Alexei's ice-blue eyes flicked toward me again as I savoured the egg yolks velvety burst, its richness coating my tongue like forbidden indulgence. Is there something on my face which attracted his attention?
Third time in five minutes—subtle, but loaded, his fork pausing mid-air, chiselled jaw tightening just a fraction under that stubble shadow. He masked it quick, returning to his seared steak, but I felt the weight—assessment, suspicion, the novel's alpha heir sizing me up.
The air between us hummed thicker than the croissant steam curling from my plate, sunlight slanting through tall windows onto polished mahogany.
Then, Patriarch Viktor deigned to look up from his phone, hawkish features sharpening as his gaze pinned me. His silver hair was slicked impeccably, suit tailored sharp—every inch the fashion-empire builder. "What's your take on the new role of yours, Emily?"
I composed myself in an instant, setting down my fork with deliberate clink, spine straightening under the emerald shirt. Cold tone locked in, voice steady as tempered glass. "What do you mean, Father?" I clearly knew what he wanted to ask me, but I decided to play dumb for the moment.
He leaned back fractionally, fingers tapping his phone like a metronome of impatience. "I meant you're CEO of Leonhart Fashion now. The face of the company. What's your goal? Investors are watching—Seven Street Journal's circling."
A sudden thrill spiked under my skin—not fear, but opportunity. CEO? I knew the villainess was a CEO, but the lashes of barista drudgery—endless shifts wiping counters sticky with spilled lattes, dreaming of design boards while rude patrons barked orders.
Now this—helming a fashion dynasty, where I would be given all the resources to make my dreams real. I met his eyes evenly, emerald clashing steel.
"I have a fashion engineering degree and an MBA—I am more than qualified, aren't I? I'll deliver results, Father. You don't have to worry."
Matriarch Elena's blank stare sliced in, lips a thin crimson line. Botox-smooth face betrayed nothing, but her voice dripped frost. "You're impulsive, Emily. Don't you know we've seen the tabloids? Disturbing that actress at the gala—Page Six is having a field day."
Actress. Lily Warren, the heroine—porcelain doll of the acting industry, her doe eyes fuelling TMZ frenzies. OG Emily's petty sabotage—cornering her with contract-marriage demands, whispers turning to shouts. That idiot got her image tarnished by showing that she regularly harassed Lily for some reason. I kept my expression glacial, inwardly smirking. Not my circus anymore.
Alexei stopped chewing outright, fork lowering as his gaze locked on—intense, probing, those broad shoulders tensing under his crisp button-down. "You're awfully fixated, spending all that time trying to woo her. It's tanking the brand's image."
I shook my head slowly, raven waves swaying, a faint scoff escaping. "It's none of your business, Alexei. We're not even blood siblings."
"Emily!" Elena's yell cracked like a whip, her chair scraping back an inch, face flushing beneath the makeup armour.
I didn't flinch at all. During my shifts, a lot of customers would yell at me for the slightest of their issues. I leaned forward, voice dropping to velvet-edged steel. "No need to shout, Mother. I know the truth—he was adopted first, your golden boy tech whiz, long before you had me."
Viktor's eyes snapped down, phone's screen dimming with a decisive swipe. "Emily, we don't have time for this family theatre." His tone brooked no argument, eyes narrowing to slits. "You're due for an interview today with Fopre's team. 11 AM sharp, their studio downtown. They'll grill you on the actress mess, the CEO handover, Leonhart's future. Don't botch it—a lot of news agencies are picking it up."
The table fell into loaded silence, maids frozen mid-pour, coffee steam curling like unspoken accusations from cups. Alexei's lips quirked—a ghost of a smirk? —before he resumed eating, but his eyes lingered, challenging. Was he trying to rage bait me?
Elena huffed, reclaiming her tablet with rigid poise. Viktor already scrolled back to different news feeds, dismissing me like a resolved merger.
Internally, my brains' gears whirred. Interview? Well, it was a perfect stage. I would spin the 'disturbance' as aggressive networking—Lily's Warren Foods pitching for Leonhart investment, my 'pursuit' was just a savvy business.
As for my goals? I will unveil the sketches—fabrics with embedded e-threads for color shifts via phone apps, eco-luxury lines from recycled ocean plastics. Sustainable synth-silk from lab-grown spider glands, zero-waste production pipelines with AI-patterning for custom fits in hours.
There are a lot of ideas! I will unveil my designs there. Barista Emily would've killed for this mic—doodling on napkins amid grease and grind; transmigrated me would own it. No more orphan scraps, no cold glares! I will show my talent in front of everyone.
I pushed my plate aside half-eaten—croissant flakes scattering like defeated foes—and rose smoothly, chair whispering back. "Consider it handled, Father. They will eat from my hand." A cool nod to the table, heels clicking retreat across Persian rugs up the grand staircase.
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In my suite—a sun-drenched haven of cream silk drapes and rosewood accents—the full-length mirror loomed like a gilded portal, capturing me mid-stride—raven waves tousled from breakfast tension, emerald eyes flashing defiance, porcelain skin still flushed from the shower's heat.
Was I a poised goddess? Damn right.
I started with the emerald shirt, fingers deft on pearl buttons, peeling it open like unwrapping a gift. Silk sighed off my shoulders, cool against heated skin, baring the lace bra beneath—ivory filigree cupping full breasts that rose with each breath.
A quick unhook, and it tumbled free, nipples pebbling in the AC whisper. Pants next—zipper rasped slow, charcoal wool sliding down huggable curves, thighs toned firm, calves flexing as I kicked them aside.
Panties whispered down last, lace whispering thighs before pooling at ankles—bare now, utterly, mirror reflecting every sinful inch: waist cinching impossibly narrow, hips blooming defiant, a body sculpted for worship, not coffee grinds under nails.
I raided the closet—rails sagged with couture. First, crisp white silk blouse—feather-light, tucked smooth. Slim black blazer followed, Milan wool buttery-soft, structured shoulders snapping into power mode as buttons clicked home, lapels framing collarbone like battle plating.
Cigarette pants in high-waisted gray, hugging every contour with tailored precision, breaking perfect at the heels—red soles gleaming, 4-inch stilettos elevating my strut to queenly. Gold chain necklace dipped teasing into cleavage; diamond studs caught light like stars; a watch weighted my wrist, heirloom cool.
I twirled in front of the mirror—blazer flared dramatic, silk gleamed under light, heels clicked hardwood test.
"It's perfection," I whispered.