Chapter 66 Dresses, Dreams And Sabotage
Becca’s POV
If someone had told me three months ago that a Korean fashion mogul would fly across the world just to see me, I would’ve laughed until my ribs cracked.
Yet here I was, smoothing my palms against my thighs as the elevator rose to the thirty-second floor of Han Couture Holdings.
My heart thudded. My stomach fluttered. And my brain kept screaming one thing: Don’t embarrass yourself.
The elevator chimed. Two glass doors slid open, and I stepped into a lobby so white and glossy it looked illegal to breathe on anything.
A secretary approached, bowing slightly.
“Miss Rebecca? Lady Han is waiting.”
I swallowed. “Right. Um… thank you.”
The woman led me through a corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling windows.
Seoul glittered beyond the glass, even though we were still in the States , the building was designed to mimic their headquarters.
The doors parted into a lavish office.
Lady Han stood near the window, dressed in a structured blazer the color of storm clouds. When she turned, her smile softened the intimidating aura instantly.
“Becca,” she said warmly. “The lady with the hands of an artist.”
My cheeks flushed. “Thank you for inviting me.”
Lady Han gestured to the seating area. “Sit, please.”
The moment I lowered myself onto the couch, she slid a sleek folder toward me.
Inside was a contract.
A seven-figure contract.
My vision blurred.
“I want you,” she said, tapping a manicured nail on the page, “to design five exclusive gowns for our upcoming Korean Global Gala. I intend to steal the show this year, and I believe only you can make that happen.”
My lips parted as if to speak, but nothing came out.
She chuckled. “You look like your soul just left your body.”
“This is… insane. I’m grateful.
Lady Han laughed, a soft musical sound. “Fashion demands drama.”
I laughed too, hands trembling as I signed.
A million-dollar contract.
Not even in my daydreams did I imagine something like this.
Three Weeks Later
My boutique looked like a crime scene.
A textile massacre. Bolts of fabric everywhere. Patterns pinned to every surface. Thread spools rolling on the floor. Coffee cups in inappropriate places.
This was what three weeks of nonstop work did to a person.
I barely slept. I barely ate.
But I was happy.
Every night, Mark showed up like some ridiculously handsome guardian angel. He brought food, stole kisses, massaged my aching shoulders, and told me he was proud of me in that low, sincere tone that melted my spine.
But then… the late-night meetings with Olivia started.
At first, I tried to be rational. She was on the Simmons Energy Project, and Mark was the lead strategist. They had to work closely.
But then came the 2 a.m. call I overheard; Olivia’s laughter floating through his phone.
I didn’t say anything that night.
Or the night after.
But the insecurity built like steam in a pressure cooker.
So when Mark walked into the boutique one night, dressed in his grey suit, hair messy from running his fingers through it, I finally asked.
He dropped the takeout bag on my table and instantly frowned. “What’s wrong?”
I tried to sound casual and completely failed. “Are you and Olivia… close?”
His brows pulled together. “Where’s that coming from?”
“You two have late-night meetings. She calls a lot. And she always looks at you like…” I swallowed. “Like she wants you.”
He stepped closer, cupping my cheeks with hands so warm I almost cried.
“Becca,” he said softly, “there’s nothing between me and Olivia.”
I looked away. “It feels like there is.”
“Hey.” He angled my face back to his. “Look at me.”
My eyes met his, reluctantly.
“You,” he whispered, brushing his thumb along my jawline, “are my only woman.”
The words slid into me like warm sunlight.
But insecurity is stubborn. It doesn’t leave just because you ask it to.
Mark kissed me; slow, steady, intentional.
The kind of kiss that said I mean every word.
Three Days Before the Gala
I reached the boutique at dawn. The sky was still bruised purple, and the whole street felt like it was holding its breath.
I unlocked the door, pushed it open,
and stopped walking.
A smell smacked me first.
Sharp. Chemical. Acrid.
I flicked on the lights. My scream stayed trapped in my throat.
The boutique…was destroyed.
Completely, intentionally destroyed.
Fabrics were slashed into ribbons.
Mannequins lay on the floor in broken limbs like murdered soldiers.
My two industrial sewing machines were kicked in, metal twisted like cheap toys.
Bead trays overturned.
I hurried my pace to the inner room where I worked exclusively.The door was hanging off its hinges.
My soul left my body upon the sight I saw.
“No. No no no…”
The gowns were unrecognizable. Someone had taken scissors to every seam, every layer of fabric.
Ruined embroidery. Shredded lace. Ripped tulle.
My knees hit the floor.
My hands shook as I picked up what used to be the midnight blue gown; Lady Han’s main event dress.
Beads slipped from the torn fabric like tears.
I pressed the ruined cloth to my chest and sobbed.
“Why,” I whispered. “Why would someone do this to me?”
My fingers hovered over the remains of the main gala dress, trembling before I touched it.
It crumbled in my hands.
I've worked so hard. I’d given everything.
And someone destroyed it like it meant nothing.
My mind spun violently.
Olivia? A jealous competitor? A random act of vandalism?
None of the explanations made sense.
This wasn’t petty vandalism. This was personal.
More like a subconscious coincidence, I received a text from Lady Han.
> Three days to the event, I'm expecting a blast.
The boutique was silent, but it felt like it was screaming.
And I stayed there, kneeling on the cold floor, surrounded by everything I had created…
I picked up my phone and called the only person that came to my mind. He didn't pick up immediately.
I tried again…and again…again