The week before fashion week had officially begun, and the office was anything but calm. What should have been an organized march toward the runway felt more like a battlefield. Designers rushed in and out of the company building, models lined the halls waiting for fittings, and assistants dashed around carrying stacks of fabric swatches, sketches, and coffee cups like soldiers carrying weapons.
Olivia stood in the center of it all, clipboard in hand, her sharp eyes following every detail. She had been to countless events in her career, but this—this was chaos on another level.
"Grace," she called, her tone brisk but controlled.
Grace hurried over, slightly out of breath. "Yes?"
"Check with the decorators if the backdrop panels are arriving on schedule. Last I heard, there was a mix-up with the delivery truck."
Grace nodded quickly and disappeared into the crowd.
Olivia exhaled, tapping her pen against the clipboard. Already that morning, three models had shown up late, one designer had misplaced a crucial sketchbook, and the press had started circling the building like hungry vultures, eager for any scrap of scandal.
And of course, there was Aiden.
She caught sight of him at the far end of the rehearsal hall, speaking with the stage director. He looked as composed as ever in his crisp suit, though Olivia noticed the faint crease in his brow. Even he wasn't immune to the mounting tension.
When he walked back toward her, his gaze immediately went to the clipboard in her hands. "Update me."
Olivia didn't hesitate. "The models are half an hour behind schedule, the decorators are sorting out the panel issue, and the sound system is still being tested. At this rate, rehearsals might push into the evening."
Aiden's jaw tightened. "Unacceptable. The press is waiting, and if we delay, they'll smell blood."
Olivia met his eyes evenly. "Then we fix it. Complaining won't move the schedule forward."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, to her faint amusement, Aiden gave a short nod. "You're right. Handle it."
She almost smiled at the irony. The CEO of the company was taking orders from her, and he didn't even flinch.
By noon, rehearsals had finally begun. Models in half-finished garments walked the runway, the sound of heels striking wood echoing through the hall. Olivia stood at the front, arms crossed, noting every wobble, every hesitation, every ill-fitted hem.
"Stop," she called out sharply when one model stumbled. "If your shoes are too tight, switch them out. We can't have you limping down the runway."
The model flushed but nodded quickly. Olivia didn't sugarcoat her words, but she was fair, and the models were beginning to respect her for it.
As the rehearsal continued, the press began trickling into the observation area, snapping pictures and whispering among themselves. Olivia could practically feel their eyes on her, waiting for something to go wrong.
At one point, a reporter approached, microphone in hand. "Ms. Bennet," he said smoothly, "rumor has it the rival company's line is already complete, while yours is still struggling with last-minute changes. Any comment?"
Olivia didn't even blink. "Rumors are cheap," she said, her voice carrying just enough edge to silence the nearby whispers. "What matters is what you see on the runway. And I assure you, when the lights come on, there won't be any doubt about who leads this industry."
The reporter blinked, momentarily thrown off by her confidence. By the time he recovered, Olivia had already turned back to the stage, dismissing him.
Behind her, Aiden had witnessed the exchange. He didn't intervene, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—a mix of pride and intrigue.
By evening, the chaos had somewhat stabilized. The models had completed their walks, the decorators managed a temporary lighting setup, and the press had been fed just enough to keep them from digging deeper.
But Olivia wasn't satisfied. She stayed behind long after most of the staff left, reviewing every note, every error that had been made during rehearsal. She was so engrossed in her work that she didn't notice Aiden approaching until he knocked lightly on the edge of the table.
"You should go home," he said.
Olivia didn't look up. "Not until I finish these notes."
"It's past nine, Olivia. You've been at this since morning."
She sighed, rubbing her temples. "And if we fail, it'll be on me."
"No," Aiden said firmly, his tone sharper than usual. "It'll be on both of us."
That made her pause. Slowly, she looked up, meeting his eyes. There was no arrogance there, no trace of the domineering CEO. Just sincerity.
For the first time that day, some of the weight on her shoulders lifted.
She leaned back in her chair, letting out a tired laugh. "Fine. But only because you asked nicely."
Aiden's lips quirked. "Nicely isn't usually my style."
"Don't I know it," she muttered, but there was no venom in her voice.
As they walked out of the rehearsal hall together, the lights dimmed behind them, and Olivia felt a strange mix of exhaustion and anticipation. Fashion week was close, and every nerve in her body screamed that something could still go wrong.
But for now, with Aiden walking quietly at her side, she allowed herself a small measure of comfort.
The storm wasn't over—but at least, she wasn't facing it alone.