"The Battle of the Billionaires"

CHAPTER 3

Chapter 3: “The Rival’s Smile of being inlove"

The next morning dawned crisp and bright and the kind of New York morning that made the skyline glitter like cut glass. Ava stepped out of the subway with a paper cup of coffee in one hand, determined to start the day feeling collected rather than over whelmed.

On the thirty- fifth floor the design team buzzed with quiet energy. The Spring Line showcase loomed over everyone’s heads; sketches and fabric swatches littered every desk like colourful confetti. Ava has been pinned up a new draft of her metallic-thread gown, trying to ignore the prickling awareness that her concept board still sat in Liam Blackwell’s office for further notes.

“Cruz,” Mr Grant’s voice called across the room, “you’ll accompany me to the afternoon pitch at Ward Tech. Bring yesterday’s board; we’re reviewing collaborative materials.”

Ava blinked. “Ward Tech? As in Ethan Ward’s company?”

“Exactly. They’re developing new smart-fabric technology for us. Liam wants you to sit in — says you should understand the material before you design with it.”

A ripple of unease passed through her. The name Ethan Ward was familiar — splashed across tech and business magazines as the golden-boy CEO whose innovations had driven half the industry forward. He was also known as Liam Blackwell’s fiercest rival since the fallout of the old merger.

By two-thirty Ava found herself in a sleek town car with Mr Grant, heading downtown. Ward Tech’s headquarters was all glass and brushed steel, modern but surprisingly warm inside, with greenery spilling down from mezzanine balconies. It felt nothing like the cold, imposing lines of Blackwell Tower.

They were greeted in the lobby by an assistant who ushered them up to the twenty-second floor. The conference room door slid open, and there he was — Ethan Ward, standing at the window with the skyline at his back as though it were his personal painting.

He turned as they entered, smile already in place. Where Liam’s presence was like polished granite — cool and immovable — Ethan’s was sunlight off water: easy, bright, with a glint of something sharper beneath.

“Mr Grant,” he said warmly, shaking the older man’s hand, then looked to Ava. “And you must be the designer shaking things up at Blackwell.”

Ava felt an involuntary flush creep up her neck. “Ava Cruz. Junior designer.”

“Junior?” His brows rose slightly, teasing rather than condescending. “Your concept sketches didn’t look junior to me.”

She managed a polite smile. “I still have a lot to learn.”

“That’s the best kind of designer,” he replied, motioning for them to sit. “Curious enough to learn, confident enough to experiment.”

The meeting began with a presentation of the new smart-fabric: an ultralight weave that could subtly adjust its sheen under different lighting — perfect for stage runway pieces. Ava leaned forward in fascination, asking precise questions about drape, washability, and how metallic threads might interact with the sensors.

Ethan answered each one patiently, clearly pleased by her engagement. At one point he said, “You think in movement and texture. That’s exactly how tech should meet fashion — it’s not just surface; it’s experience.”

Mr Grant shot her a brief approving look. Ava focused on her notes, but she couldn’t ignore the way Ethan’s attention lingered just a second longer than necessary when she spoke. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly — more like being noticed in a way she hadn’t expected.

Toward the end of the meeting, Ethan proposed a collaborative pilot design: one evening gown from Blackwell’s line created entirely in the new fabric, to debut at the showcase as a headline piece.

“That sounds promising,” Mr Grant said. “Ava, could you adapt your metallic skyline design for this?”

Ava hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. I’d be happy to.”

“Perfect,” Ethan said, that easy smile returning. “I look forward to seeing what you’ll create.”

The handshake that followed was brief but firm. For an instant Ava felt the warmth of his palm and the confident steadiness in his gaze — a contrast to Liam’s colder, more measured scrutiny.

On the ride back, Mr Grant regarded her thoughtfully. “Ethan Ward doesn’t usually single out junior designers. Keep your head clear. The rivalry between Ward Tech and Blackwell isn’t just business; it’s personal.”

“I understand,” Ava replied, though she wasn’t entirely sure she did. She simply knew there was an undercurrent she’d need to navigate carefully.

Back at Blackwell Tower, she returned to her workspace to find a folded note tucked under her sketchbook. In Liam Blackwell’s sharp, unmistakable handwriting it read:

> ‘Concept approved. Continue development. Meeting tomorrow at 8 a.m. — don’t be late.’

No signature, just that brisk instruction. Yet somehow the note carried more weight than any compliment.

She set it aside, catching her reflection in the window: hair slightly windswept from the city breeze, eyes brighter than they’d been in months. Between Liam’s silent challenge and Ethan’s open encouragement, something inside her stirred — a drive to prove herself on her own terms.

That evening she stayed late in the studio, sketching variant gowns with the smart-fabric, her pencil dancing across the page. The city outside shifted from dusk to night, neon lights blooming against glass towers.

She hardly noticed until the floor lights dimmed for after-hours mode and only a few screens still glowed across the room. From the corner of her eye she saw movement — Liam himself, crossing the studio toward the elevators. He glanced her way briefly, his expression unreadable, then continued on without a word.

Ava exhaled slowly once he’d gone. Two men — both powerful, both watching the same designs she poured her soul into.

She whispered to herself, half amused, half wary:

“Welcome to the battlefield, Cruz.”