The Billionaire's Muse

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Chapter One

VIOLET

“I am so freaking cooked!” I groan into the phone.

“No, you're not. You got this,” Tessa reassures me from the other end of the line.

I can't tell if she's mocking me or if she actually believes in me. I groan again, remembering every time I told myself I would work on the dress later. I postponed it to watch movies, hang out with my friends, go on pointless dates, and binge-watch my favourite TV shows.

Payback time.

I look at the dress I need to finish in about twelve hours, and it isn't even half completed. I watch the blue satin material sparkle brightly under the morning sun streaming through the window. It is beautiful. At least, the material is. The dress itself is currently a disaster. I have had the idea for this dress in my head for as long as I can remember. It is everything I want and more. I just have to bring it to life. But can I?

“I don't think I can do this, Tess,” I say, already feeling the tears clouding my eyes.

“You can, my love,” Tessa says reassuringly then she adds softly, “Maybe you can alter the plans a bit.”

“I don't know about—” I start.

“You can always recreate it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It could be a big change for you,” Tessa points out. Although I hate to admit it, Tessa is right. I have just been invited to one of the biggest fashion shows in New York City, and while I'm positive the email invitation is a mistake, I'm still going to show up anyway.

I don't even know how they found me. My little fashion page has barely enough followers to make anyone important notice me. I don't have a famous last name. I don't have connections with anyone in the industry. I don't have a big fashion house backing me. I have my designs and that's it. I have opened the email at least twenty times since I recieved it. Maybe they made a mistake. Maybe they meant to send it to someone else. Maybe they will realise their mistake when I show up and kindly escort me out but I don't care. I'm going.

It is a huge opportunity to meet some of the biggest names in the fashion industry and, hopefully, get noticed.

“You know what? You're right. I can't miss an opportunity this big."

“That's my girl,” Tessa says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Do you still need me to help you pick up the jewelry?” she asks.

“No, thank you. I think I'd like to see them for myself since the designs have changed,” I tell her.

“What dress do you have in mind?” she asks.

“To be honest, I don't know, but I'll think of something.”

There is a short silence.

“Violet.”

“What?”

“You have twelve hours.”

“I'll get started now" I tell her.

“Okay, baby. Byeee.” She doesn't even wait for my response before ending the call.

I stare at my phone for a few seconds before dropping it onto the table. A smile lights up my face. Talking to Tessa is therapeutic.

I hate to admit that I am a little excited about creating this new dress, even though I don't have a single clue what it will look like but I guess that's the beauty of fashion designing and tailoring—creating something beautiful from shamelessly simple and poorly cut pieces of material.

My mother always laughed whenever I told her I would become a fashion designer. She thought I was just a kid and that it was a phase I would eventually grow out of. Well, I guess I'm still a kid. I smile at the thought.

My mother doesn't understand why I love fashion so much. To her, clothes are clothes. You put them on, you look decent, and you move on with your day.

For me, it's different. I love the feeling of taking a piece of fabric and turning it into something completely different. I love sketching. I love choosing fabrics. I love the little details that most people don't notice; the way a dress sits on someone's waist, the way the sleeves fall, the way the material moves when the person walks. I love all of it.

I don't think I could ever forget how outraged my father looks when I give him the news that I want to become a fashion designer. He told me that fashion is not a career and that I need to find something serious to do with my life. Eventually, he gave up. Not because he suddenly believed in my dream, but because he realised I was stubborn enough to chase it anyway.

I look at the material, trying to figure out what style will take me less time. I pick it up and let it slide through my fingers. The blue is perfect.

I close my eyes for a moment. What do I see? A fitted bodice. Maybe an off-shoulder neckline. A flowing skirt. No. Too ordinary. I open my eyes and grab my sketchbook. I flip through the pages, searching for a design I can use, but none of them seem appealing enough. I've drawn dozens of dresses over the years. But none of them feel right. Not for this. Not for my first real opportunity. I toss the sketchbook onto the table.

“This is impossible.”

I stare at the ceiling. Maybe I should just wear something I already have..Maybe I should pretend I'm sick. Maybe I should email them and tell them there has been a terrible misunderstanding. I sit there for a few seconds.

I didn't spend years dreaming about becoming a designer just to run away from the first real opportunity that comes my way.

“I can do this. I can do this. I can do this,” I murmur aloud. Then I pick up my pen and begin to sketch.

The first design is terrible. I crumple the page.

The second one is worse. I tear it out.

The third one has potential. I stare at it for a while before adding a few more lines.

Time disappears. After sketching for well over an hour, I finally pull my sketchbook back and smile at the design. It is everything. The dress is elegant but not boring. Sexy without trying too hard. Simple in some places and dramatic in others. Exactly what I want. I run my finger over the sketch.

It won't take that much time, considering I have already started working on the dress. I stand up and get to work. The first few hours are a blur. I nearly scream when one of the seams comes out wrong.

“Please don't do this to me,” I whisper to the sewing machine and keep working.

Every now and then, I step back to look at the dress from a distance.

Time has no meaning as I cut, sew, and create my latest dress. Iam sure it will be perfect. It has to be. I can already picture myself wearing it. I imagine walking into the fashion show. Maybe someone will stop me and ask who made my dress. And I'll be able to say: I did.

That thought alone keeps me going. Seconds turn into minutes, and minutes turn into hours. I take occasional breaks to drink water and eat a sandwich for strength before getting back to work.

Thirteen hours later, I hold up the finished blue dress.

My creation.

For a moment, I don't say anything. I just stare at it. The satin catches the light beautifully, and the design looks even better than it did in my head. I can't believe I actually did it. My idea has become a reality, a beautiful work. I look at it, tears welling up in my eyes. I slowly turn the dress around, checking every seam. Everything is where it should be. A huge smile spreads across my face. I actually did it.

I pick up my phone and call Tessa. She picks up on the first ring.

“I did it!” I squeal.

There is a brief silence. Then I hear her scream.

“I KNEW YOU WOULD!” she purrs.

“You haven't even seen it yet" I say with a giggle.

“I don't need to. I knew you could do it" she says.

I roll my eyes, still smiling at the dress.

"Thank you, Tessa."

“Violet?”

“Yeah?”

“You're going to be amazing tonight.”

I look at the dress and for the first time since I received that invitation, I allow myself to believe it.

“I hope you're right.”