Page 43 of Obsessing Over His Favorite

But not a single photo of her.

Emily leaned back slightly, lips parted, a strange chill crawling up her arms.

Could it be? No...

She shook her head. It didn’t make sense. How could she, Emily, an ordinary designer lost in her own confusion, have access to a private folder belonging to one of the most famous jewelry designers in the world?

But then, why did the name Empress feel... familiar?

She hesitated, then returned to the folder on her computer. Her fingers hovered over the trackpad, heart thudding in her chest. Slowly, she clicked it open again.

The designs flickered onto the screen. But this time, something else caught her eye.

The dates.

Her eyes narrowed.

Each design in this folder had been createdmonthsbefore the ones Amelia had submitted. Some even a year prior.

Emily’s breath caught in her throat. She leaned in closer, double-checking the timestamps. Her fingers trembled.

She was right all along!

Amelia hadn’t just been inspired—she had stolen them. Copied every line, curve, and detail... and claimed them as her own.

Emily sat frozen for a moment, fury rushing through her in a cold wave.

Then, without thinking, she slammed her hand on the keyboard and hit print.

The printer whirred to life.

She snatched the freshly printed pages from the tray before the last sheet had even fully landed, her fingers tight around the edges.

Her legs moved before her thoughts could catch up.

She burst out of the office, her pace urgent, breath quick and shallow. She stormed down the corridor, the papers clenched in her fist, heading straight for one door.

Lucas’s.

***

“Ms. Amelia,” Dillon said with a warm smile, personally guiding her through the office like she was royalty. His eyes held a mix of respect and admiration as he led her past desks and workstations.

The moment Amelia stepped into the office space, all eyes subtly turned to her.

Heads lifted. Conversations halted. Whispers spread like a wave.

People leaned toward one another, careful not to be heard too loudly—but not too quietly either.

“Wait, why is Dillon escorting her?” someone murmured behind a desk partition. “Isn’t that usually the receptionist’s job?”

“Yeah, I noticed too,” another whispered. “I’ve never seen him walk anyone personally to Mr. Cantrell’s office.”

“She looks familiar though... where have I seen her before?”

“She’s Amelia Jones. One of the lead designers, I think,” came a hushed reply. “Didn’t she work on one of the recent luxury collections?”

“Oh yeah! I saw her at that gala last month, standing next to Mr. Cantrell.”