Chapter 2
781 Words
The café had become a habit.
Three days in a row, Clara Sinclair found herself returning to the same velvet booth, with the same cold brew and the same slice of creamy cheesecake. The waiter didn’t even ask anymore. He just smiled, noted, and brought her order within minutes of her arrival.
She told herself it was for the vibe — the quiet comfort.
Clara flipped open her iPad and scrolled through her latest designs. An HD new collection she called Silk and Smoke — draped dresses with dark undertones, suit jackets with metallic edges. She liked it too much lately.
“I’m designing myself that one,” Clara said, pointing to a new tart she had not seen before.
“What’s in it?” she asked the waitress.
“Lemon cream, sea salt, and white chocolate,” the girl replied. “It’s a bit bold.”
“I like bold,” Clara said, tugging a strand of hair behind her ear. “Grab one for me.”
As the girl turned to box it, Clara’s phone buzzed on the counter.
Message — Unknown Number
> You have great taste in dessert.
Clara blinked. Her breath hitched just slightly. Her eyes scanned the café quickly, but no one was looking at her.
She picked up the phone, typing slowly:
> Clara. And you have terrible manners. Who is this?
The reply came fast.
> Someone who notices everything. Especially bold things in white dresses.
She was wearing a white dress.
Her spine stiffened.
She looked out the window, across the street. Just for a split second, she thought she saw a man standing near a lamppost — dark clothes, head down, still.
She blinked.
He was gone.
Chills danced down her spine.
Someone was watching her.
Not for fashion.
Not for fun.
She didn’t know who.
Not yet.
But soon, she’d find out.
And if they were playing a game with her, they were about to learn who the real designer was.
Clara was no stranger to bold moves, but that evening… she underestimated just how far her curiosity would drag her.
It started with a simple lead — a whispered tip about a secret art exhibit in an old warehouse near the docks. The kind of place that didn’t advertise on i********:, didn’t welcome the public. Just the right place for a fashion designer hungry for inspiration — or for someone looking to dig a little deeper.
She slipped into a narrow alley, heels clicking against cracked concrete, clutching her leather tote like armor. The warehouse loomed ahead, a hulking mass of rust and shadow. The faint buzz of music pulsed from inside.
She took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy steel door, stepping into the dimly lit basement below.
Her heart jumped.
The air was thick with smoke and the scent of cheap whiskey. Figures loomed in the shadows, watching, whispering.
“Wrong place, sweetheart,” a voice growled beside her.
She spun around.
There he was.
Dominic.
Tall. Lean. Sharp-eyed. A cocky smirk that practically framed trouble. His black shirt clung to his torso, firm and defined, and a faint scar ran along his jawline like a story left unfinished.
He looked her up and down, eyes narrowing.
“You don’t belong here,” he said. “This isn’t some art show for fashion designers.”
Clara’s brows lifted. “How do you know I’m a fashion designer?” she asked, folding her arms.
He paused — just for a moment. A flicker of annoyance… or maybe regret… crossed his eyes before he covered it up with that infuriating smirk.
“The way you walk in heels like they’re flats. And that bag? Pure custom. Not tourist level.”
“Nice save.”
Still, Clara stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Or maybe you just know because you’ve been watching me.”
Dominic’s jaw clenched — just for the briefest second.
“I don’t waste my time watching spoiled girls with dangerous hobbies,” he said smoothly. “But if I was, I’d tell you you’re lucky this place hasn’t eaten you alive.”
Clara tilted her head. “Spoiled? Please. Just because I dress better than you doesn’t mean I’m weak.”
His eyes locked on hers. Unflinching. Ice meeting fire.
“No,” he said. “It just means you’ve got more to lose.”
The tension snapped between them like a live wire.
She didn’t back down.
Neither did he.
Clara finally broke the silence. “Whatever you’re doing here, I don’t care. I didn’t come to pick a fight.”
Dominic’s smirk returned, just a little slower this time.
“Too late.”
- Writer
