Chapter 18: The Smile That Wasn't Hers
(Florida's POV)
The dinner ended with polite laughter and polished wine glasses.
Florida's cheeks ached from smiling.
She walked up the stairs beside Bryant, their hands brushing once, then parting like strangers after a staged performance.
Not a word passed between them.
The moment they reached the landing, he turned toward the guest wing — his usual escape.
She stood still, watching his back retreat into silence.
And then she walked toward the master bedroom.
Alone.
Again.
---
Inside, she peeled off the champagne gown with careful hands and laid it gently over the chair. She sat at her vanity, wiping away the makeup slowly, bit by bit, watching her own reflection fade into someone she recognized.
No lipstick.
No lashes.
No shine.
Just Florida.
Just the girl who used to draw dress sketches in the corners of her textbooks and dream of fabric that moved like wind.
> Tonight, the world saw a wife.
But Florida knew it wasn't her smile they praised.
It was the illusion.
---
She moved to her sketchbook.
Her fingers trembled a little, but she drew anyway. Sharp lines. A mock collar. Oversized sleeves. Power in softness.
She didn't know what she was designing — only that it came from the ache in her chest.
---
A knock at the door.
Florida stiffened.
She stood, padded softly to the door, and opened it.
It was one of the younger maids. Nervous.
"Um… Miss," she whispered. "There's… a parcel for you. It was hand-delivered. No return name."
Florida frowned and took the box.
Inside was a square envelope and three fabric swatches.
When she opened the letter, her breath caught.
> "FLD — we loved the silhouette. Let's talk.
Our team will be in touch soon."
— Noir Texture Studio
Her fingers shook as she reread it.
They liked her design.
They wanted to talk.
They didn't know her name. Her title. Her contract. Her silence.
They just saw her work.
Her.
And suddenly, her chest tightened.
> Was this how it felt to be… seen?
---
She folded the letter and tucked it under her pillow. She didn't sleep for hours.
The memory of Bryant's cold voice echoed again:
> "Don't mistake my protection for attention."
But tonight… someone else had seen her.
And it wasn't because of a contract.
It was because of her craft.
For the first time in weeks, Florida smiled — a small, uncertain smile.
And this time, it was hers.
---
End of Chapter 18