The car Vivienne had arranged purred to a stop in front of the Lawson penthouse. Isabela stepped out, smoothing the fabric of her dress as if it could steady the nerves dancing in her stomach. She wasn't about to be late; time was currency in the world of the wealthy, and she couldn't afford to waste it.
The foyer was polished marble and silence, the kind of silence that pressed against her ears. No laughter, no chatter, none of the energy of the showroom she was used to. Here, everything felt still, almost sterile. She held onto her measuring tape like it was part of her, the one familiar tool she could trust.
While she waited, voices floated from the hallway. Mrs. Petrov, Lawson's stern housekeeper, spoke in a low tone to another assistant.
"…heard he needs a full team. Dietician, personal trainer, wardrobe assistant, the works. The pay is outrageous. All for Mr. Lawson."
Isabela's pulse jumped. A wardrobe assistant. That was her lane, her gift. She didn't care about diet plans or exercise routines, but clothes? She knew them like breathing. Maybe this wasn't just a measurement job, it could be something more.
At exactly ten, the heavy doors to the study opened. Ethan Lawson appeared, and the air in the room shifted.
He wasn't the polished billionaire she had seen on magazine covers. He wore a simple top and joggers, his hair unkempt, he must have added about 150 pounds, looking different from his online pictures, but still remarkably handsome. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, were sharp and assessing, missing nothing.. But there was something in his presence commanding, quiet, like a storm about to break. His eyes, cold and restless, swept across her without a flicker of recognition before landing on Mrs. Petrov.
"This is Miss Bankola," the housekeeper said. "From Vivienne Couture."
Ethan gave the briefest nod. "Hello." His voice was low, rough. He didn't look at her again as he stepped forward, waiting.
Isabela's hands trembled as she worked, the tape sliding across his shoulders, down his arms, across his chest. She forced her fingers steady, careful not to betray the nervous energy buzzing through her. Close like this, she could smell the faint mix of coffee and expensive cologne clinging to him, layered with something heavier weariness.
When she finished, she cleared her throat. "I have everything, Mrs. Petrov. The catalog was mailed ahead of time, and I'll review the designs with you whenever it's convenient."
Ethan's voice rumbled again. "Are we done?"
"Yes, sir," Mrs. Petrov replied.
Without another word, Ethan turned and disappeared down the hall, as if she were no more than a shadow passing through his day.
Isabela packed her tools quickly, swallowing her disappointment and went to a private office with Mrs. Petrov to discuss the design catalog. But before she left, she turned to Mrs. Petrov, summoning her courage. "I overheard something earlier. About a wardrobe assistant position. Could you tell me how to apply?"
The older woman studied her for a moment, then gave a small nod. "Leave your details with me. I'll see what I can do."
It wasn't a promise, but it was a crack in the door. And cracks could be widened.
Back at Vivienne Couture, Isabela reported the fitting and locked herself in her small workspace, already sketching ideas, already planning. If there was even the slightest chance to step into Ethan Lawson's world, she was going to take it.
Ethan
Behind the closed door of his study, Ethan sank into the leather chair, rubbing a hand over his face. For weeks, everyone who walked into his home had looked at him the same way, with pity, with judgment, with thinly veiled curiosity about how far he'd fallen.
But this woman, this Isabela, had been different. Her hands had trembled, yes, but not out of fear. She had been steady, focused, as if he were just another client, not a broken man hidden away in his own tower. For a fleeting moment, when her eyes met his, he felt…seen.
He pushed the thought away, snapping his attention back to the silence of the room. He couldn't afford distractions. Not now. Especially not from someone like her.
Still, as he closed his eyes, her face lingered in the back of his mind longer than he wanted to admit.