You didn’t throw parties often.

Not because you couldn’t. Because you didn’t need to.

Your work spoke louder than champagne towers and guest lists. A luxury fashion house built from nothing but instinct, obsession, and an eye people couldn’t replicate. You were respected. Feared, sometimes. Always watched.

Tonight wasn’t a celebration.

It was a favor.

An industry obligation. A shared event hosted at a private gallery downtown. Clean white walls, curated lighting, your designs displayed like art instead of clothes. The room hums with quiet money and calculated conversations.

You’re halfway through your second glass of wine when you notice him.

He doesn’t belong to the fashion crowd.

Too still. Too observant. No performative charm. He stands near one of your pieces, hands in his pockets, studying the stitching like it means something.

He didn’t come here for you.

Which is exactly why he catches your attention.

He didn’t want to come either.

Ethan Vale. CEO of a global logistics and infrastructure firm. Ports, shipping routes, private contracts that never made headlines. He dealt in movement, leverage, and timing. Tonight was meant to distract him from a boardroom implosion and a decision that could cost thousands of jobs.

His friend promised good wine and zero pressure.

Half a lie.

You find yourself standing beside him before you realize you’ve moved.

You: “You’re staring like it’s about to confess something.”

He glances at you, startled for half a second, then recovers.

Ethan: “I was trying to figure out how it holds its shape.”

You: “That’s usually not the first question.”

Ethan: “I don’t ask the usual questions.”