Misery

Galleria Ballerina

By the end of the week, my hands were raw from pins and my back ached from leaning over my worktable, but at least I’d kept myself busy enough not to answer Michael’s calls. Not that he’d left his name, but some numbers, you just knew. I couldn’t shake down the feeling of having his eyes on me when I was getting his measurements.

Thoughts of his brow, the broad arch of his shoulders, the size of him, kept me distracted.

I was in the middle of basting a bodice when the bell chimed.

“Please tell me you’re here with coffee,” I muttered, without looking up.

“Better,” Suzanne’s voice floated in. “I’m here with opportunity.”

I sighed, setting down my needle. “To what do I owe this visit?”

She slipped inside, coat perfectly draped over her shoulders, eyes scanning the half-finished gowns with thinly veiled curiosity. “The Helmsworth Gala. This weekend.”

I stayed quiet, smoothing the fabric in front of me. Everyone in fashion knew about the gala—the kind of night where editors, investors, and patrons sipped champagne and decided who was worth remembering. I hadn’t been invited.

“I’ve got a plus one,” Suzanne said lightly, as if offering me gum. “Come with me. I hate walking in alone.”

It was probably pity, maybe strategy, but I wasn’t about to pass it up. “Fine. I’ll come.”

Saturday night, I slid into a gown I’d cut just days before, a light pink chiffon gown with clean lines and a slit that made me feel a little conscious. I pinned my hair back, lined my lips in nude, and told myself I belonged in that ballroom as much as anyone.

Suzanne’s driver dropped us off at the marble steps. Inside, the air was alive with chatter, perfume, the sharp clink of crystal. Waiters drifted by with trays of champagne, and I grabbed a glass just to keep my hand busy.

“Smile,” Suzanne murmured, already scanning for people she knew. “We’re here to be seen.”

I drifted beside her as she stopped to greet a cluster of editors. A man in his fifties, flush with wine and money, turned to me. “And you are?”

“Angela.” I extended my hand.

He squinted, trying to place me. “Designer?”

I nodded.

“Ambitious,” he said with a laugh, eyes flicking over my dress. “Good. The industry needs ambition.”

I smiled politely, thinking to myself that he seemed like a total asshole.

A younger man, late thirties, sharp suit, easy grin, joined in. “Ignore him. He thinks he discovered everyone. I’m Daniel, I cover emerging talent for Styleline.”

That got my attention. We fell into conversation, fabric choices, the future of sustainable textiles, which collections had bombed last season. He was charming, funny in the effortless way people are when they’ve never been told no too many times.

I caught myself laughing, easing into the rhythm of the room, until Suzanne leaned in. “Angela, don’t look now,” she murmured, “but someone across the room can’t take his eyes off you.”

I turned casually, glass still in hand, and my breath caught.

Michael.

Perfectly cut tuxedo, dark hair smoothed back, gaze steady and unmistakable, fixed on me like the rest of the room had blurred away.

The air between us shifted.

I quickly looked back at Daniel, willing my pulse to settle.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said, though the word tasted like a lie.

I could feel the champagne burning down my throat, but it had nothing on the heat crawling up my neck under Michael’s relentless stare. God, why did he have to look at me like that? Like he was mentally undressing every careful layer I’d wrapped around myself tonight.

“—and then she had the audacity to claim it was vintage Chanel when we both know she bought it at a consignment shop in Brooklyn,” Daniel was saying, his hand finding my bare shoulder as he laughed. His touch was warm, familiar, safe. Everything Michael’s wasn’t.

“Mm-hmm,” I murmured, my voice coming out breathier than intended. Across the room, I watched Michael’s jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. Had he noticed Daniel’s hand? Of course he had. Michael noticed everything.

Suzanne leaned in, her voice honey-sweet with mischief. “Darling, if you grip that glass any tighter, it’s going to shatter.” She glanced meaningfully toward Michael, then back at me. “Though I suppose that might not be the only thing ready to break tonight.”

My stomach clenched. “Suzanne—”

“What?” she purred, adjusting her position so she had a perfect view of both men. “I’m just saying, the poor man looks ready to march over here and claim what’s his. Question is, are you going to let him?”

Daniel’s fingers trailed down my arm, innocent but possessive. “Let who do what?” he asked, finally tuning into our conversation.

Before I could answer, I felt it, that shift in the air that meant Michael was moving. My pulse hammered as I watched him navigate through clusters of fashion elite, each step deliberate, predatory. He wasn’t hurrying, but there was something in the way he moved that made conversations pause, made people step aside without realizing why.

“s**t,” I whispered under my breath.

Suzanne’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. “Oh, this is going to be good.“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I was scanning the crowd, trying to look interested in a conversation about a fabric line I barely knew, when a shadow fell across the table.

I looked up. He was there. Michael. Hands in his pockets, tuxedo sharp, eyes just enough on me to make me aware of every inch of myself.

“You finally decided to show up,” he said, low, controlled, just loud enough for me.

I froze for a second, then managed, “I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew here.”

He stepped slightly closer, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Do you usually ignore your clients,” he asked, “or am I just that unlikable?”

I blinked, caught between irritation and disbelief. “Excuse me?” I said, trying to sound composed.

His grin widened, and I could feel the way his presence shifted the space around me. “You know… the last time we met. I asked you to lunch. You said you didn’t mix business with… whatever that was.”

I stiffened, the memory sharp in my chest. “I…look, that was business, and I…I don’t mix it,” I said carefully, aware of how ridiculous I probably sounded, but refusing to show how flustered I already was.

His gaze flicked past me toward Suzanne, who had just introduced me to a few other attendees, then returned. “Ah, right. So you’ve been avoiding me like the plague.”

I flushed, tried to laugh it off. “Maybe I’ve been busy,” I said, though the excuse felt thin.

Michael’s eyes crinkled at the edges, amused and deliberate. He didn’t push closer, didn’t touch, he just stood there, confident, letting the moment stretch. And I had no idea whether to be annoyed or thrilled.

I looked down at my champagne glass, pretending to be engaged with it, while he stayed, watching, waiting, like a storm just contained at the edges of the room.

Michael glanced toward the room, then back at me, a subtle tilt of his head. “Could I… steal you away for a second?” His voice was low, almost conspiratorial.

I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

He smirked, nodding toward the crowd. “Somewhere quieter. Just a few minutes. Can you do that?”

I hesitated, but the pull in his eyes was hard to resist. Suzanne was still chatting with a group of guests, and no one seemed to notice us slip past.

We found a balcony tucked just off the main ballroom, the noise dimming behind the heavy double doors. Outside, the city stretched out in a glittering sea of lights, the hum of distant traffic a soft backdrop to the sudden quiet.

He turned to me, leaning slightly against the railing, casual but deliberate. “Better,” he said, almost to himself. Then he looked at me, eyes sharp. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

I crossed my arms, stubborn as ever. “I’m not impossible. I just… I don’t fall for lines, Mr. Michael.”

He grinned, unbothered. “Good. I like a challenge. But you—” He took a careful step closer. “You’re different. That’s why I’m not giving up.”

I fought to keep my composure, but my chest betrayed me with every heartbeat. “And how long will this… persistence of yours last?”

“Until I succeed,” he said simply, gaze fixed on mine. “Or until you tell me to stop. Whichever comes first.”

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head, though the blush creeping up my neck gave me away. “You’re ridiculously confident.”

“And you,” he countered, a playful edge in his tone, “are ridiculously stubborn.”

We stood there, side by side on the balcony, the city lights sparkling beneath us, each second charged with something unspoken, something electric.

“So, when am I going to get my suits?”

I folded my arms, smirking. “They’ll be delivered to you this weekend.”

He raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. “By you.”

I snorted, shaking my head. “That’s funny.”

He didn’t respond immediately, just let the words hang between us, watching my reaction with a faint amusement in his eyes.

After a moment, I cleared my throat. “I should get back inside. Suzanne will start wondering where I disappeared to.”

He nodded, stepping back just enough to let me pass. “Alright,” he said, still smirking. “I’ll see you then. Don’t think this ends here.”

I gave a small, guarded smile and slipped back through the doors, the noise of the gala swallowing me again.

⸻

Later, in the car ride home, Suzanne broke the silence first. “You know,” she said, her voice casual but knowing, “Michael has a thing for girls in the arts. Always has. It’s part of the appeal for him, I guess.”

I glanced at her, curious. “You know him?”

“Enough,” she said lightly. “Old money, precise, demanding… he likes control, but he respects talent. Don’t get me wrong—he’ll be all over you, but be careful. Hard to please, that one.”

I bit my lip, thinking back to the balcony. “Noted.”

Suzanne gave a subtle smirk. “I’m just saying—watch your footing. But… enjoy it. It’s not every day someone like him notices you.”

I leaned back, hands gripping the edge of the seat, my mind still replaying the way he had looked at me, the corner of his smirk, the deliberate confidence in his voice. And somewhere deep down, I knew I wasn’t ready to stop thinking about him.