Safe With You

The Rising Star.

~ Lillian ~

The glass doors of AQ Design gleam like they’re watching me.

Every reflection stares back — every tiny flaw, every nervous flicker in my hands.

I’ve been to posh places before, of course — dinners with Mum, a couple of events where Greyson made me promise not to embarrass him —

but this?

This feels different.

Important.

Like stepping into a dream I’m not sure I deserve to have.

The receptionist smiles as I approach.

“Good morning! You must be Miss Riley. Alyssa’s expecting you — she’s just finishing up in the boardroom.”

I nod, but my voice doesn’t work. My stomach feels like it’s trying to tie itself into a noose.

“Th-thanks,” I manage, twisting the strap of my bag.

The lobby is breathtaking.

Every inch of it screams precision — marble floors, glass displays of garments that look like they belong in a museum, framed photographs of runway models wearing Alyssa’s designs.

It smells faintly of jasmine and coffee.

It smells like her.

I sit down, but the second I do, my heart starts pounding harder.

What if she’s changed her mind?

What if she’s realised I’m too young, too awkward, too me?

By the time Greyson walks through the doors, I’m halfway to hyperventilating.

He spots me instantly, that easy calmness radiating off him as always. “Hey, trouble,” he says, crouching down in front of my chair. “Why do you look like you’re about to run away?”

I exhale shakily. “Because I might.”

He chuckles softly. “You’re not running anywhere. You’ve got this.”

“I don’t even know what this is,” I mumble, and he grins, nudging my knee.

“You will. Just trust her, Lil. She knows what she’s doing.”

“I’m scared I’ll mess it up,” I admit.

“Then you’ll learn. But Alyssa wouldn’t call you in unless she already believed you could handle it.”

That helps. A little.

Before I can respond, the boardroom door opens. Alyssa steps out, looking effortlessly composed — all dark hair, soft makeup, and a white blouse that makes her look like she’s stepped out of a fashion editorial.

“Lillian,” she says warmly, opening her arms. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Her confidence wraps around me like sunlight, steady and calm.

~ Alyssa ~

It’s strange, how easily I’ve fallen into caring for Lillian — the same way I do for Quinn and Poppy.

Maybe it’s because she’s so much like me at that age — all edges and uncertainty, pretending to be confident while the world feels far too big.

She looks nervous now, twisting the ring on her finger.

Greyson lingers by the door, giving me a reassuring nod before taking a seat beside her.

The room hums with quiet energy — representatives from Maison Etienne, Evelyn Claire, and Runway Europe all seated, waiting.

They’re seasoned pros — elegant, polished, used to commanding rooms.

And yet, when I stand, they fall quiet.

“Thank you all for coming,” I begin. “As you know, AQ has been working on a collaborative initiative for young talent — not just design, but presentation, modelling, and creative direction.”

I glance at Lillian. Her eyes widen slightly.

“This initiative isn’t about trends,” I continue. “It’s about authenticity.

Fashion has spent decades celebrating perfection — and I think it’s time we start celebrating becoming.”

There’s a soft murmur of agreement around the table.

I let it settle, then turn to Lillian fully.

“I’ve watched Lillian grow over the past months,” I say, smiling gently. “She has an energy that’s rare — real, raw, full of life. And that’s exactly what this industry needs.”

Lillian blinks, startled. “Me?”

Greyson grins behind his hand.

“Yes, you,” I say, stepping closer. “Lillian, I want you to be the face of the new AQ youth campaign.

You’ll model every piece I create, walk every runway, and help me shape what this new line stands for — confidence, individuality, and youth without compromise.”

Her mouth falls open. “But… I’m only seventeen.”

“And?” I arch a brow. “That’s why it’s perfect. You’re on the cusp of everything. You see the world with hope — not cynicism. That’s what I want people to feel when they see you.”

The representatives exchange approving glances. One of them, Evelyn herself, leans forward.

“She has the look,” she says simply. “And the name. Riley — that’s brand gold already.”

Lillian flushes bright red. “I— I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” Greyson offers dryly.

The room laughs, and the tension finally breaks.

Lillian’s eyes dart between us — between my smile and her brother’s quiet encouragement — and then she breathes out, shaky but sure.

“Okay. Yes. I’ll do it.”

I beam. “Good girl.”

~ Lillian ~

I don’t know what’s happening.

Five minutes ago, I was having a panic attack in the lobby.

Now I’m apparently a model.

A real model.

With actual contracts, and fittings, and— God — people who will expect me not to trip on a runway.

Alyssa talks me through everything, her tone patient and soft, like she’s explaining it to a friend instead of a professional.

How I’ll get to choose which shows to walk, which photographers to work with, how I’ll be paid fairly, treated properly, and mentored every step of the way.

She’s not just offering me a job. She’s offering me trust.

When the meeting ends, the representatives shake my hand like I’m someone important.

Greyson gives me a wink before slipping out to take a call, and for the first time in my life, I feel like maybe — just maybe — I can be someone worth looking at.

“Come on,” Alyssa says once the room clears. “I’ll show you the collection room. I think you’ll like what I’ve been working on.”

The collection room is every teenage dream stitched into fabric and colour.

Racks of silks, chiffons, embroidered jackets, gowns that shimmer when you move even slightly.

“Oh my god,” I whisper.

Alyssa laughs. “It’s alright to be overwhelmed. It means you care.”

I run my fingers over a soft tulle skirt, careful not to wrinkle it. “Do you really think I can do this?”

She studies me for a moment before answering. “I know you can.”

I swallow hard. “I’ve always wanted to belong somewhere like this. To be good at something real. But… I’m not like the girls you work with. I’m clumsy and loud and—”

“And real,” she interrupts gently. “You don’t have to look or act a certain way to belong here, Lillian. You just have to show up — as yourself. That’s more than enough.”

Something in my chest cracks open, and I blink away tears before they can fall.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she says with a grin. “Wait until you’ve survived your first fitting. I’m brutal with pins.”

~ Greyson ~

By the time I find them again, Lillian’s barefoot, standing on a raised platform while Alyssa adjusts a hem around her knees.

There’s music playing quietly — something slow and soft — and the two of them are laughing like they’ve known each other forever.

For a second, I just watch.

Alyssa’s talking with her hands, explaining how the fabric moves, and Lillian’s nodding eagerly, soaking in every word.

And I realise — this is exactly what Alyssa needed.

To build again. To create. To teach.

When she glances up and spots me, she smiles. “She’s a natural.”

Lillian blushes. “Don’t lie to him.”

“She’s not,” I say automatically. “She’s hopeless.”

“Hey!”

Alyssa smirks. “I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.”

The air between us hums — playful, easy, the way it always is now.

But under it all, there’s something deeper — the quiet pride of seeing Alyssa in her element again, standing tall in the empire she built from ashes, now offering someone else a place in the light.

~ Alyssa ~

By the end of the day, Lillian’s first fitting is done, the contracts drafted, and the campaign officially in motion.

She hugs me before she leaves — quick and awkward, but tight.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For believing in me.”

I smile, brushing a stray curl from her face. “Always.”

When she’s gone, I finally let myself sit down, exhaustion catching up with me.

Greyson crosses the room, leaning against the doorframe with that smile — soft, amused, and a little too proud.

“You know,” he says quietly, “I think you just made her entire year.”

“She made her own year,” I correct. “I just opened the door.”

He steps closer, kneeling in front of my chair, his hand finding its way to my stomach, where our baby kicks once, faint but sure.

“You open a lot of doors, Alyssa Rose,” he murmurs. “For everyone.”

“And somehow you still think I need one more title,” I tease.

He smiles, presses a kiss to my knee, and looks up at me.

“Not a title,” he says softly. “A legacy.”