Safe With You

Why are kids like this?

~Alyssa~

By the time I reach the boardroom, I’ve convinced myself my hands aren’t still shaking.

I smooth the front of my blazer, force a breath, and tell myself to keep moving.

Greyson Riley does not need to know that I’ve just had the worst morning of my life.

When I push the door open, he’s already there — tall, calm, perfectly put together. His jacket’s folded neatly over the back of a chair, sleeves rolled to the elbows like he means business but doesn’t need to prove it. His head lifts the moment I walk in, and I swear he studies me in that quiet, unsettling way people do when they’re trying to read between the lines.

“Miss Rose,” he says politely, that low voice of his smooth enough to fill the room. “I hope everything’s alright.”

I paste on my professional smile. “Everything’s fine, thank you. Sorry to keep you waiting — it’s been one of those mornings.”

“I understand those well,” he says, and there’s a glint of humour there — the first hint that maybe he’s human after all. “Shall we?”

“Let’s.”

I set my folders on the table, take the seat opposite him, and just like that, I’m back in work mode — the safest armour I’ve ever owned.

We spend the first hour going through contracts and proposals. His brother, Winston, has clearly done his research. The Riley women are looking for a full-service designer — bespoke wardrobes, event pieces, seasonal looks. Normally, I avoid long-term commitments like this, but something about their brief feels different. Focused. Respectful.

We talk through costs and structure without the heavy legal jargon — numbers, yes, but conversational. I lay out what I can offer: monthly curated wardrobes, exclusive one-of-one pieces, private fittings, the works. He listens closely, asks the right questions, and doesn’t once try to talk over me. I appreciate that more than I should.

“I can handle the logistics from our end,” he says, pen tapping lightly against the table. “My mother and sister will want full privacy. No leaks, no photographers.”

“That’s already built into my process,” I assure him. “Every piece I design for private clients stays private. No copies, no loans, no resale. Once the collection’s finished, it belongs entirely to them.”

He nods thoughtfully. “That’s reassuring.”

I sip the last of my cold coffee and glance at the clock. “Good — because if I’m going to be wrangling two Rileys’ wardrobes for the next couple of years, I’ll need that clause to keep my sanity intact.”

He laughs at that, deep and warm, the kind of sound that fills a space without asking permission. “You’ve met them, then?”

“I’ve met Winston’s emails,” I counter dryly. “That’s more than enough.”

“Fair point.” He grins. “He does have a gift for volume.”

We end up laughing properly — an unexpected, genuine kind of laughter that makes the edges of the morning blur a little.

The sound of Elle’s heels clicking on the tile breaks the moment. She pokes her head in, eyebrows raised. “You two have been in here all morning. Thought you might be starving.” She slides a tray onto the table — sandwiches, fruit, bottled water. “Try not to argue over who gets the last crisp.”

“Elle, you’re a lifesaver,” I say, smiling as she disappears again.

Greyson loosens his tie slightly, sitting back. “So, Miss Rose, do you always forget to eat during negotiations, or is this my lucky day?”

“I call it focus,” I reply, unwrapping a sandwich. “Besides, starving artists are supposed to be more creative, aren’t they?”

“From what I’ve seen,” he says, taking a bite, “hungry executives are just cranky.”

That makes me laugh again, quieter this time. For a little while, the room feels easy — normal, even.

I’d forgotten what normal felt like.

His phone buzzes before I can say anything else. He glances at the screen, expression tightening. “Excuse me a moment — I need to take this.” He stands, slipping out onto the balcony with a polite nod.

The moment the door closes, I let out a long breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding.

The quiet hum of the aircon fills the room, and I finally allow myself to stretch.

I reach for my phone, thinking I’ll message Elle to bring my trainers up from the office. Before I can type a single word, Preston’s name flashes across the screen.

My heart jumps straight into my throat.

“Preston, is Quinn okay?” I answer immediately, half standing.

Then I hear it — that soft, unmistakable giggle. Relief floods through me.

“Yes, Miss Rose, Quinn is fine,” Preston says, calm as always. “She’s made a new friend and is insisting I ask whether her friend can come over after school for dinner.”

“Oh, that child.” I press a hand to my forehead, half laughing. “She’s going to turn me grey before I’m thirty, I swear. Have her parents call me and we’ll arrange it. And Preston?”

“Yes, Miss Rose?”

“Don’t tell them who I am, please. At school, I’m just Amy. I don’t fancy another repeat of last term’s parent-gate incident. And for the last time, it’s Ali, not Miss Rose.”

He chuckles. “Noted, Ali. I’ll have the parents ring you. Enjoy your meeting.”

“Thank you, Preston.”

The line clicks dead, and for a few moments, I just sit there smiling to myself. Quinn always finds a way to remind me what really matters.

Then my phone buzzes again — an unknown number. I nearly groan. “Oh, Quinn, it’s a good thing I love you,” I mutter under my breath before answering.

“Hello? Yes, this is Amy,” I say, slipping effortlessly into the alias. On the other end, a man’s voice — warm, a little nervous. He explains that his daughter and mine have become friends, that there’s been talk of a playdate and dinner.

I smile automatically, pencil tracing idle lines on my sketchpad. “That’s perfectly fine. She’s welcome to come over. If it’s easier, you’re more than welcome to stay as well, or I can drop her back afterwards — whatever you prefer.”

He sounds relieved, genuinely grateful. Mentions it’s been tough for his little one starting halfway through the year. Something in that makes my heart ache a little.

“I’ll send you a message and I’ll text you the address,” I tell him kindly. “We’ll see you both later. And don’t worry — Quinn can talk anyone’s ear off. She’ll make her feel right at home.”

We say our goodbyes, and I hang up, still smiling as I type out my address. Whoever that man was, he sounded nice — steady, caring. The kind of parent who actually shows up.

The balcony door opens again, and Greyson walks back in, still chuckling to himself. He looks lighter, amused.

“Everything alright?” I ask, looking up from my notes.

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “My daughter’s decided she’s hosting a playdate this afternoon. Didn’t think to tell me until about five minutes ago.”

I grin, amused by the coincidence. “You’ve got one of those too?”

He laughs. “Apparently so. She’s seven, thinks she’s CEO of her own social calendar. I’m just her driver and snack provider at this point.”

“That sounds familiar,” I say, shaking my head. “Mine’s exactly the same — though she’s arranged a dinner, not a playdate. I’m starting to think kids are conspiring against us.”

“Probably comparing notes at school,” he says with mock seriousness.

“God help us when they discover group chats.”

He chuckles, sitting back down. “No kidding.”

We fall back into our rhythm — lighter now, almost easy. Papers spread out, pens tapping, the conversation flowing naturally again.

I start sketching as we talk, refining the lines of Lillian Riley’s first piece: clean silhouette, soft tailoring, movement through the hem. Something confident without trying too hard. Greyson’s voice fills the pauses as he asks the occasional question about design choices.

“You make it look effortless,” he says eventually, watching me draw.

“Habit,” I shrug. “I’ve been doing this since I was fifteen. Some days it still feels like magic; other days, it’s just muscle memory.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. “Magic suits you better.”

I glance up at him, one brow raised. “Careful, Mr Riley, you’re starting to sound like your brother.”

That earns me another laugh, low and easy. “God forbid.”

We keep working, trading notes and ideas until Elle reappears with her usual impeccable timing. “Everything sorted?” she asks, looking between us.

“More or less,” I say. “Just putting the finishing touches on the agreement.”

“Perfect. I’ll get copies sent to Winston,” she says, and with a wink, adds, “and I’ll make sure he only sends one follow-up email this time.”

Greyson groans. “You have no idea how much I’d appreciate that.”

When Elle leaves, I close the folder and push back my chair. “Well, Mr Riley, looks like we’re officially in business.”

He stands too, buttoning his jacket. “I’ll let Winston know you survived meeting me.”

“Barely,” I tease. “But yes, I’ll survive.”

He grins. “You’ve built something remarkable here, Alyssa. You should be proud.”

I pause, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “Thank you,” I say quietly. “I am.”

He nods once, gathering his things. “I’ll walk you out, shall I?”

For a second, I consider saying no — but the idea of a few quiet minutes doesn’t sound so bad. “Alright,” I say, slipping my heels back on.

We leave the boardroom together, our footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors. The building hums with quiet efficiency — phones ringing, the faint hiss of the coffee machine from reception.

As we step into the lift, the silence feels companionable rather than awkward. He presses the button for the lobby, and the doors close with a soft chime.

“I have to say,” he murmurs, glancing sideways at me, “your office is a lot more intimidating than I expected.”

“Intimidating?” I feign surprise. “That’s just marble and caffeine holding it all together.”

He laughs under his breath. “Effective combination.”

When the lift doors open, the reception light spills in — gold and bright against the sleek black marble. Elle’s at her desk, pretending not to eavesdrop.

Greyson gestures toward the revolving doors. “Well, Miss Rose, this was… unexpectedly enjoyable.”

“Don’t sound too shocked,” I reply with a small smile.

He chuckles. “I’ll be in touch. And thank you for the sandwiches — saved me from eating my own arm.”

“That’s what Elle’s here for,” I say. “She stops me from doing the same.”

He steps toward the door, then glances back. “Good luck with your daughter’s dinner party.”

“And you with your playdate,” I counter.

That grin again. “I’ll need it.”