The Golden Heir’s Collateral Bride

I stepped into DuVall’s, and the world changed. The city’s heat and grit vanished behind the whisper-quiet glass doors, replaced by a cocoon of curated perfumed air. It smelled like wealth—violets, oud, and fresh leather—and everything gleamed. The lighting was soft, designed to flatter silk and skin alike. Walls of brushed graphite framed curated displays like museum art: one dress per mannequin, one suit per stand, like each piece deserved its own applause. No clutter. No noise. Just elegance sharpened to a knife’s edge. To the right, the menswear wing was a fortress of precision—midnight tuxedos with satin lapels, monogrammed cufflinks set in velvet trays, crisp white shirts folded so flawlessly they looked untouched by human hands. To the left, the women’s section opened like a secret garden: structured silhouettes in ivory and ink, sharp-shouldered blazers, and silken gowns that looked like molten light suspended mid-pour. Everything shimmered beneath golden sconces and mirrored ceilings. Every step I took echoed faintly across the black marble, reminding me I didn’t belong here—at least, not in the way Elara did. But I wasn’t here for me. I was here for her. And somewhere in this cathedral of couture, was the red dress that might just save my job—or ruin everything. Marina spotted me before I even finished blinking. “Sera, darling,” she said, gliding over in four-inch heels and a black pencil dress that hugged her like sin. Her lipstick was a matte blood-red, her platinum hair pinned in an immaculate twist. “You’re here for the Veyra order, she told me you’d come?” I nodded, breath still shallow from the sprint to the car and the ache chewing into my heels. “She mentioned a very particular dress?” I said, trying not to sound as desperate as I felt. Marina sighed through her nose and waved a hand toward the velvet sofa at the center of the showroom. “She want Red Reign. From The Severance Line. The red silk gown—plunge front, open back, bias-cut hem. Yes, I know it. It’s just…” She gave me a tight smile. “Our staff is currently locating it. It was pulled for a private fitting yesterday and seems to have been... misplaced.” “Misplaced?” “It happens,” she said lightly, though her eyes were already scanning the racks behind me with surgical precision. “But don’t worry. While they’re hunting it down, I’ve pulled a few pieces Elara might consider—similar silhouettes, some even newer than the red. If you’d like to try them on, Donna will assist you.” As if summoned, a tall woman with honey-brown skin and cropped curls appeared beside me. Donna gestured politely toward the fitting rooms, arms full of glittering fabrics and structured silhouettes. But I didn’t move. “Elara doesn’t want a substitute,” I said, “She wants that dress. The red silk. If I don’t bring it back—” “She’ll crucify you,” Marina finished flatly. “Trust me, I know what she’s like. She's fire in fur and diamonds.” “She told me to try it first,” I added. “Said if it looks good on me, it’ll look divine on her.” Marina let out a breath like a hiss and glanced toward the back of the boutique. “That bloody dress,” she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It was pulled yesterday for a fitting. Some interns might’ve mislabeled it. Or it’s in the wrong garment bag. Or it grew legs and walked into traffic, who the hell knows.” She straightened suddenly, her heels clicking like gunfire as she marched toward the front desk. And she made an announcement on the intercom. “Everyone to the floor! Now!” From every corner of the showroom, stylists and assistants materialized—some with hangers still in hand, one frantically chewing a protein bar, another pulling earbuds from her ears. They all clustered in the main space. “Listen up!” Marina barked. “We have a Veyra-level crisis. I want Red Reign. From The Severance Line, red silk gown is missing. Bias cut. Backless. Side slit to the hip. We pulled it for a private client yesterday, and somehow, it’s not where it should be. You know what that means.” A hush swept over the staff. “She wants it today,” Marina went on, “No substitutions. No excuses. You all know what Elara is like when she doesn’t get what she wants. If that dress doesn’t show up, she’ll rip this place apart stitch by stitch—and start with whoever’s holding the wrong hanger.” Someone audibly gulped. “Search everything,” she ordered. “Every storage drawer. Every back rack. Dry-cleaning. Client holds. Check the tailor’s room. Check the damn janitor’s closet if you have to.” The room burst into motion…One stylist took off toward the storage hallway, nearly knocking over a mannequin. Another dropped her tablet The showroom, turned into chaos—garment bags unzipped, clipboards dropped, chiffon trailing across the floor like spilled wine. Marina turned back to me, “You. Standing there like a ghost—what are you waiting for?” “I—sorry,” I stammered. “Start searching!” she snapped. “You’ve got two hands, don’t you? Or do I need to lend you mine?” “Yes, sorry. Of course,” I said quickly, already moving. “Check the fitting suite. The intern who pulled it was new—probably shoved it behind a rack and forgot what red looks like.” She muttered to herself as she turned away, “God help us if it’s in the laundry queue. Elara will have our heads and use them for centerpieces.” I weaved between racks and displays, my eyes scanning for flashes of red silk. Everywhere around me, people shouted across rooms: “It’s not in Holding Room B!” “Checked the VIP closet—nothing!” “Could it be in returns?” “NO! That was yesterday’s shipment!” I could already imagine the expression on Elara’s face if I returned empty-handed. That cold fury she wore like perfume but the ache in my feet had reached a fever pitch—every step like needles driving into bone. I couldn’t take it anymore.  I ducked behind a display of structured blazers and yanked off my boots one by one, ignoring the way my arches throbbed in relief. I straightened slowly, holding them in one hand like two dead birds. My toes ached, swelling against the cool polish of the boutique floor, but I didn’t care. Elara wouldn’t care either—not if I showed up without that dress. I half-limped barefoot across the floor, trying to stay out of the stylists’ chaotic paths. I must’ve looked insane—hair wild, sweater twisted, a shoe dangling from hand—but I didn’t care. I had minutes. Maybe less. I veered toward the far end of the showroom—New Arrivals. The section glowed under softer spotlights, curated like a shrine for the most coveted pieces of the season. Long racks gleamed in brushed brass, each hanger spaced like a breath. Minimalist silhouettes in bold colors, stitched with restraint and power. And then— My breath caught. A flicker of movement. A swish of red. No... no, no way... He was standing near the far edge of the showroom, where the racks gave way to a narrow platform lined with full-length mirrors and the newest arrivals hung like art installations and his back was toward me, but even that was enough. Tall. Broad-shouldered beneath a charcoal overcoat, tailored within an inch of ruthlessness and his slacks were black. A watch gleamed at his wrist, sleek and his hair was dark, cut close at the sides, longer on top—slightly tousled, like he’d just run a hand through it without bothering to fix it. The nape of his neck was clean-shaven. Understated cologne hung in the air around him—something smoky, spiced, and cruel. And draped neatly over his arm—Elara’s dress. The blood-on-snow, artery-red silk gown. The one she would kill for. I froze… as the fabric shimmered even under the cool-toned lights—liquid crimson, cut on the bias, plunging neckline, a whisper of side slit. No mistaking it. He held a phone to his ear with one hand and lifted the hanger slightly with the other one, inspecting the tag, like he had all the time in the world. Like this wasn’t the single most dangerous thing a person could do in Elara’s orbit—stand between her and what she wanted. I couldn’t see his face. Just the broad slope of his shoulders. The poised tilt of his head. Like a statue of arrogance brought to life. My throat dried. My pulse pounded. Then I took a step forward—barefoot, heart in my mouth—and whispered to no one but the air: “Please don’t buy that.” I didn’t think, I just moved—boots in hand, heels stinging raw, the hem of my coat brushing the polished floor with every limping step. I swallowed and took one step closer forward then another. “Excuse me,” I said softly, He didn’t turn. Just murmured something low into the phone, I couldn’t catch the words—just the texture. Polished steel. Velvet threat. There was an edge to the way he spoke, like everything he said was both invitation and warning. I cleared my throat. “Excuse me—sir?” He didn’t turn. Just paused, then said something even lower into the phone, unintelligible now—just a murmur with an edge of command. There was a pause and then he ended the call and slowly, he lowered the phone from his ear. And turned…for a moment, I forgot what I was doing. Forgot where I was, forgot the ache in my feet, the sharp press of time, even the stupid boots in my hand.The first thing I saw were his eyes. Gray. Not the soft kind of gray you see in rain or ash—but cold steel, honed and unforgiving. They locked onto mine like a trigger pulling back, and for a second, I couldn’t breathe. Not because of their sharpness, or the way they studied me like I was an anomaly standing barefoot in a couture showroom—but because I knew them. I didn’t need to ask his name. I recognized him. Every inch of his face was burned into my memory—etched from the countless photographs taped above Elara’s vanity, tucked in mirrored frames, sealed inside perfume-scented scrapbooks. Candid shots, tabloid clippings, glossy black-and-whites—Elara had curated his image like a museum exhibit. I used to dust them. And now he was standing in front of me. Auren Draven. He didn’t say a word, but the air around him said plenty. It said power. And I was standing there—pleading for a dress that belonged to the man Elara Veyra would’ve killed to impress—while the man himself stared straight at me. And his eyes moved over me like a storm—not the way a man glances. The way a man consumes. From the sweat-damp strands stuck to my temple, to the boots dangling stupidly from my fingers like roadkill. His gaze snagged there—on my hand—and a smile ghosted across his lips. It was the kind of smile you didn’t trust. The kind that said he knew things you didn’t want anyone knowing. My stomach dropped and heat bloomed at the base of my neck, crawling up to my ears like I’d just walked into a spotlight naked and his smile deepened, like he had all the time in the world to admire the disaster standing in front of him. “God,” he murmured, eyes skating from my tangled hair to my bare feet, “how does a girl look like a disaster movie and still pull it off?” I didn’t answer because my throat felt like it had been lined in sand. “You’ve got the whole ‘Cinderella in crisis’ thing going on,” he added, gesturing vaguely to the boots hanging from my fingers. “Let me guess—evil stepmother, midnight deadline, and a prince who’s too late to matter?” He tilted his head, examining me with casual, luxurious interest. “But no glass slipper,” he said, nodding toward my feet. “Shame. Would’ve made a hell of an entrance.” “Let me guess,” he said, eyeing me like a riddle he’d already solved. “You’re lost, barefoot, staring at me like I just walked out of your favorite dream, and now you’re trying to figure out how to ask for something.” My mouth opened, then closed. I couldn’t breathe, much less think. He stepped just slightly closer, and it felt deliberate “So,” he murmured, eyes skimming down, then back up to my face with lazy interest, “what is it you want, pretty girl?” I blinked. “What?” He studied my silence, clearly entertained. “You wouldn’t be the first,” he added with a casual shrug, eyes twinkling like he was offering a fact, not a boast. “Though I’ll admit—most girls don’t look like they wandered in from a hurricane first.” I opened my mouth to speak, but he stepped forward—just a hair—and c****d his head. “So tell me,” he murmured, eyes gleaming, “what do you want from me, sweetheart? My number? A photo? A scandal? Or”—his voice dropped an octave—“a night you’ll never forget?” Something inside me snapped. It wasn’t just the words—it was everything behind them. The smugness in his tone. The way he looked at me like I was nothing but entertainment. The way he stood there, so sure of himself, so sure I would want him. For a second, I wasn’t in that glossy boutique anymore—I was back in every room I’d ever stood small in, every hallway I’d ever been ignored in, every moment someone powerful assumed I owed them something just because I breathed. My hand moved before I could think. The sound was sharp and sudden. A crack that silenced everything. His head turned slightly with the force of the slap, but he didn’t stumble. Didn’t touch his cheek. My palm tingled from the contact, suspended midair, breath tight in my throat