Sophie’s POV
Success didn’t feel like peace.
It felt like motion — constant, breathless, addictive motion.
The studio hadn’t been this alive in years.
Reporters lingered outside the glass doors, photographers hovered on sidewalks, and the hum of sewing machines filled every corner like music.
Hart Couture was breathing again, its pulse quick and hungry.
And for once, so was I.
We’d spent two straight days refining prototypes, running fittings, finalizing supplier orders. Every time I looked up, I saw the name Hart Couture gleaming across the front windows, printed in bold silver — my father’s name, reborn from the ashes Adrian had left behind.
I’d told myself that was victory.
That this was what power looked like — freedom, autonomy, control.
But control has a funny way of slippi
