Chapter 65 Building The Empire
Becca's POV
I wasn’t expecting anything today.
Honestly, I thought Mark was just dragging me out so I wouldn’t stay glued to Danielle’s situation.
He’d barely spoken since the Carver mess, and I figured this was his way of keeping both of us from sinking into our heads.
So when he parked in front of a tall glass-front building tucked between two luxury stores, I assumed he had errands.
But then he walked around the car, opened my door, and held out a key.
Just… a single gold key on a leather strap.
“Come on,” he said softly, voice low enough that I felt it more than I heard it.
I straightened my jacket and followed him, half confused, half nervous.
The shop window was covered with white paper from the inside, hiding whatever was waiting behind it.
Mark unlocked the door.
When he pushed it open, warm light spilled out and I swear, for a second, my lungs forgot how to work.
The space wasn’t a boutique. It was a mini fashion world.
Mirrors framed with soft gold. Tall mannequins draped in fabric I didn’t even know existed outside of Paris.
A long runway-style path edged with subtle lighting. Shelves of untouched sketchbooks.
A mood board wall already pinned with color palettes and silhouettes that looked eerily similar to the designs I’d once shown Mark during a half-panicked midnight confession about “maybe someday.”
But the part that made my knees wobble;
the part that cracked something open inside my chest was the name across the main wall.
Elegant. Gold. Mine.
BECCA WILTON ATELIER
I covered my mouth with my hands, because tears came too fast for me to hold back.
“What… what is this?” I whispered. My voice was embarrassingly small.
Mark stepped behind me, his hands sliding lightly around my waist, his chest warm against my back.
“It’s yours,” he murmured into my hair. “Every inch of this place. Every fabric. Every tool. Every future sketch is hanging on these walls.”
I shook my head, tears spilling anyway. “Mark, this is…this is too much. Why would you…”
“Because you deserve much more,”
I turned to him, blinking through my teary eyes. He cupped my face gently, his thumbs brushing just beneath my eyes.
“You’ve spent your whole life taking care of people, worrying about people, adjusting to people,” he said. “But what about you, Becca? What have you built for yourself?”
He kissed my forehead, slow and grounding.
“What’s the point of having everything,” he asked quietly, “if I can’t use it to give you something real?”
His words knocked the air out of me. Not because they were perfect but because he meant every syllable. I could feel it in his voice.
“Mark…” I could barely speak. “I don’t even know how to thank you.”
“You don’t need to,” he murmured, pulling me closer. “Just build it. Build the dream.”
And then like he’d been waiting to remind me; he lifted my chin with two fingers and looked straight into me.
“Remember when I asked you what you would do if money wasn’t a problem?” His voice softened. “This is your answer. Not just words. A place. A proper beginning.”
I didn’t even have time to reply before he kissed me.
Like he’d been thinking about this, planning this, holding this moment for me.
The kiss deepened slowly until I was gripping the back of his shirt to keep myself steady. When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead on mine.
“Let’s build this dream,” he whispered. “Together.”
People think intimacy is fireworks. I believe it's more of an explosion.
They never talk about moments like this, moments that feel like someone handing you their heartbeat.
After the tour, after I’d walked the boutique twice just to convince myself it was real.
Mark slid the blinds down. Locked the glass door and turned the sign to Closed.
And then he took my hand and led me to the center of the room.
“Look at it,” he murmured. “This is going to be your empire.”
“My empire?” I teased, wiping the last of my tears. “So you’re just… what? My investor?”
His smile darkened in that way that always made my pulse jump.
“I’m whatever you need me to be.”
The moment stretched, slow and warm, before he pulled me closer by the waist.
His kiss this time wasn’t soft.
It was deeper, hungry, claiming, familiar in a way that made my legs weaken.
I reached up, fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him in. His hands moved down my back, firm and sure, anchoring me to him like he’d been waiting for this moment all day.
The boutique felt like it existed for us alone.
Just the two of us.
Mark lifted me onto the smooth table near the sketching station, his mouth trailing down my jaw, my neck, the curve of my shoulder.
Every touch was slow, almost reverent, as if he was memorizing the shape of me.
“Becca,” he whispered against my skin,
and something inside me shattered in the softest, most beautiful way.
I leaned into him, breathless, hands gripping his shoulder.
All I felt was him. All I heard was my heartbeat racing into his.
His touch was careful yet possessive.
We stayed tangled together for what felt like hours with soft kisses, whispered breaths, my fingers drawing slow lines on his arm while his forehead rested against mine.
Nothing felt forced nor planned.
Just two people celebrating something that finally felt like ours.
Eventually, he pulled back, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
Two days later
The boutique officially opened for private previews.
I dressed in black slacks and a cream blouse; simple, clean.
I waited near the entrance while a small team arranged fabrics and sketches across a long display table.
“People are going to love this,” one of the designers said.
I tried to smile, but my stomach was a nest of butterflies.
A soft bell chimed as someone entered.
I turned and froze.
A woman in an elegant blazer stepped inside, followed by two assistants. Her presence shifted the entire air of the room. She had the calm, polished aura of someone used to being obeyed.
She walked straight to the sketches without greeting anyone.
At first I couldn’t tell if she liked them. She didn’t speak. She just studied each design as if she were inspecting the blueprint of a new technology.
Then she exhaled slowly.
“These,” she murmured, “are remarkable.”
One of her assistants whispered something to her in Korean, and only then did she finally look at me.
“Who designed these?” she asked.
I swallowed. “I did.”
Her eyes brightened just a flicker, but enough to send a ripple of heat down my spine.
She extended her hand.
“I’m Director Han, CEO of Korean Energy.”
Her grip was confident.
“I would like to schedule a private meeting with you.”
My pulse kicked hard.
“With… with me?” I echoed stupidly.
“Yes.”
She smiled, small but deliberate.
“I think your vision would be perfect for a project we’re launching soon.”
Before I could ask anything, she released my hand and nodded to her assistants.
“We’ll be in touch.”
They left as quickly as they came, the bell chiming softly behind them.
I stood frozen in the middle of my own boutique, my heart pounding in my chest.
Was this opportunity a blessing…
or the beginning of something far more complicated?