The studio buzzed the next morning with the hum of machines, the rustle of fabrics, and the metallic click of scissors. Eleanor walked in wearing her signature high-waisted slacks and a loose ivory blouse, her expression cool and unreadable. She hadn't seen Daniel since the previous day.
Chloe was already there, sipping oat milk coffee, poring over sketches that looked too clean to be spontaneous.
"Morning, Eleanor," Chloe said, her tone overly chipper.
"Morning." Eleanor moved past her to her desk.
She barely sat down when a notification popped on her phone—"Congratulations to rising fashion star Chloe Ward—her avant-garde 'Silkfire' collection debuts this fall."
Eleanor's brows furrowed.
She clicked the article.
Photographs of Chloe's designs—twisted silk corsets, charred-edge dresses, velvet chokers—flashed on screen. They looked eerily familiar. Too familiar. The silhouettes, the burns, the smoky palette. They weren't Chloe's ideas.
They were Eleanor's.
---
By noon, the studio felt ten degrees colder. Eleanor called Chloe into the office.
"Let's talk," she said flatly.
Chloe strolled in, cool as glass. "Sure."
Eleanor held up the article. "You want to explain this?"
Chloe glanced at the screen. "What about it?"
"You're promoting my designs under your name."
Chloe blinked. "They're not exactly your designs. I made adjustments."
"You copied my concepts. The silhouette from my 'Smoke Kiss' dress. The burned hem from the bridal draft. Even the name—Silkfire? That was a working title I used."
Chloe sighed dramatically and sat. "Look, Eleanor, I've learned a lot under you. And yes, I was inspired. But inspiration isn't theft. Besides, I need to build my own name, too."
"At my expense?"
"Isn't that how this industry works?" Chloe said with a smirk. "We all climb over someone."
Eleanor stood slowly, rage simmering just beneath her skin. "You're done here. Pack up your things."
Chloe didn't flinch. "You'll regret this."
"I doubt it."
Chloe stood. "Daniel might regret it, though. We've gotten close, haven't we?"
Eleanor's eyes narrowed. "Get out, Chloe."
Chloe left without another word—but the poison she'd planted remained.
---
That evening, Eleanor finally met with Daniel at his flat. His place smelled of paint, musk, and a touch of the cinnamon tea she loved. He poured her a glass of red wine.
"I fired Chloe," she said, sinking into the couch.
"Good," he said, sitting beside her. "What happened?"
"She's launching her own line—using my ideas. Everything we worked on together. She didn't even try to hide it."
Daniel exhaled. "That explains the tension."
"She said something else," Eleanor added.
He looked up. "What?"
"She implied you two were... close."
Daniel scoffed. "She tried to flirt, yeah. But I shut it down. I swear."
Eleanor stared into her wineglass. "Why does it feel like women keep circling you? Sasha, now Chloe..."
"Because we're both magnetic," he said, pulling her closer. "And sometimes magnets attract the wrong things."
She managed a weak laugh, resting her head on his chest. "I'm tired, Daniel. Tired of competing. Tired of always defending what I've built."
"You don't have to defend anything. You're the real artist. The original."
His fingers found the nape of her neck, kneading gently. "Let her steal. Let her mimic. You're already miles ahead."
She looked up at him. "Promise me something."
"Anything."
"When we marry… it's not just about passion. I need peace. I need truth. I need to trust."
Daniel nodded. "Then I give you truth—starting now."
He stood, walked to his workbench, and brought over a rolled canvas.
"I finished it this morning."
He unrolled it.
It was her—nude, eyes closed, draped in cascading red silk, standing on scorched velvet. Her hair floated like smoke, and her body glowed with warmth against the dark backdrop.
At the base, he'd written in calligraphy:
"The Woman Who Burns Brighter."
Eleanor's throat tightened.
"No one will ever come close," he said softly. "Not Chloe. Not Sasha. Not anyone."
She reached up, cupping his face. Their kiss was slow, deep, not rushed by lust—but heavy with loyalty, history, and promise.
They didn't undress each other in a frenzy this time.
They unwrapped each other like a gift.
---
That night, Daniel whispered poems into her skin. Eleanor traced his spine with her fingers as if she were sketching him from memory. They made love in silence, broken only by gasps and soft moans, until their bodies melted into one another.
For the first time in weeks, Eleanor didn't feel like she was fighting to keep him.
She felt like they were finally fighting for the same future.