Ella Carter hadn't pictured her five-year plan involving a sewing needle stabbed through her sleeve or a splash of champagne on a billionaire's polished shoes. Yet here she was, perched on the razor's edge of chaos in a world dripping with wealth, whispers, and a danger she couldn't yet name.
At twenty-four, with grit as her inheritance and a battered sewing kit as her weapon, Ella had fought her way into New York's fashion elite. Raised in Queens, where ambition was stitched into patched jackets and dreams were hemmed with stubborn thread, she'd turned her mother's lessons into a ticket out. Now, she stood in Croswell House's design floor—the pulsing core of a fashion empire—gripping a garment bag like it might slip away, her pulse matching the rhythm of the machines.
Today wasn't just another shift. It was her shot.
"Ella! That hem's off by three millimeters!" Fiona Mills' voice sliced through the air, sharp enough to unravel seams and spirits alike.
Ella flinched, adjusting the pins on the navy gown. "On it, Ms. Mills!"
"Should've been on it yesterday!" Fiona stormed off, her heels clicking like a metronome of disdain.
Julie Simms, Ella's caffeine-fueled ally, leaned in. "She's a vampire in vintage Chanel. Sucks the life right out of you."
Ella bit back a grin. She couldn't afford to lose this gig—not now.
Her sketches had snagged Fiona's attention at the internship showcase, a fluke in a sea of nepotism. Since then, Ella had climbed from coffee runs to junior designer. Tonight, her first real piece would debut at the Croswell Gala—an event so elite it felt like stepping into a myth.
She didn't know it yet, but the gala would unravel more than just her nerves.
The ballroom shimmered with crystal and secrets. Ella, in a self-made emerald dress that hugged her like a dare, hovered near the edge, caught between awe and dread.
"Breathe," Julie muttered, clutching her third champagne flute and eyeing the crowd like a hawk in heels.
"Trying," Ella replied, her voice tight.
"You look like you're plotting an escape or a heist."
"Maybe both."
The room buzzed with power—actors, tycoons, models with stares that could cut diamonds. The air felt heavy, charged with something Ella couldn't pin down.
Then it shifted.
A hush rippled through the crowd, followed by a murmur. Eyes darted. Glasses paused mid-sip.
Nathaniel Black had entered.
Ella didn't clock him at first. His name floated in rumors—billionaire, shadow king, a man who owned more than money could buy. He moved like a blade through silk, tall and sharp in a black suit, no tie, his collar open just enough to hint at defiance. He didn't demand attention; he took it, a quiet storm that made the room tilt.
Julie nudged her. "That's him. Nathaniel Black. Actual legend."
Ella squinted. "Looks like a guy who owns too many yachts."
"Don't stare. Don't talk. Don't trip over him unless you want to vanish."
"Sounds fun."
He cut through the throng—past guards, past egos, past beauty—with a stride that felt too precise, too controlled. No one dared approach.
Ella turned away, unimpressed. Another rich enigma. Big deal.
Then fate tripped her.
A waiter veered into her path. She lurched, her heel caught, and her champagne arced through the air—splashing across a pair of sleek black shoes.
"Crap," she hissed.
She looked up.
Gray eyes met hers—cool, piercing, and faintly amused.
Nathaniel Black tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he hadn't expected.
"Impressive aim," he said, his voice a low rumble, like thunder rolling in.
Ella's brain scrambled. Stay calm. Don't ramble. Act normal.
"Sorry! Your shoes—I didn't mean—well, the champagne sort of—"
One corner of his mouth twitched. "Are you always this articulate?"
She squared her shoulders, heat rising to her face. "Only when I'm ruining someone's night."
He glanced at her name tag. "Ella Carter. Junior Designer."
"Guessing you're not here to critique my stitching."
His eyes glinted, unreadable. "Not yet."
The crowd's hum faded, leaving just the weight of his gaze. Julie, behind her, whispered, "You're either dead or famous now."
Ella glared at her. Nathaniel's laugh—deep, unexpected—drew stares.
He slipped a hand into his pocket, pulled out a black card, and pressed it into her palm.
"For the shoes," he said, then quieter, "and whatever comes next."
Before she could blink, he was gone, melting into the shadows.
Ella stared at the card. No name. No number. Just a silver raven etched into the corner.
Julie peeked over. "You just flirted with a ghost and lived."
"I think I insulted him and got a souvenir."
"You're a disaster, and it's working."
They laughed, but Ella's fingers lingered on the card, a chill brushing her spine.
She didn't see it then—the faint stitching along its edge, a thread she'd miss until it pulled tight.
Outside, as she left, a figure lingered across the street, their phone glowing with a text: "She's in. Move forward."