Monday smelled like burnt espresso and consequences.The office lights felt harsher than usual. Her blouse too tight at the collar. Her skirt itched at the hem like it knew she was a fraud in her own skin.
Nicky hadn't texted.Not Saturday.Not Sunday.Not this morning.
And maybe—maybe—if she hadn't sat on his lap. If she hadn't moaned in front of Renee. If she hadn't dry humped him in the goddamn bathroom like a feral, wet-brained fool—then maybe he would've sent her a meme. A voice note. A photo of a pigeon doing something suspicious.
But he didn't.Not even a ghost emoji.He was gone.And she felt sick.
The laptop screen in front of her glowed with rows of pending product tags and color-matching reports. Deadlines were approaching. Fashion Week was looming again. Luca's new collection—tentatively titled "Soft Power, Hard Edges"—was in pre-production chaos, and everyone was riding the edge.
Eliana tried to focus.She really, really did.
But all she could think about was Nicky's body behind her. The dress bunched around his thighs. The pressure of him against her back. His cock so hard she could feel it pulse. And worse—
The way he didn't say a single word.
The way he let her come undone in silence.
And then walked away like she never mattered.
She blinked hard and typed twill silk blend availability – Shanghai office for the fourth time before realizing her screen was empty. She hadn't typed it at all. Her fingers were just resting there, trembling.
"Eliana."
She jumped.
Luca stood in front of her, sunglasses perched high, tablet hugged to his chest like it offended him. His hair was swept into a perfectly asymmetrical bun that no mortal could replicate. He looked like an exhausted Greek god at Fashion Hell's halfway house.
"You okay?" he asked, brow arched. "You look like a sad Victorian orphan."
"I'm fine," she said quickly. Too quickly.
Luca sat on her desk. Fully sat. Like his bony ass had a vendetta against her keyboard.
He peered at her.
"I know that look," he said. "You either forgot to wax or you're dying inside."
She tried to smile. Failed.
He softened. "Talk to me, honey. Are you tired? Sick? Need a serotonin injection? We have literal ampoules in the beauty fridge."
"I'm just—" she waved vaguely at the air. "Stuff. Life. I'm okay."
"You're lying to me and that's offensive," he said. "And now you look like your boyfriend left you for an oat milk barista with jawline contour. Which would be rude of him."
"I don't—" she stopped. "It's not like that."
Luca tilted his head. "Okay. Well. You're too pretty to be miserable at nine a.m., so I'm sending you on an errand. Fresh air. Change of pace. Possible seduction."
"What?"
"You and Liam. Silk vendor meeting. External partnership from Milan. Local agent wants to meet, let you touch fabric, breathe something other than your own regret."
Her stomach twisted.
Liam.
Great.
Just what she needed—forced flirting from someone who thought all compliments were transferable to whoever had the best legs in the room.
"You sure you don't want me on color theory coordination for the navy line?" she offered weakly.
Luca patted her head like a child. "You're spiraling. I can smell it. Go breathe somewhere else."
She sighed.
Fine.
An hour later, she was in a hired car with Liam beside her, both of them flipping through sample decks as they drove through the city toward a discreet textile studio tucked near the industrial district. The local rep was apparently a genius with dyes and high-grade silk blends, and Luca wanted in.
Liam was already lounging like a bored playboy.
"You're quiet today," he said, nudging her knee with his own. "That's rare. Usually you're bullying me by now."
"I'm working," she muttered, flipping a page.
"You're sulking," he corrected, smirking. "Did one of your Instagram boyfriends block you?"
She didn't rise to it.
Didn't even blink.
Because fuck, she wanted to cry.
The last thing she needed was this smug little flirt trying to poke holes in her armor when it was already fraying at the seams.
She tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned away slightly. "Can we focus?"
"Sure," he said lightly, "but you usually flirt better when you're distracted."
"I don't flirt with you."
"You do. Just badly."
She shot him a look.
He grinned.
And for a split second, it almost worked.
Almost distracted her.
Almost helped her pretend that she wasn't still aching with the weight of everything that happened on Friday. That she hadn't spent the entire weekend refreshing her messages like an idiot. That Nicky's silence wasn't digging tiny, cruel holes in her ribs.
She shifted in her seat and closed her eyes briefly.
Maybe this trip would help.
Maybe fabrics would help.
Maybe if she buried herself in Luca's world, drowned in silks and linens and sequins, she could forget.
The studio was a dream.
All white walls and natural light, with bolts of fabric spilling from brass racks like rivers of color. The silk samples were heaven—vibrant, weightless, rich with dye depth. The rep spoke passionately about eco-friendly processes and botanical infusion for scent and softness.
Eliana took notes.
Asked smart questions.
Touched fabric like it could save her.
Liam flirted with the receptionist. The assistant. The owner's niece. The espresso machine.
And for once, Eliana didn't care.
Because the moment her fingers brushed that plum silk charmeuse with dual-tone undertone and sand-washed finish, she felt like herself again.
A little.
Tiny flickers of herself.
She imagined it on the runway. Imagined Luca's sketch in motion. Imagined the way it would cling to sharp bones and curve at the hip. Fashion Week was coming, and this line—this collection—was going to be everything.
Maybe if she worked hard enough, she could outrun this mess.
By the time they returned, her phone had three missed calls from Luca.
The show had been moved up by two weeks.
Their chaos just escalated.
And Nicky?
Still nothing.
Not a word.
No emoji.
No late-night meme. No half-hearted "are you alive?" No proof he hadn't completely wiped her from his universe.
Her heart thudded.
Maybe he was disgusted with her.
Maybe she was the one who ruined them.
And maybe—just maybe—if that night hadn't happened, they'd still be laughing about weird olives and ugly shoes and who had the best nose in the friend group.
Maybe he'd still like her.
Maybe.
She turned off her phone. Opened a new spreadsheet. And forced herself to keep going.
Even if her throat burned with the ache of something she couldn't name.Even if she was still waiting on a text that would never come.Even if the boy she maybe loved… would never touch her again.