Harley
I didn't cry.
I wanted to — God, I wanted to — but I didn't.
Instead, I poured myself into the one thing I could control.
Work.
After everything, I thought maybe… maybe Levi and I were turning a corner. We had two days. Two good days. Quiet laughs, shared looks, stolen warmth in the back of a black car. And in my bedroom . The kind of tension that made you believe something real was blooming beneath it.
And then, like a switch flipped, he was gone.
Not literally.
But emotionally? Gone.
Cold. Detached. Eyes like stone. No more lingering glances. No more small touches. Not even the barest attempt to act like anything had happened between us.
He became Levi again — the bodyguard. The wall.
And I hated how much it hurt.
I didn't even know him properly. Not really. But I had begun to believe — like a fool — that something could work between us. That maybe he wasn't just watching me out of duty, but because he wanted to.
And then he shut down.
So I did what I always do when something threatens to break me.
I got to work.
The project for Gabrielle was in full swing now. No more mood boards and brainstorming. This was the real deal — fittings, fabrics, models, deadlines.
I barely slept.
Which was perfect.
Levi picked me up that morning, just past six-thirty. The sky was grey and dull, and so was my mood. He didn't speak when I got in the car, but he had my coffee. My exact order. Like always.
My throat tightened.
I took it from him with a polite nod, not even trying to fake a smile.
We drove in silence to the venue. A gorgeous white loft in Shoreditch where the designers were already waiting. The place had floor-to-ceiling windows, racks of unfinished garments, and measuring tapes hanging from every hook.
This was where everything came together. Where each of the six designers I folded into the Gabriela project would meet their assigned model for the first time. Measure. Fit. Pin. Adjust.
And I needed to be there for all of it.
I stepped out of the car and immediately started giving instructions, pretending like my heart wasn't crawling around my chest like something feral and wounded.
"Make sure we have the lighting right in that corner," I told Amari, who was already inside on her phone. "We need clean shadows for fittings. And tell the stylists I want hair and makeup looks finalised by noon."
Levi stayed close. Always close. Always watching. His presence was steady, dependable — maddeningly unreadable.
He hadn't looked at me once since I got in the car.
"Harley," one of the designers called out. "This is Lola, our model for Look 3. We need to know if you're happy with her dimensions."
I forced a smile and stepped forward, offering the girl a compliment and a quick scan of her frame. "Perfect. She'll hold that silhouette beautifully."
I caught Levi's reflection in the mirror behind her.
He was watching again.
Not directly. But I could feel the heat of his stare. And just as quickly, he looked away when our eyes nearly met.
Something twisted in my stomach.
This wasn't sustainable.
I couldn't work with this tension dragging behind me like a torn hemline. I couldn't walk into every room wondering if he was going to look at me like I mattered — or pretend I didn't exist.
I bit the inside of my cheek and moved on
There were fittings to be done. Models to calm. Designers to push. A launch event to plan. A press kit to finalise.
And maybe, if I worked hard enough… I wouldn't think about him.
Maybe I could stitch my heart back together with fabric and thread and late nights.
Maybe.