatever rich people did when they weren't casually spoon-ruining their friends.
And she?
She was going to flirt with Liam.
Hard.
"Morning, gorgeous," Liam said as he leaned against the fabric table, sipping something suspiciously green. "You look like stress with legs."
"I haven't slept."
He winked. "Still hot."
She gave him a smile she didn't mean.
Liam was easy. Liam was charming. Liam flirted with anything wearing heels and a lanyard, and honestly, that should have helped.
But it didn't.
Because the second he leaned in, hand brushing her hip, her body didn't react.
Not the way it did with Nicky.
Not even close.
She fake-laughed. "You're trouble."
"God, I hope so," he murmured, and then turned around to grin at the new textile intern bending over a box.
Eliana stared.
Okay.
So maybe Liam wasn't an escape.
He was just a walking flirt emoji with legs, and this? This was a performance. She wasn't feeling him. She wasn't feeling anything. She was just—
Lonely.
And stupid.
So goddamn stupid.
By late afternoon, her feet were numb and her inbox was carnage. One model canceled last minute. One set of shoes arrived in the wrong size. And Luca wanted to replace all the ribbons with "sexual satin tears," whatever the fuck that meant.
She collapsed into a studio chair, finally letting herself close her eyes.
Her brain tried to rest.
But the moment it went quiet…
Nicky.
Her thighs clenched.
Her chest tightened.
She remembered how still he stayed, sleeping.
How hard he was.
She hated him.
She missed him.
And she was still wet every time she thought about it.
Later that night, she ran into Liam again by the service elevator.
He leaned on the wall, eating chips out of a crumpled paper bag.
"Drink with me tonight?" he asked, casual.
She hesitated.
Wanted to say yes.
Wanted to mean it.
But when he reached for her hand, she didn't feel anything.
Not even a spark.
And when she saw him wink at a photographer five seconds later, she knew.
This wasn't it.
He wasn't what she wanted.
Because what she wanted—
Was already taken.
Wasn't even hers.
Was probably pretending nothing happened.
And she?
She was just pretending too.
She went home that night and didn't answer anyone's texts.
Not Liam's.
Not Valeria's.
Not even Nicky's.
Though he hadn't messaged her anyway.
She took off her clothes in silence.
And stared at herself in the mirror.
Lip bitten. Cheeks flushed.
Panties damp for someone who wasn't thinking of her at all.
And it hit her—
She wasn't mad at Liam.
She wasn't mad at Nicky.
She was just mad at herself.
For hoping.
For caring.
For falling into a fantasy when he was probably off sipping scotch with his real type.
Rich. Cool. Male.
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she turned off the lights.
And went to bed wet and angry.
Again.