CHAPTER 85: QUITTING

Chloe quickly turned back to the mannequin, tugging at the fabric as if the gown had offended her. "I guess that’s the reason you’re obsessed with perfection," she said lightly.

"Am I?" Damian asked with raised brows.

She nodded. "Yeah. You act like one wrong seam will cause the world to implode."

Damian was silent for a beat. Then he said, quietly, "Well, that’s because once something’s perfect, no one can take it from you."

Her hands stilled on the fabric. She looked up. His eyes weren’t on her now — they were somewhere distant, lost in a memory. His jaw was tight, the usual calm cracked at the edges.

"Who took something from you?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He blinked, as if her voice had pulled him back. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might actually answer. Then the shutters came down again.

"Doesn’t matter," he said, stepping back. "It was a long time ago."

But Chloe didn’t look away. "That’s not the same as doesn’t matter."

He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to her face. "You always do that."

"Do what?"

"See more than you should."

She smiled faintly. "Bad habit."

For a moment, the tension softened. Outside, the afternoon light shifted, throwing golden reflections across the floor. The world felt suspended — quiet, fragile.

Then Damian moved closer, fingers brushing the edge of the gown. "Your drape here," he said, his voice steadier again. "It’s almost there, but it needs one more layer. Maybe silk organza underneath, to give it lift."

Chloe leaned in beside him, their shoulders almost touching. "You think?"

"I know," he said, the faintest trace of a smile playing at his lips. "This design deserves the illusion of air — not weight."

She nodded, caught between focusing on his words and noticing how near he was. "You sound poetic for a man who calls my ideas chaotic."

"Even chaos has rhythm," he murmured.

It wasn’t meant to mean anything other than to tease her but somehow, the way he said it made her breath hitch.

Chloe stepped back quickly, hiding her fluster under a smirk. "Don’t tell me the great Damian Cross is going soft."

"Don’t tell me Chloe Smith is actually afraid of compliments."

That caught her off guard. She looked at him. Like really looked at him and saw that he meant it. His tone wasn’t teasing; it was quiet, sincere.

And maybe, for the first time, she didn’t have a clever comeback.

"Compliments aren’t really your thing," she said instead.

"Maybe you just hadn’t earned one yet."

Her lips parted. "Ouch."

He smiled slightly. "You’re earning them now."

She blinked, unsure what to do with that. To her own horror, her pulse skipped.

Desperate for distraction, she gestured toward the dress form. "Alright, back to work before you start writing poetry."

He gave a quiet laugh — the second one that day — and Chloe had the absurd thought that she liked that sound. Too much.

An hour later, they stood side by side, studying the nearly finished gown.

It was breathtaking — structured but alive. The top half sculpted with geometric precision, the skirt flowing into asymmetrical drapes that caught the light with every breath of air. A meeting of logic and intuition.

It was both their signatures, merged.

Damian’s voice broke the silence. "It’s... not what I expected."

Chloe turned her head slightly. "In a good way?"

"In a way that’s... human," he said quietly.

She smiled. "That’s the nicest thing you’ve said all day."

He gave a half-shrug. "Don’t get used to it."

"I won’t," she said, grinning. "But I’ll still quote you on it."

He looked at her then smiled at her approvingly. For once, didn’t try to hide it.

"You’re good, Chloe," he said softly. "Not just creative. Good."

The way he said her name sent a small tremor through her.

"Thank you," she managed, her voice quieter now. "That actually means something."

He nodded once, then turned toward the door — like he needed to move before the air between them thickened any further. "Send me your final sketch. I’ll add the technical notes."

She nodded, pretending not to notice how her hands trembled slightly. "Got it."

As he reached the door, she called after him. "Hey, Damian?"

He stopped, looking back.

"That perfection thing you said earlier," she said carefully. "You know perfection doesn’t mean untouchable, right? Sometimes the best things are the ones that aren’t afraid to be imperfect."

He studied her for a long moment. Then his lips curved faintly, although not quite a smile, but it was close to one. "Maybe you’re right."

"You’re saying that a lot today," she teased.

"Don’t get comfortable," he said, his tone light again. But as he walked out, she noticed he didn’t correct her.

When the door closed, Chloe turned back to the gown. The light had shifted again, falling across the soft satin like a sigh. She traced the line of the curve they’d fought over — the one he’d almost made her change.

She smiled.

There was something about working with Damian Cross that made her want to fight harder, think deeper, feel more. It terrified her how much it mattered.

She picked up her sketchpad, doodling absently on the edge. Her thoughts drifted — to the way his voice had softened earlier, to that fleeting look of vulnerability she wasn’t supposed to see.

What on earth had happened? She thought. He’d actually listened to her. Complimented her. And worse, he’d even laughed. She didn’t know what unsettled her more: that Damian Cross had a human side... or that she just sort of liked it.

By lunch break, she was still thinking about it — his words, that laugh, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long. She’d barely heard half the conversations on the design floor.

So when she spotted Bella sitting alone in the company cafeteria, staring blankly at her untouched food, Chloe didn’t hesitate to walk over.

"Hey," Chloe said, sliding into the seat opposite her. "What’s up? How did it go?"

Bella looked down, twisting her spoon between her fingers. For a moment, she didn’t speak. Then, quietly she said, "I’m thinking of quitting."