Drawing With The Devil
821 Words
The room emptied slowly as the contestants filed out, whispering about the judge evaluation schedule for the day. But Nablis stayed seated for a moment, staring at her trembling hands.
Why him?
Why her?
How could the man she bumped into—the man who insulted her work without even seeing it—be the one person with the power to destroy her chances?
She pressed her palm to her chest, trying to calm her racing heartbeat.
“Get it together,” she whispered. “You’re here for your mother.”
When she finally stood, the world around her felt too loud, too bright, too heavy. Contestants hurried through the corridor toward the design studios where they would work for the rest of the day. The hall stretched endlessly, lit by soft gold lights and decorated with posters of legendary designers.
Nablis clutched her sketch folder close and began walking—until a shadow suddenly fell across her path.
Her footsteps faltered.
Felix Lenoir stood in front of her.
Again.
Tall. Cold. Impossible to ignore.
His eyes flicked to the folder in her hand. “Still holding onto those fragile sketches?”
Nablis stiffened. “Are you planning to bump into me again?”
A faint smile—dangerous, knowing—tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Not unless you step in my way.”
She took a deep breath, reminding herself to stay calm. “If you’re here to intimidate me—don’t bother. I’m not scared of you.”
His gaze sharpened. “You should be.”
The words hit her harder than she expected.
“Why?” she forced out. “Because you’re the Fashion King?”
“No.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that only she could hear. “Because I judge talent. Not excuses.”
His scent—clean, crisp, expensive—brushed her senses, making her even more aware of the sharp closeness between them.
“I don’t make excuses,” she said quietly.
“We’ll see.”
He moved past her, but not before his shoulder brushed hers ever so slightly, sending an irritating shiver down her spine.
She turned sharply. “Do you talk to every contestant like this?”
“No.” He stopped without turning around. “Just the ones who look like trouble.”
Trouble.
Her?
The girl who worked double shifts and barely slept?
“I’m here to win, not cause trouble,” she said firmly.
He finally faced her again, eyes deep as storm clouds. “Winning starts with discipline. Not bumping into strangers like you’re running late to class.”
She opened her mouth to argue—
But a staff member rushed over. “Ms. Nablis? Please follow me. You’ve been assigned to Studio Three.”
Felix lifted one eyebrow. “Studio Three? Interesting placement.”
“What does that mean?” she asked suspiciously.
But he didn’t answer.
He simply walked away, silent, powerful, leaving Nablis torn between punching him and proving him wrong.
---
Studio Three was smaller than the others, tucked into a corner with tall windows and a single long table. At least two other contestants were already working—sketching, testing fabrics, whispering anxiously.
When she sat down, Nablis took a deep breath and pulled out her pencils.
Focus.
Design.
Forget him.
But as she pressed the pencil to the page, her hand hesitated.
Felix’s cold voice echoed in her mind:
“If one bump can ruin them, they weren’t very good to begin with.”
She gritted her teeth. “Fine. I’ll show you.”
Her pencil moved, sharp and confident.
Lines flowed.
Shapes formed.
Her ideas—bold, elegant, fresh—came to life.
She lost track of time.
Until the door opened again.
Her pencil froze.
Felix stepped into the room.
Every contestant stood. Even the air seemed to stop.
His gaze swept across the room—
Then landed on her.
Slow. Deliberate. Calculated.
He approached her table first.
The others stared, stunned.
Nablis felt her heartbeat in her throat, but she refused to back down. She lifted her sketch calmly, holding it out without trembling.
“Well?” she asked. “Is it good enough to survive a bump?”
For a second—just one—she saw something flicker in his expression.
Surprise.
Maybe even… admiration.
Then it disappeared just as fast.
He leaned down slightly to examine her lines, his voice low and unreadable.
“Not bad.”
It wasn’t praise.
But it wasn’t an insult.
Coming from him… it felt like a small victory.
“But,” he added, straightening, “you’re not there yet.”
And then he walked away.
Leaving her shocked.
Annoyed.
Motivated.
On fire.
She grabbed her pencil again, shoulders squared with determination.
Fine.
If Felix Lenoir wanted to test her—
She would give him a reason to never forget her name.
---
- Writer
