Page 12

CHAPTER 11

Alana

“Alana, this collection is actually insane. You’ve outdone yourself,” Tessa says, beaming from across the boardroom.

Hunter’s in the corner, silently observing, sipping a coffee like he belongs in a Vogue editorial.

We’re reviewing the final pieces of our Winter Collection, scattered across the table, each one sparkling with potential.

This is the one that counts.

Winter always outsells summer.

Bigger clients. Bigger spend.

If this tanks, we don’t get the budget for anything ambitious next year.

We never bring in colour.

But this winter, I did.

Blue. It’s personal.

The blue crept in without warning.

Cool, sharp and impossible to ignore.

I didn’t plan it. But something about that colour felt like a pulse in the dark.

It was a last-minute addition.

Very unlike me. But it came to me in a dream this week, exploded onto my sketchbook and the product team brought it to life.

A chainmail dress, dripping with blue topaz stones.

It looks like armour, but it feels like truth.

Vulnerability, forged in silver.

It’s the most expensive piece in the collection.

Only ten units will be produced, but it makes an impact.

Now we’re reworking the whole collection around this blue moment.

That means extra costs.

More pressure. Higher expectations.

But I don’t care. If I’m going to show up after everything, I want to make it count.

I designed two rings to match it, but one has to go.

They’re too similar: both chunky silver bands with an 8ct Topaz.

One is a square cut, set horizontally across the band; the other, a round stone.

Two is repetitive. Safe.

Boring. The team’s split and neither of us can decide which design stays.

“We need an outsider’s opinion!” Tessa announces suddenly.

She leans in and whispers to me, “Just ask Mr. Tattoos. He’ll swing the vote.”

“Fine,” I huff.

I grab both rings, stack them on my index finger and stroll over to Hunter.

It’s Monday now. Week two of Operation Trauma Recovery.

And somehow, having Hunter in my space doesn’t feel quite as invasive anymore.

He’s quiet in public.

Doesn’t speak unless spoken to.

When we’re alone, though?

Bossy. Mouthy. Electric.

He’s slotted into my routine easier than expected.

Training’s going well.

Sparring starts next week.

I took the stairs every day last week on top of our workouts.

Part of my punishment.

I haven’t been back to Pilates.

Not out of fear, just exhaustion.

Hunter’s training is brutal.

Tessa still comes up for dinner every other night.

Hunter eats with us, then ‘works’ on his laptop while we binge trash TV.

But I swear it’s a front.

He pretends to be busy, but I catch him watching.

“Which one?” I ask, holding out my hand.

He looks. Takes my hand in his.

Sparks light up my arm like a fuse.

He turns it gently. Tilts my hand one way, then the other.

Laser-focused.

“I like the square one,” he says.

“It’s more unconventional.”

Exactly what we’re going for.

Never thought I’d agree with Hunter.

But here we are.

The final collection is approved.

The team’s buzzing, babbling about the launch.

The gallery has contracted sculptors to display our pieces on.

There’ll be influencers, photographers, press.

That’s all Tessa’s domain.

This is the moment I usually feel relief.

But not this time. If this fails, it won’t just be a loss.

It’ll feel personal.

Three months until launch.

Twelve weeks to shape chaos into perfection. No pressure.