Stella's POV
Frank was dressed, as always, in a perfectly tailored suit that managed to look both classic and avant-garde. His appearance backstage was unexpected—he wasn't part of the Light team—but not entirely surprising.
"How did you get in here?" I asked with genuine curiosity.
"I'm friends with the director and never miss his shows," Frank dismissed with a wave of his hand. He turned to the director with an exaggerated warning look: "My friend, Stella has a very jealous husband. If you want a peaceful life, I suggest you don't embrace her."
*God, Frank. As direct as ever, about as subtle as a brick through a window.*
The director's expression immediately shifted from celebration to surprise. "Stella, you're married? At such a young age?" He seemed more shocked by this revelation than by my unexpected piano skills.
I nodded, the corner of my mouth involuntarily turning up slightly. "Yes, I have a husband."
*And he's the most controlling, possessive, infuriating, and sexy bastard on the planet.*
From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the pianist who had betrayed us, his face twisted with displeasure as he observed the post-show celebration from a distance. Unable to resist, I slightly raised my chin, giving him a subtle but unmistakable challenging look.
*What's wrong, asshole? Did you think the world would stop turning if you didn't play? Pathetic.*
The pianist's expression darkened further before he turned and fled, looking as ridiculous as a clown.
Once the backstage chaos subsided somewhat, I pulled Frank to a quiet corner. "I need you to do something for me," I said quietly, quickly explaining Grace's last-minute contract breach and the pianist's subsequent betrayal.
"Leak these stories to the media," I instructed. "Both of them."
Frank's eyebrows rose slightly. "Is there something personal between you and Grace? This seems unusually vindictive for you, dear."
"Just do it," I replied firmly.
*Paying a breach penalty is too easy for them. Let's see how Grace likes having her reputation dragged through the mud.*
"Grace has never professionally harmed you, has she?" Frank persisted, studying my face carefully.
"No," I admitted. But the unspoken truth hung between us. Grace wasn't targeting me professionally—she was targeting me personally, seeing me as a rival for Adam's affections.
*Too bad for her. Adam is my husband now. Both legally and physically.*
The thought brought another involuntary smile to my lips.
The post-show party was in full swing at an exclusive venue reserved only for Light's top clients and premier media representatives. In previous years, this gathering had been relatively subdued, with most attendees maintaining a cautious "wait and see" attitude toward the collection. Tonight was different—the room buzzed with excitement, and clients were placing orders enthusiastically, a clear indicator of the show's success.
The director entered the party venue and immediately heard snippets of praise from both clients and media, his tense expression melting into a relieved smile. Their gamble on a new stylist—me—had clearly paid off.
"Did I see what I think I saw?" one elegantly dressed woman was asking her companion. "Those jewels looked remarkably like auction pieces from recent years."
"If you're seeing things, then I am too," her friend replied. "Weren't they supposed to be collaborating with that jewelry designer—Grace Davis?"
"Using museum-quality pieces instead? Light has really outdone themselves!" another guest exclaimed. "It's like a private collection exhibition, but on living models! This show was worth every penny!"
The buzz about the jewelry continued throughout the evening, culminating when a representative from another luxury brand approached the director.
"Could you share the contact information for your jewelry partners?" the woman asked eagerly. "My company is planning a charity jewelry exhibition later this year, and we'd love to collaborate with whoever owns those extraordinary pieces."
The director offered an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid those jewels were arranged privately by our stylist Stella. Light doesn't have direct contact with the owner."
"Stella?" the woman repeated. "Was she the one who played the piano? The woman who came on stage?"
"Yes, the same," the director confirmed, unable to hide his pride. "Did you notice her performance?"
The woman's eyes widened with renewed interest. "Indeed. Please do pass along my card to her. We'd be very interested in discussing potential collaborations."
The next morning, as I finally collapsed in my hotel bed after nearly forty-eight sleepless hours, fashion blogs and industry news sites were already buzzing with coverage of Light's spectacular show.
Just as the conversation about Grace's sudden replacement was gaining momentum, "insider information" began circulating: Light's original jewelry design partner had breached their contract at the last minute, forcing the brand to activate a contingency plan involving rare collector's pieces.
Fellow designers scoffed at the phrase "forcing them" to use museum-quality jewels—such a "hardship" was hardly worthy of sympathy!
*Frank works fast. I hope Grace is enjoying her morning coffee with a side of career implosion.*
By the time Light's president's secretary called to invite me to a meeting, these stories had spread throughout the industry. Frank, concerned I might face some kind of reprimand, insisted on accompanying me to Light's New York headquarters.
To our surprise, Light's president greeted me with enthusiastic warmth and sincere gratitude.
"Ms. Winston, you saved our show," she said, gesturing for us to take seats in her elegant office. "We cannot thank you enough."
After expressing her appreciation for both my styling work and unexpected piano performance, she moved to the question clearly foremost on her mind. "Regarding the jewelry sponsor, would it be possible for you to connect us with the owner? We would like to express our official gratitude."
Before I could formulate a suitably vague response, Frank frowned in confusion. "Stella, aren't those jewels yours?"
The silence that followed was deafening. I stared at Frank, momentarily at a loss for words. Frank's eyes widened as he realized his mistake.
*Jesus Christ, Frank! The ONE thing I was trying to keep quiet!*
The Light president looked at me with newfound astonishment. All those priceless pieces belonged to this young woman sitting before her? However, her business acumen quickly overcame her surprise, and she smoothly adjusted her approach.
"If the owner prefers to remain anonymous, we certainly respect that," she said with a diplomatic smile. "But if Ms. Winston would allow it, we would like to officially thank you for... helping us establish contact with the jewelry collection. Your assistance was invaluable."
I recognized this graceful pivot for what it was—a professional pretending not to have heard something that might complicate matters.
*Smart woman. Knows when to play dumb. I respect that.*
"That won't be necessary," I said, equally diplomatic. "However, I would suggest that your company might want to avoid future collaborations with individuals who demonstrate a lack of professional integrity."
The Light president immediately understood my meaning. "Ms. Winston makes an excellent point. Neither Grace nor that pianist will appear on our collaboration roster again."
Her calculation was clear—a rising styling star with access to museum-quality jewelry and close connections to Frank was far more valuable than a jewelry designer who had proven unreliable.
*Serves you right, Grace. Your little stunt just cost you a major client.*
I departed Milan on Light's president's private jet, accompanied by numerous vintage Light haute couture pieces—gifts from the grateful company.
Light's official statement further fueled interest:
\[The show's perfect success is a testament to everyone's hard work and dedication. We extend special thanks to styling director Stella Winston, who is not only an incredibly talented and gifted stylist but also a friend who came to Light's aid when needed. We are deeply honored by our collaboration with Stella!\]
In interviews, Light's president made it clear that I would have access to their haute couture collections whenever needed in the future—an unprecedented privilege rarely extended even to celebrities.
Meanwhile, "anonymous sources" confirmed that both the original jewelry designer Grace Davis and the pianist had breached their contracts at the last minute, though the reasons remained unspecified.
Several days later, the private jet Light had arranged touched down at JFK Airport. The generous gifts from Light would be delivered directly to Lancaster Manor by special courier, allowing me to exit the airport with just a small handbag.
As I walked through the arrival gate, I spotted a tall, striking figure in the distance—a man holding an enormous bouquet of David Austin roses. I stopped abruptly, convinced my exhausted brain was playing tricks on me.
*No way. It can't be...*