When the Cold CEO Falls First

My Boyfriend and My Bully

The office was bigger than Kate’s entire flat.

She had time to register that, and the fact that the carpet was probably worth more than her monthly rent, before her attention landed on the man behind the desk.

She had seen Lysander Sartori before. In magazine profiles, in the company’s autumn campaign, once on a billboard near King’s Cross that had made her miss her bus. She had assumed the photos were retouched. That was what photos were for. Especially photos of men with high cheekbones and family money.

He looked better in person. Which felt rude, somehow.

Black hair, a straight nose, and eyes so blue they looked almost artificial. He was wearing a charcoal suit from Sartori’s new collection—the one that had launched a month ago. Kade knew because she had spent an unreasonable amount of time staring at it online, trying to figure out how they had cut the lapel to make it look that sharp without looking stiff.

He smiled. “Ms. Cooper. Thank you for coming in. Please, sit.”

She sat.

Her body did it automatically. Her brain was still standing by the door, screaming.

Lisa, the head of design, was sitting to his right. Kade had met her in the departmental interview. Lisa was in her forties, with a bright red blazer, cropped hair, and the kind of energy that made you want to impress her immediately. She gave Kade a small, encouraging nod.

Kade smiled back. It felt like her face was made of cardboard.

“So,” Lysander said, opening a folder on the desk. Her portfolio. Her proposal. “We’ve read your materials. Lisa was very impressed.”

“Extremely,” Lisa said. “I told him we’d be lucky to have you.”

Kade’s stomach did something complicated. Pride, mostly. And also panic.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad the work spoke for itself.”

“It did,” Lysander said. “Let’s start simply. Tell me about your education. Your degree, your honors, your time at Central Saint Martins.”

Easy. She knew this. She had rehearsed this.

“I studied fashion design with a focus on technical construction,” she said. “I was on a full scholarship. I graduated with honors. My final collection was selected for the graduate showcase.”

He nodded. “Internships?”

“Two years at a small atelier in Hackney. I did pattern cutting, fabric sourcing, and sample construction. I also worked on a freelance basis for a bridal designer for eight months.”

“That’s hands-on,” he said. “Not just mood boards and pretty sketches.”

“I prefer making things,” Kade said. “Sketches lie. Fabric doesn’t.”

Lisa grinned. Lysander’s expression didn’t change, but something in his face sharpened.

“Good answer,” he said. “Now. Art. What do you look at?”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

“Painters. Photographers. Sculptors. Who do you look at when you’re stuck?”

Kade thought about it. “Agnes Martin. Not for the colours—for the patience. I like things that don’t try to be loud. And I like watching people in the street. The way they stand. The way clothes fail them.”

“Clothes fail them?”

“The hem catches. The armhole pulls. The waistband digs. People adjust themselves all day and don’t even notice. Good design should make fewer adjustments necessary.”

Lysander leaned back. “And the market? What do you think of ours?”

“You’re expensive,” she said. “But you’re not exclusive. Not really. You sell the idea of taste to people who want to be told they have it. That’s not an insult. It’s a good business model. But it means you can’t afford to be boring.”

Lisa made a small sound. Kade couldn’t tell if it was alarm or delight.

“Not boring,” Lysander repeated. “Go on.”

“Your womenswear is beautiful,” Kade said. “But it’s narrow. You design for a body that exists mostly in your campaigns. There’s a whole market you’re not serving. Not because they don’t want you—because you haven’t told them you see them.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“That’s a bold thing to say in an interview.”

“You asked.”

“I did.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Strengths. Weaknesses. What do you think they are?”

“I’m meticulous,” she said. “I finish things. I don’t hand in work I wouldn’t wear myself. I’m good at structure and fit. I’m less good at—talking about myself. I’m better with clothes than with people.”

“Most designers are,” he said. “And weaknesses?”

“I overthink,” she said. “I revise too much. And I—sometimes I wait for permission when I should just act.”

“Interesting,” he said. “Why Sartori? Why us?”

Kade opened her mouth.

She had an answer. She had written it down, rewritten it, practiced it in the mirror while brushing her teeth. It was a good answer. It mentioned the company’s legacy, its craftsmanship, its ambition. It did not mention Owen.

Yet when she looked past Lysander’s shoulder, through the glass wall of the office, into the corridor, her boyfriend was walking past.

The coincidence was like a joke. Kade wanted to ignore him, but she couldn’t as Owen was laughing. His head was tilted toward a woman with long blonde hair and a cream coat, and his arm was around her shoulders, easy and familiar, the way it always was with people who wanted his attention. He squeezed her shoulder. She leaned into him.

Kade’s brain stopped.

The woman turned her head.

Serena Vance.

Kade’s stomach dropped through the chair, through the floor, through the basement, through the earth.

Serena Vance. Who had put chewing gum in Kade’s locker every week for two years. Who had knocked her lunch tray out of her hands and laughed when the tomato sauce hit Kade’s shoes. Who had pushed her down a flight of stairs and then told the teachers it was an accident. Who had never, not once, apologized. Not even when the school made her stand in front of Kade and say the words. She had said them with her eyes on the ceiling, and then she had gone back to class and told everyone Kade had cried about it.

Her father had made the whole thing go away. Kade had been fourteen. Her knee still clicked in cold weather.