Chapter 16: Fashion Designs

***Vanessa's POV***

The office was quiet except for the low drone of the air conditioning and the occasional jingle of my pencil against the sketchpad. The night stretched long, but I barely noticed. My studio within Ivanov Designs had become a second home—someplace I could lose myself in creation, in colors, shapes, and designs that pulled at the edges of my imagination.

I glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight, and the formerly buzzing office was now a ghostly, leopard-like version of itself. My fingers felt a little cramped as I made the final addition to a draft design for a novel piece of jewelry. I set the pencil down and stretched, the ache in my back reminding me that I’d been sitting for hours.

By chance, I got up and left the studio, walking toward the kitchen. I had passed Sergie’s office earlier and noticed the faint glow of light through the door. He was still here too, working late again. A part of me wanted to ignore it, to mind my own business, but another part—the part that had been paying too much attention to him lately—nudged me forward.

Twisting two glasses and grabbing the jug of orange juice from the fridge, I brought them to his office.

I knocked lightly and peeked through the crack in the door before he could answer.

“Mr. Sergie?”

He was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. At my voice, he straightened up, his countenance shifting from strain to a more centered look. Nonetheless, I could detect the subtlest constriction of his jaw and the hollows under his eyes.

“Miss Vanessa,” he said, his voice low but warm. “What are you doing here?”

Scanning with my raised eyeglasses in hand, I smiled. “Thought you could use a break. Orange juice for two?”

His upper lip quivered; this may have been the beginning of a smile. “You work late and bring refreshments. Are you always this thoughtful?”

“Only if I want something,” I joked playfully, placing the glasses on his desk and sitting down in the seat across from him.

“What kind of night are you hoping for?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s not my fault that I made you drink juice at midnight,” I responded, taking a gulp from my glass to smother the heat building up in my cheeks.

He leaned back in his chair, studying me for a moment. “You’ve been working late a lot lately.”

“I have,” I admitted. “I’ve been drawing jewelry designs, but I've also started trying something else: fashion designs.”

His brow lifted in surprise. “Fashion designs?”

“Yes. But I’ll show you tomorrow,” I said quickly, not wanting to linger on my nerves. “They're not quite there yet; I’d rather you look at them when they’re a bit more finished.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. I took a sip of my drink and surveyed him through the rim of my glass.

“You look tired,” I said softly.

He chuckled without humor. “I suppose I am.”

“What’s wrong?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He stared past me, his gaze unfocused as if weighing whether to tell me. Finally, he exhaled; the sound was heavy with frustration.

“Alexei Kozlov,” he said.

The surname was unfamiliar, but the tone in which it was pronounced made me straighten up.

“He’s been a thorn in my side for years,” Sergie continued, his voice low and rough. “But now he’s gone from nuisance to genuine threat. He’s targeting our suppliers and trying to sabotage the collection.”

My stomach twisted. “Can he do that?”

“He's working on it,” Sergie said, his fists tightening on the desk. “We’ve managed to contain the damage so far, but it’s taking everything I have to stay ahead of him. And the launch is so close…”

He trailed off, his expression darkening. I hated seeing him like this—so weighed down by the burden of holding everything together.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.

His gaze snapped to mine; something unreadable flickered in his eyes. “You’re already doing more than enough. Your designs are the cornerstone of this collection, Vanessa. Without them…”

He didn’t finish the thought, but I understood: my work mattered.

Impulsively, I leaned across the desk and covered his hand with my own. “You’ll figure it out, Sergie. You always do.”

He fixed his eyes on our hands and then on me; his face relaxed. “You have more faith in me than I deserve.”

“No,” I said firmly. “I have exactly the right amount of faith in you. You’re the most driven and brilliant person I’ve ever met.”

He remained quiet, but his hand clenched under mine; fingers wrapped around my fingers. The gesture was small but intimate, sending a jolt of warmth through me.

The silence hung heavy with what I could not quite articulate. His gaze lingered on mine for a beat; for a second, I held my breath, wondering if he would speak again—but he shifted back, breaking eye contact.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

I acquiesced by retracting my hand and taking hold of my glass to find some stability. The air between us felt different now—warmer and heavier.

I remained there a little while longer as our conversation took on a more casual direction. He asked about my creative process, and I told him about how I sometimes painted for hours without noticing the passage of time.

“I saw some of your personal work in your studio,” he said softly. “The landscapes and abstract pieces—they’re extraordinary.”

I flushed at the compliment. “They’re just for me,” I admitted—things I do when I'm trying to clear my mind.

He leaned forward slightly; his eyes intent on mine. “You have a gift, Vanessa. Never doubt that.”

My breath caught at the intensity in his gaze; I nodded but couldn’t find words to respond.

By the time we got up to leave, he led me to the elevator. The space between us was quiet but not empty—not without its unsaid things.

As I crossed the threshold into the elevator, his hand touched my cheek; his thumb lingered for a moment. “Get some rest,” he said softly.

“You too,” I whispered.

The doors closed between us as I leaned back against the wall; my heart raced.

★

Later that night, lying in bed and gazing up at the ceiling, I recalled our encounter again—his words, his touch—the way he’d looked at me—it all swirled together and made it impossible to sleep.

I was starting to like him.

The realization was as thrilling as it was terrifying. Sergie Ivanov was everything I’d never imagined wanting—brilliant, intense, and far too complicated for someone like me. But thoughts of him consumed me even as I tried to convince myself that it was nothing more than just a passing crush.

Nothing more.