Hanson’s Empire
1349 Words
Ethan’s POV
The Interview
The desk is cluttered again.
Papers, mock-ups, fabric samples, campaign outlines. My lifespread out like chaos across cold Italian marble. I rake a hand through my hair, tug at the collar of my shirt. The office is too big. Too clean. Feels like I’m in a damn shoebox that wasn’t made for me. My mother’s shoebox, not mine. She could wear it with ease—she had that kind of grace.
I stare blankly at the campaign file in front of me. My jaw tightens. “Legacy Collection.” That's what they're calling it. As if legacy is something you can box up, polish, and send out on a runway with heels and a pout. It’s pressure in a silk wrapper.
The intercom buzzes.
Receptionist’s voice: “Interview in five, sir.”
Interview?
I flip the file on top of the stack—Creativity Department Intern Application. Scheduled for 10 a.m. I squint at the name: Dayna Carter
Another intern! Can the team not retain people for more than a month? What’s so hard about staying, watching, learning? Or maybe they’re all soft and weak? The fashion industry is not for slacks? Why do people not get this?Or
“Send her in,” I mutter into the intercom.
I don’t even look up when the door opens. I can feel her standing there, awkward, hesitant. There’s always that moment of silence when they enterlike the size of the room is doing the talking.
“Step forward.”
I don’t raise my voice, but it cuts. She walks. A little slower than most. There’s something about her gait. Like she’s cautious, but not afraid. Bold in that annoying quiet way.
When she finally gets close enough to see clearly, I glance up.
Tall. Round-hipped. Eyes that flicker like they’re trying to memorize the space without showing it.
“Da-I-na?” I read the name aloud, not sure what to make of it.
“It’s Dayna,” she corrects immediately. “Like Dana, but with a ‘y.’”
The way she says it—sharp, unapologetic. My brow twitches. No one’s ever corrected me that quickly. I blink. Just once. Then reset.
“Right. Dayna.”
I lean back, studying her for a moment. No resume in hand. Just a thick leather portfolio case she’s gripping like a lifeline.
“So,” I ask, flipping the file shut, “why do you want to intern here?”
She doesn’t hesitate. Steps to the side table and opens her portfolio in one quick motion.
“I want to tell stories with my pieces,” she says. “Real stories. The kind you don’t find in glossy pages. And I want to learn from the best.”
She’s rehearsed it. But it’s still convincing. There’s steel in the way she speaks. Her fingers don’t fidget. Her shoulders don’t shrink. She's nervous but she’s present. Real.
I give nothing away. I nod once, slow. “Hmm.”
That’s all she gets.
“Well,” I say, already reaching for another file. “You can start today.”
“Hmm?” she echoes back—like she didn’t expect it to be over.
“The receptionist will explain your role. You’ll shadow the styling department first. Don’t waste anyone’s time.”
She doesn’t move right away. I hear the hesitation before I see it. Then, slowly, she turns and walks out.
My eyes trail after her—just for a second longer than they should. The curve of her back, the deliberate steps, the kind of body the fashion world likes to pretend doesn’t exist. The door clicks behind her.
I sit back.
So that’s Dayna.
---
Later That Week
It’s past mid day and all I can think about still is this campaign
The office hums with silence like everyone’s gone. Well they better not be. Maybe it’s because of the back room’s isolation from the chaos of the office. I shrug the doubts off.
I lean over the mannequin in the backroom. Adjusting the drape of fabric on its left shoulder, studying the silhouette. Something’s not landing. I hate this partwhen an idea is half-born but refuses to finish itself.
Phone buzzes. Dan Milan Supplier. I step out to take it. This room has a way of making me sound like I’m in the wash room.
I’m gone for maybe fifteen minutes. When I return, she’s there.
The intern.
She doesn’t see me. She’s too focused. Hair tied up loosely, biting her lip, a handful of pins clenched between her teeth. The mannequin I was working on? She’s styling it. No pattern. No instructions. Just instinct.
I should be pissed. This isn’t protocol. But I don’t say a word.
Instead, I watch her.
The way she steps back, narrows her eyes. Moves a piece of cloth by just an inch enough to change everything. Her hands are slow, but sure. Like she’s coaxing life out of dead cotton.
I shouldn’t be watching her like this.
But I am.
And for a brief moment, I forget the pressure. Forget the board, the deadline, the legacy. All I see is the way she moves. It's annoyingly captivating.
She steps back again. Looks at the mannequin. Then… she looks in the mirror.
Her eyes drift to her own reflection. Her hand trails down her waist. The fabric of her skirt hugs her hips and I know she’s remembering something. Something someone said. Something cruel.
She frowns.
Then—suddenly—her eyes widen.
She’s seen me.
I turn away before she can say anything. Walk down the hall without a word. My pulse louder than my steps.
Later that night, I can’t sleep.
That drape she styled—it won’t leave my head.
Simple. Raw. Unexpected. My mother would’ve called it “fearlessly unfinished.” The kind of touch you can’t teach. My mum had it, she had it too or not?
But she’s just an intern.
---
A Week Later
Paris Fashion Week ends today. I should’ve stayed an extra day. Schmoozed with the editors. Made a few empty promises over lukewarm champagne. But I booked a jet home after the third show. My head was elsewhere.
I step into my office and it’s like nothing’s changed. Same sterile scent. Same too-bright lights. Same looming pressure.
Gina pokes her head in.
“She’s here,” she says. “Dayna.”
“Good.” I stand, adjust my cuffs. “Send her in.”
The door opens.
She walks in slowly. Again with that quiet confidence. My eyes linger too long on her body.
Close the door,” I say.
She does.
I walk to the back of the office. Pull the cloth off the mannequin.
“You worked on this,” I say, voice flat.
She blinks. “Yes. I—I didn’t know it was yours. I’m sorry if—”
“Do it again.”
“What?”
“Style it. From scratch. Right now. Let me see it.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then she moves.
Her hands are slower this time. I know I’m watching. But that same focus returns. That same flair.
And damn it… I like what I see.
She’s not afraid to make a mess. Not afraid to bend the rules. Every fabric she picks feels like an answer I didn’t know I needed.
When she steps back, the room is quiet.
I speak, finally. “You’ll work with the team on the campaign.”
Her eyes widen. She stammers.
She’s quiet again. I walk past her, slow. Let my eyes linger on the mannequin, then back to her.
“Meet me in the fitting room at three,” I say. “We’re behind schedule. Be ready to work late.”
She nods. I leave before I do or say something stupid.
stop at the door, don’t look back! I order myself
I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
But I know I want her in that room.
And I’m the boss.
I can do whatever I damn well please.
- Writer
