Ella Carter woke to a headache that thrummed like a sewing machine stuck in high gear, her pride stinging worse than a botched seam. The Croswell Gala was meant to be her big break—her chance to stitch her name into New York's fashion elite. Instead, she'd tripped over her own feet, drenched Nathaniel Black's polished shoes in champagne, and somehow escaped with a black card emblazoned with a silver raven. She could still hear his low, amused laugh echoing in her ears as she'd fled the scene.
"Spilled on him, turned red as a tomato, and he smiled," Julie recounted over their morning coffee break, her tone teasing but her grin wide. "Ella, you're a walking disaster—and I mean that as a compliment."
Ella groaned, swirling her latte. "Can we not immortalize my humiliation?"
"Too late. It's in both group chats. You're trending."
Ella forced a smile, but her thoughts were already racing ahead. The gala was behind her. Now she had to prove she wasn't just a clumsy girl with a sketchbook—she belonged here, in the brutal, beautiful world of high fashion.
The design floor at Croswell House was a chaos of creativity: fabric bolts toppled like fallen soldiers, half-pinned gowns sagged on dress forms, and the air buzzed with the hum of machines and the sharp click-clack of heels. Fiona Mills, the creative director, swept through like a storm in six-inch stilettos, her gaze as cutting as a tailor's shears.
"Ella," Fiona barked, pausing at Ella's desk to inspect a leather corset sketch. "This looks like it belongs in a dungeon, not a runway. What's the concept?"
Ella met her eyes, unflinching. "It's power dressing, early 2000s-inspired, with a postmodern twist—strength with an edge."
Fiona's lips twitched, a rare flicker of something that might've been approval. She dropped the sketch and moved on without a word.
Julie sidled up, whispering, "Did she just… not hate it?"
"She didn't rip it to shreds, so I'll take it as a win," Ella replied, exhaling.
But not everyone was in her corner. Madeline Vance, a senior designer with a doll-like face and a venomous tongue, glided past with a smirk. "Heard you stumbled into a billionaire last night. Very graceful, Carter."
Ella flashed a saccharine smile. "Better than stumbling over my own arrogance, Mads."
Julie nearly spat out her tea. Madeline's expression soured, but she didn't retort.
Over the next few days, Ella threw herself into her work. She refined sketches, adjusted fittings, and even earned a curt nod from Fiona during a sample review—a small victory in a war of inches. Nathaniel Black faded to a distant memory, a shadow she'd tripped over and left behind. Or so she thought.
Then the rumors started.
Whispers rippled through the design floor: a surprise investment, a new player in the game. Executives name-dropped "Mr. Black" with a mix of awe and unease. Ella caught herself glancing at her phone more than once, half-expecting the mysterious card to buzz to life. It didn't.
Until the invitation arrived.
A private design review. Five designers. One guest judge. Fiona's assistant distributed sleek black envelopes with no explanation, just names in crisp white ink. Ella's was among them.
Her stomach flipped as she read the details. She was in.
The review was held in a glass-walled boardroom with a jaw-dropping view of Central Park. The chosen designers laid out their pieces—dresses, jackets, avant-garde experiments—while tension crackled like static in the air. The guest judge was late.
Julie, who'd somehow wrangled her way into assisting, leaned close. "What if it's, like, Anna Wintour? Or—ooh—the ghost of McQueen?"
"I'd settle for anyone who doesn't know I'm the champagne girl," Ella muttered.
The doors swung open.
Nathaniel Black strode in, his presence filling the room like ink spilling across a page.
Ella's breath hitched. He settled into a chair beside Fiona, his gray eyes sweeping the room before landing on her. The moment stretched, heavy and deliberate, before he looked away.
The review began. One by one, designers presented their work. Feedback came fast—Fiona's sharp critiques, Nathaniel's measured observations. It was brutal, efficient, and unrelenting.
Then it was Ella's turn.
She stepped forward, her voice steady as she unveiled her piece: a structured jacket with soft, flowing accents. "It's about duality—strength softened by texture, control balanced with freedom."
Fiona scribbled notes. Nathaniel studied the garment in silence, his fingers brushing the fabric as if testing its secrets. Finally, he spoke.
"Bold. Uncompromising."
Ella blinked. "Is that… good?"
"It's a choice," he said, his tone neutral but his eyes piercing. "Most designers chase trends. This doesn't. It demands attention—whether the room's ready for it or not."
Fiona's eyebrow lifted, a rare sign of intrigue. Nathaniel rose, his gaze lingering on Ella a moment longer. "Don't hide your talent behind someone else's vision."
Then he was gone.
Julie nudged her. "Compliment or cryptic warning?"
Ella shook her head, dazed. "Both, maybe?"
Something had shifted. Nathaniel Black wasn't just a billionaire with wet shoes—he was watching her, and she couldn't tell if it was a lifeline or a trap.
That evening, fate—or bad luck—stuck Ella in an elevator with Madeline, whose smirk could've curdled milk.
"So. You and Mr. Black," Madeline drawled.
Ella rolled her eyes. "There's no 'me and him.' I don't even know him."
"Right. You just glow like a spotlight when he's around."
"Jealousy's a bad color on you, Mads."
Madeline's smile tightened. "Enjoy your little moment, Carter. It'll unravel faster than cheap thread."
The doors parted. Ella stepped out, tossing back, "Then I'll make it a show worth watching."
Back in her tiny apartment, Ella collapsed onto the couch, fatigue seeping into her bones. The black card sat on her coffee table, its silver raven glinting under the lamp. She picked it up, running her thumb along the edge. Something caught her eye—faint, irregular stitching, barely visible unless you knew to look. It wasn't machine-made. It was deliberate.
Her phone buzzed, jolting her upright.
Unknown Number: Meet me tomorrow. Noon. 58th and 5th. Wear something sharp.
Ella's pulse raced. She forwarded the text to Julie.
Julie: Mystery man strikes again. Go slay, queen.
Ella laughed, but unease coiled in her gut. She didn't know Nathaniel's game, but she couldn't shake the sense that she was already a player in it.
As she drifted to sleep, the raven on the card seemed to stare back, its silver threads shimmering like a whispered threat.
Across the city, a figure in a long dark coat slipped into a shadowed office. A folder hit the desk with a soft thud—photos of Ella and Nathaniel at the gala, timestamps charting every glance, every word.
The observer leaned back, a faint smile curling their lips. "She's curious. Let's see how deep she'll dig."
The threads are tightening. Keep reading.