OWNED BY MR. MANRIQUIZ [THAT RUTHLESS BILLIONAIRE]

CHAPTER 7

I knew I should be sketching.

I should’ve been hunched over my drafting board, finalizing the beadwork detail on Lexi Bellington’s gown, or adjusting the bustle design for easier movement. My deadline was too close to breathe. I could already hear Lexi’s voice echoing in my head—playful but firm. “Just make sure it’s perfect. Nothing less.”

But instead, I was sitting in some half-lit bar a few blocks from Troy’s house, my sketchpad abandoned in the passenger seat of my car. A glass of gin and tonic sat sweating in front of me, barely touched.

I wasn’t even sure how I ended up here.

Maybe I just needed noise. The kind that didn’t come from my own thoughts.

Maybe I needed to feel anonymous. Like no one cared if my eyeliner was smudged or if I looked like I hadn’t slept properly in three days—which, let’s be real, I hadn’t.

I stirred my drink with the straw, watching the ice clink softly against the glass. The bar was mellow, not the rowdy type. A few groups at booths, murmuring and laughing over cocktails. A man nursing a beer in the corner, earbuds in. No one here knew who I was. No one expected anything of me.

God, I missed that feeling.

I used to design for fun, you know? Like, back when I’d sketch outfits on the back of my notebooks in class. I’d cut up old clothes and stitch them back together into something ridiculous and edgy and… me. Now it was all meetings, approvals, revisions, sponsors, timelines, press releases.

And now I had Lexi freakin’ Bellington’s wedding gown in my hands. That was huge. Like, career-defining huge. She trusted me—me!—to design the most important dress of her life.

But tonight?

Tonight I felt like I didn’t even trust myself to pick the right shade of white.

Ivory? Eggshell? Warm cream?

Hell, I was on the verge of crying over the color champagne.

I took a deep breath and sipped my drink. Still strong. Still bitter.

Kind of like me right now.

It didn’t help that Troy had been acting weird for days. First it was subtle things—missed calls, “Sorry, babe, I forgot to reply” texts. Then it was late nights. Excuses. Vague answers. That perfume I didn’t recognize. And last night? That message.

"Can’t wait to see you again."

And he had the audacity to say it was business.

Who texts like that for business? If that was work-related, then I must be a plumber.

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself not to check my phone. I’d already texted him two hours ago, saying I left. No reply. No missed calls. Nothing.

Did he even notice I was gone?

I suddenly hated how much that thought stung.

God, why am I like this?

I set my drink down harder than necessary and slumped in the booth, staring at the tiny condensation ring left on the table. Was I just… not enough? As a girlfriend? As a designer? Was I slowly screwing up everything in my life and just too proud to admit it?

Maybe Lexi should’ve gone with someone else. Someone more elegant. Someone who didn’t overthink everything. Someone who didn’t cry over invisible red flags and delay fittings because she kept redesigning the same sleeve over and over again.

I buried my face in my hands. “Ugh,” I groaned, out loud this time.

“Bad day?” a bartender asked casually as he walked past.

“More like a bad season,” I muttered.

He chuckled but didn’t press. Thank God.

I opened my sketch app on my phone, trying to convince myself to at least pretend to be productive. Maybe tweak the neckline. Maybe visualize that illusion back panel with the subtle pearl trail. But I couldn’t focus. The lines blurred. My hand kept hovering but never committing. My thoughts were elsewhere.

On Troy.

On that perfume.

On that text.

On the way he said, “You’re being paranoid.”

On the way he didn’t say “I love you” when I left his house.

My chest tightened again. I took a deep breath and closed the app.

Maybe I needed a break. From the pressure. From the expectations. From pretending I had everything under control.

I pulled my hoodie tighter and leaned back against the booth. My gaze drifted toward the ceiling, where a rotating fan hummed lazily. Outside the window, cars passed. Life kept moving, even when your heart was stuck in a loop.

A couple laughed at the bar. Their heads leaned close. A hand on a thigh. A secret smile. That used to be us. Me and Troy. Back when things were… simpler. Before schedules, before expectations, before things started slipping through the cracks and neither of us had the guts to admit it.

Maybe I should’ve called it out sooner.

Maybe I waited too long.

Maybe I was still waiting.

My phone buzzed.

A message.

I snatched it up, heart stuttering in my chest.

“Be home safe.”, it was Troy.

That’s it.

No apology. No “Where are you?” Not even “I miss you.”

Just a dry, three-word check-in that felt more like an afterthought than concern.

I stared at the screen, thumbs hovering, debating whether to respond.

Then I locked the phone and shoved it in my bag.

Screw it.

I finished the rest of my gin in one gulp and stood, feeling the familiar swirl of guilt and confusion rise again.

I wasn’t drunk—just a little dizzy. From the drink. From my thoughts. From everything I was too scared to say out loud.

I walked out of the bar, the night air wrapping around me like a wake-up call. I needed to pull myself together. Finish that gown. Show up for myself.

Because even if Troy was slipping away...

Even if I was falling apart...

Lexi still deserved her dream dress.

And dammit, I was going to deliver.

Even if I had to stitch every bead with trembling hands.

I woke up with a dull ache behind my eyes and the stubborn taste of regret still clinging to my tongue. Ugh. That was the last time I’d let myself order a drink. Does it taste good? Yes. Dangerous? Absolutely.

I rolled out of bed with a groan, dragging myself to the shower like I was a zombie heading to a fashion apocalypse. Water helped—at least physically. But mentally? I still felt like a crumpled fabric swatch tossed into a clearance bin.

Troy hadn't texted. No missed calls. Not even a question mark emoji.

Part of me expected it. The other part was still holding onto whatever shred of “us” remained. But today wasn’t about Troy and his sketchy. Today was about the gown. The stupid, beautiful, royal-looking wedding gown that had consumed every ounce of my energy and probably three-fourths of my sanity.

By the time I reached the boutique, I was running on two hours of sleep, iced coffee fumes, and sheer spite.

Gwen, of course, was already there—spilling papers and tripping over her own shoelaces like she was auditioning for a clumsy sitcom sidekick.

“Good morni—oh my gosh, Callie! You look like…” she paused, squinting at my face like it was some kind of abstract painting, “...like you fought a dragon in your dreams and still came to work anyway. Iconic.”

I gave her a flat stare, flopping dramatically into my chair. “I feel like I fought a dragon, lost, and then got trampled by its entire family.”

“Well, you're here. That’s already 100 points for Gryffindor.” She did a little cheer motion with her arms, then tripped over a tape measure on the floor. Classic Gwen.

“I barely slept,” I muttered, turning on the sewing machine. The hum was familiar, comforting. “I’m behind schedule. The hem isn’t even close to where I want it, and the beading on the corset? Don’t even get me started.”

“Okay, but hold up,” Gwen said, putting a hand on her hip. “You’ve been working on this dress non-stop. You haven’t taken a proper break in, like, forever. Even wedding cakes get to chill in a fridge for a while.”

“I am the fridge,” I said dryly. “Cold, overworked, and full of questionable leftovers.”

Gwen giggled. “That’s so tragic. And weirdly poetic. But seriously, Cal… you’re killing yourself over this.”

“It’s Lexi Bellington’s wedding gown, Gwen. The Lexi Bellington who owns Hotel de Bellington. I can’t just wing it. People will talk. Industry people.”

“You mean gossip people. The same ones who think all designers live in Paris and eat fabrics for breakfast.”

I cracked a small smile despite myself. She wasn’t wrong.

“But also,” Gwen added, leaning closer with a smirk, “this is still your design. Your magic. You're making Lexi look like royalty—well, more royalty than usual. And you’re doing it on your own, with zero help from Troy the Vanishing Boyfriend.”

That hit a nerve.

My fingers paused on the gown’s hem, the needle trembling ever so slightly. I hated that I let him get to me. That despite all the late nights and the progress I made… he still managed to drag me down like emotional quicksand.

“I just…” I took a shaky breath. “I don’t know anymore, Gwen. About him. About us. About me, honestly. Maybe I’m not cut out for all this. Maybe I’m just pretending.”

“Woah, woah, woah.” Gwen rushed over and dramatically slapped a measuring tape across my shoulder like a general awarding a medal. “You listen to me, Callie Rose Torres. You’re not pretending. You’re slaying. This gown? Slayed. That sketchbook? Slayed. Me? Emotionally slayed every time I trip over your design tools.”

I snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re amazing. Just a little tired and emotionally dehydrated. So…” She pointed both index fingers at me like she was casting a spell. “We are getting cake. I know this place that serves cupcake-sized miracles and possibly happiness in frosting form.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Cake?”

“Cake.”

I sighed, setting the fabric down with a dramatic flair. “Fine. But only if it’s chocolate.”

“Duh. I would never suggest anything less.”

She was already grabbing her purse and half-walking backward toward the door, still slightly wobbling in her mismatched flats.

“Come on. Let’s go sugar our way out of this emotional breakdown.”

And maybe… just maybe, she was right. Maybe a little sweetness wouldn’t fix everything, but it could help me hold it together.

At least for now.