Morning light spilled through the tall studio windows, soft and golden at first, then mercilessly bright. Rolls of fabric arrived one after another, the scent of fresh cotton and dye filling the air as assistants clipped swatches to vision boards. The familiar hum of Wolfe Enterprises’ design floor returned—machines whirring, phones ringing, the steady murmur of efficiency.
Clara tried to drown in it.
She bent over her desk, measuring a sleeve line, pretending her pulse wasn’t stuttering. Her hand trembled each time she reached for a pencil. Every whisper of graphite against paper felt too loud.
She had barely slept. Adrian’s face haunted the edges of her thoughts—his voice, low and steady, curling through her memory.
Miss me?
The words had replayed all night, like a ghost pressing it
