Chapter 2:The First Dangerous Thread
2208 Words
The pattern department smelled of fresh muslin, hot irons, and the faint metallic bite of overworked sewing machines. By Wednesday morning, Veronica had already learned the unspoken hierarchy: Amara ruled with quiet authority, the junior drafters whispered gossip like teenagers, and the seamstresses moved like they were auditioning for a ballet of precision.
She had also learned something far more unsettling.
Ethan Lawson did not stay away.
He appeared every day around eleven, always with some legitimate excuse—delivering fabric samples from the warehouse, collecting feedback on the new bridal collection, asking Amara about lead times for the senator’s daughter's gown. But his eyes always found Veronica first. Always.
On Wednesday, he arrived carrying a single bolt of midnight-blue silk charmeuse, the kind that costs more per meter than most people’s monthly rent.
“Special delivery for the Hale station,” he announced, voice carrying just enough playfulness to make heads turn.
Veronica kept her head down, pencil moving steadily across the pattern paper. She refused to look up until the bolt landed softly beside her drafting table.
She glanced at the label. The supplier was one of the most exclusive in Milan.
“This is for the senator’s daughter?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral.
Ethan leaned one hip against the edge of her table. Too close. Not close enough for anyone else to notice, but close enough that she could smell the clean cedar-and-citrus of his cologne.
“No,” he said. “This one is yours. Mum said the mock-up you did yesterday was… ‘almost perfect.’ Her words. She wants you to experiment with bias cuts on the real fabric.”
Veronica’s fingers tightened around her pencil. “I haven’t even finished the toile.”
“I know.” He smiled—slow, knowing. “She wants to see what happens when you stop playing it safe.”
The words felt layered. She met his gaze for the first time that morning.
He wasn’t smiling with his mouth anymore. Only with his eyes.
She looked away. “Tell your mother I’ll have something by Friday.”
“I’ll tell her.” He didn’t move. “But I’m not just the messenger today.”
She waited.
“I’m also here because I wanted to ask you something.”
The entire department had gone suspiciously quiet. Even the industrial serger had paused.
Veronica forced her voice to stay even. “What?”
“Friday evening. There’s a small industry mixer at The Wheatbaker. Nothing formal—just drinks, networking, the usual post-collection schmoozing. Mum wants the whole senior team there. That includes you.”
“I don’t do mixers.”
“You do now.” He straightened. “It’s not a request. It’s an expectation.”
She finally looked up fully. His expression was professional, polite, the perfect corporate son. But beneath it, something flickered—something private and patient and entirely too interested.
“I’ll see,” she said.
“You’ll come,” he corrected gently. Then, lower, so only she could hear: “I’d like to see you out of these walls. Just once.”
He walked away before she could respond.
Amara appeared at her side thirty seconds later, arms folded. “What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“That boy does not deliver fabric personally to anyone. Not even me, and I’ve been here eight years.”
Veronica smoothed the silk between her fingers. It felt like liquid guilt.
“He’s just being… helpful.”
Amara snorted. “Helpful is bringing you coffee once. That was foreplay.”
“Amara.”
“I’m just saying.” She lowered her voice. “He’s twenty-five. He’s single. He’s also Sandra Lawson’s only child and heir apparent. You do not want that kind of trouble.”
“I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Trouble doesn’t always wait for you to look.”
Veronica said nothing. She simply began unrolling the silk, letting the deep blue spill across the white table like spilled secrets.
Friday arrived wearing a storm.
The sky over Victoria Island was the colour of tarnished silver, and the first drops hit the windshield of her father’s old Corolla like accusations. She had borrowed the car because taking a Bolt to The Wheatbaker felt too vulnerable—like admitting she was trying.
She wore black. Simple black sheath dress, three-quarter sleeves, modest neckline. The only jewellery was the thin gold chain her mother had pressed into her palm that morning with the whispered instruction: “Wear something that reminds you who you are.”
She had almost taken it off twice on the drive.
The hotel lobby smelled of rain, expensive candles, and nervous laughter. Fashion people filled the space—designers in avant-garde silhouettes, editors in head-to-toe monochrome, influencers taking mirror selfies with champagne flutes.
Veronica lingered near the entrance, clutching her small clutch like a shield.
Then she saw him.
Ethan stood near the bar, talking to two older men in suits. He wore a charcoal suit that fit like it had been born on him, no tie, top button undone. When he turned, his eyes found her immediately—as though he’d been waiting for exactly that moment.
He excused himself mid-sentence.
She watched him cross the room like someone walking through water.
“You came,” he said when he reached her.
“You made it sound compulsory.”
“It was.” He smiled. “But I’m glad you chose to interpret it as a personal invitation.”
She didn’t know what to do with her hands. She settled for smoothing her dress. “I don’t know anyone here.”
“You know me.”
“That’s not necessarily a comfort.”
He laughed—low, surprised. “Fair.”
A waiter passed with flutes of champagne. Ethan took two, offered her one.
She hesitated.
“It’s just champagne, Veronica.”
She accepted. Their fingers brushed. She felt it in her knees.
They moved toward the edge of the room, near the tall windows overlooking the rain-slicked boulevard. The city lights blurred into long golden streaks.
“You’re nervous,” he observed.
“I’m forty years old at an industry mixer surrounded by people half my age. Of course,se I’m nervous.”
“You don’t look forty.”
She gave him a dry look. “That’s the polite version of ‘you look good for your age.’”
“No.” He turned to face her fully. “That’s me saying you look like someone who has lived every single year and still has fire left.”
Her breath caught.
He didn’t look away.
She took a sip of champagne. It tasted like danger.
They talked for almost an hour—about the new collection, about the pressure of fast fashion versus couture, about the way Lagos had changed since university. Safe topics. Professional topics.
Then he asked the question that tilted everything.
“Why did you leave?”
She knew exactly what he meant.
She looked out at the rain. “Because I was in love with your mother’s fiancé. Because I couldn’t watch her marry him. Because I was twenty-three and thought disappearing was kinder than confessing.”
He was quiet for a long time.
“Did he love you back?”
“No.” She laughed without humour. “He loved the idea of being wanted by two women. Then he loved neither.”
Ethan exhaled. “Mum never talks about him. Ever.”
“I don’t blame her.”
Another silence.
Then, softly: “I’m sorry you had to carry that alone.”
She turned to him, startled by the gentleness in his voice.
“You don’t have to apologise for things that happened before you were born.”
“I’m not apologizing for the past.” He stepped closer—close enough that she could see the tiny scar above his left eyebrow, almost invisible unless you were looking. “I’apologizingng because I can see it still hurts. And I don’t like that it hurts.”
The room suddenly felt too warm, too loud, too full of people who might be watching.
She took a step back. “Ethan—”
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know the lines. Age. Workplace. My mother. I know all of them.”
“Then why—”
“Because I’ve spent the last three days trying to pretend I don’t notice the way your mouth curves when you’re concentrating on a pattern. Or the way you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re nervous. Or the way you look at me like you’re trying to decide whether I’m a mistake you can afford to make.”
Her heart was hammering so hard she was sure he could see it through the black fabric.
“I’m not looking for complications,” she whispered.
“I’m not a complication.” He smiled—small, sad. “I’m a choice.”
Before she could answer, Sandra appeared.
She moved through the crowd like royalty, champagne flute in hand, smile in place. When she saw them standing together near the window, something shifted in her expression—nothing overt, just the faintest tightening around the eyes.
“Veronica,” she said, voice smooth. “I’m glad you came.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Veronica lied.
Sandra’s gaze slid to her son. “Ethan, the buyers from Paris are asking for you.”
“Of course.” He glanced at Veronica once more—brief, burning—then excused himself.
Sandra waited until he was out of earshot.
“You two seem to be getting along.”
“We were talking about the bias-cut experiment on the senator’s gown.”
Sandra sipped her drink. “Good. I’m glad you’re settling in.”
A pause.
Then, almost casually: “He’s very protective of the people he cares about.”
Veronica’s stomach dropped.
“I noticed,” she said.
Sandra studied her for a long moment.
“Be careful, Vero,” she said quietly. “Some threads are better left uncut.”
She walked away before Veronica could respond.
The rest of the evening passed in fragments—small talk with editors, forced laughter, another glass of champagne she barely touched.
At 10:17 p.m., she slipped out to the terrace for air.
The rain had stopped, but the air was heavy, wet, electric.
She wasn’t alone for long.
Ethan stepped through the glass doors, hands in his pockets.
“You’re leaving early,” he said.
“I think it’s best.”
“Because of my mother?”
“Because of everything.”
He stepped closer. Not touching. Just close.
“Tell me to walk away,” he said. “Say the words. I’ll go back inside, and we can pretend this conversation never happened.”
She looked up at him—really looked.
He was so young. So certain. So impossibly unafraid.
She opened her mouth to say it.
The words wouldn’t come.
Instead, she whispered, “I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“I’m too old for this.”
“You’re too alive to pretend otherwise.”
Thunder rumbled somewhere over the lagoon—distant, warning.
She took one step toward him.
Then another.
Then she was close enough to feel the heat of his body through his suit.
He didn’t move.
She lifted her hand—slowly, like she was reaching for something fragile—and touched the lapel of his jacket.
His breath hitched.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said.
“Then let me show you.”
He covered her hand with his.
Neither of them moved for what felt like forever.
Then he leaned down—slow enough that she could stop him.
She didn’t.
Their lips met like the first hesitant stitch in a seam that could either hold everything together or tear the whole garment apart.
It was soft.
It was careful.
It was devastating.
When they broke apart, both breathing too fast, the city lights reflected in his eyes like scattered diamonds.
“We shouldn’t—” she began.
“I know,” he said.
But he kissed her again anyway—deeper this time, hungrier, like a man who had been waiting years for permission he never thought he’d get.
Somewhere inside the hotel, music played on.
Somewhere inside the hotel, Sandra Lawson was charming Paris buyers.
Somewhere inside Veronica’s chest, something long frozen began to crack.
She pulled back first.
“I need to go.”
He nodded. Didn’t argue. Just stepped away giving her space, giving her the choice.
“I’ll see you Monday,” he said.
She nodded, throat too tight for words.
She walked back through the crowd on legs that felt borrowed.
She didn’t look back.
But she felt his gaze on her the entire way to the elevator.
And when the doors closed, she pressed her forehead to the cool metal and whispered to her own reflection:
“What have you done?”
Outside, the rain began again slow at first, then harder, as though the sky itself had decided the night needed washing clean.
But some stains, Veronica thought, were never coming out.
- Writer
