Gilts and Grudges

The studio smelled of citrus oil, warm cedar, and ambition. Freya stood at her station before the morning rush, her hands gliding over silver scissors as sunlight streamed through the arched windows of Blake Luxe. She didn’t need to look at the clock, she could feel the time in her spine, in the stretch of silence before the doors opened. Then came the voice. “I didn’t know you still worked the chair.” Freya froze. That voice was made of velvet wrapped around a blade. Evander Thatcher stood at the threshold of her salon. No warning. No entourage. Just him in a deep navy suit, tailored like it had somewhere better to be, and those eyes......cool, grey, calculating. Freya lifted her gaze, unbothered. “Most CEOs don’t. I’m not most.” Evander stepped in. His shoes didn’t make a sound, and that somehow irritated her more. “I heard Blake Luxe was building its new SoHo nest,” he said, eyeing the space. “I had to see it myself.” “You could’ve booked an appointment,” she replied, sliding her scissors into their slot. “But I don’t do walk-ins. Or vultures.” Evander’s smile was slow and infuriating. “Good to know.” He wandered closer, stopping inches from the nearest styling chair, running a hand along its armrest. “You know, there’s something poetic about you setting up shop two blocks from my flagship.” “Poetic or provocative?” He met her eyes. “Depends on who’s reading the poem.” Freya didn’t blink. “This isn’t about proximity. It’s about presence. Something you wouldn’t understand.” “Oh, I understand presence, Freya.” His voice dropped just a fraction. “It’s why you’re standing in front of me instead of ignoring me from your office upstairs.” That earned him silence. But it was calculated silence. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting. Not yet. Evander stepped around the styling chair, scanning the pristine counters, the wall of curated product shelves, the gold-accented mirrors. It was immaculate. Hers. And he was trespassing on purpose. Freya took a step forward, closing the space between them. “You’re not here to congratulate me,” she said. “You’re here to rattle me.” “If you were rattled, you’d have told security.” “I don’t waste security on peacocks.” Evander chuckled. “It’s funny. You always had this image, graceful, guarded, composed. But I think you like this more than you admit.” “This?” “This game. The push and pull. The headlines. You’re not just fighting to win. You’re enjoying it.” Freya didn’t move. “Let me be clear. I don’t enjoy you.” “No,” Evander said, leaning in just enough to stir the air. “You enjoy beating me.” She hated how her pulse reacted. She hated even more that he could read it in her stillness. But Freya Blake didn’t flinch. Not for men in suits or kings of expired empires. So she pivoted, walked to the counter, and reached for a slim, black case. When she returned, she held it out to him. Evander raised a brow. “What’s this?” “A comb,” she said. “For all the places you keep sticking your head where it doesn’t belong.” Evander laughed, an actual laugh, low and amused. Freya gave him nothing else. “This is my space. Don’t come back unannounced.” “You sure?” he asked, stepping backward with ease. “Because I think this room lights up when I walk in.” Freya turned on her heel, already done with him. “That’s just the fire alarm sensing nonsense.” He paused at the door, looked back once. “I’ll see you at the gala next week,” he said. “I wasn’t invited.” “You are now.” And then he was gone, like smoke slipping through cracks leaving only heat in his wake. ** That evening, Freya leaned against the balcony of her penthouse, a glass of lemon water in one hand and her phone in the other. The press had already picked up the sighting. Photos were blurry, but the captions were loud. Evander Thatcher Spotted at Blake Luxe Rival Hair Empires Stir Tension in SoHo She sipped slowly, eyes scanning the city lights. Somewhere out there, he was watching the same skyline, likely planning his next move. “Let him try,” she muttered. Because she didn’t build Blake Luxe to be reactionary. She built it to be untouchable. But as she looked down at the street below, something twisted in her chest. It wasn’t fear. It was fire. The kind that didn’t go out with water but needed wind, fury, and friction. She knew what this was. War. And Evander Thatcher had just lit the match.