Chapter 5

Chloe's POV

My fingers were already dialing Emily's number before I'd even finished reading her emergency signal.

The phone rang once, twice—pick up pick up pick up—and I had no idea what had happened.

Emily didn't panic. Period. She'd faced down Parsons critics, runway disasters, impossible deadlines—all with that terrifying calm that made investors trust her with their money. But when she finally answered, I heard something sharp and strangled in her voice, like she was forcing herself not to scream.

"Odyssey Group is pulling out."

The words hit like a physical blow. I pressed my palm against the window, the glass cool against my skin, Elysium's lights blurring below.

Odyssey Luxury Group. A major player in the mid-tier luxury market, and one of the few investors willing to back an independent atelier like Nova. Three million for a 30% stake, supply chain connections, and a potential spot at Fashion Week. Without them, we'd be back to square one, hunting for capital while our runway got shorter every month.

"They're claiming breach of contract," Emily continued, each word clipped and deliberate, like she was reading from a script she'd rehearsed to keep from losing it entirely. "Some bullshit about missed deadlines we both know we met. Derek Harvey wants a meeting tomorrow at nine."

Derek Harvey. Odyssey's VP of Acquisitions. The same man who'd spent our last three meetings undressing me with his eyes while pretending to care about our projections.

I closed my eyes. "Let me guess. He wants to renegotiate."

"Worse." I heard her exhale slowly, deliberately, the sound of someone buying time to deliver news that would detonate. "He specifically requested you be there. Alone. Said he wants to 'discuss terms directly with the creative vision behind the brand.'"

The whiskey I'd just swallowed turned to fire in my veins, rage burning through whatever composure I had left. Fuck.

The next morning, I stood outside the gleaming glass tower that housed Odyssey's offices, smoothing down the black Balenciaga blazer I'd chosen specifically for this confrontation—sharp lines, aggressive shoulders, the kind of armor that said I wasn't here to be fucked with.

My fingers found the tiny voice recorder in my inner pocket, and I pressed the button once, felt the faint vibration that confirmed it was recording.

The receptionist's smile was professionally empty as she directed me to the forty-second floor. I spent the elevator ride forcing my breathing into something that resembled calm, counting each floor like I'd counted them in Arthur's elevator last night—forty-two, forty-one, forty, each number a reminder that I was walking into a trap but had no choice except to spring it.

Derek's office was all masculine posturing—dark wood, leather, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city like he owned every brick and soul below. He stood when I entered, his smile too wide, too familiar, the kind that made my skin crawl even before he spoke. "Chloe. So glad you could make it." His eyes traveled down my body with the lazy confidence of a man who'd never been told no in his entire privileged life. "Please, sit."

I remained standing, my hand resting on the back of the chair he'd indicated. "Emily said you wanted to discuss the contract breach. I'd prefer we keep this professional and brief."

"Of course. Professional." He moved around his desk, leaning against it with calculated casualness.

"The thing is, Chloe, we've been reviewing the terms, and frankly, the numbers don't work anymore. Market conditions have changed. We're prepared to offer fifty thousand for the entire collection—exclusive rights, full trademark transfer."

I'd known it was coming, had steeled myself for exactly this play, but hearing the words still sent fury blazing through my veins. We'd negotiated two hundred thousand just three weeks ago, with limited licensing that preserved our brand identity.

"That's not what we agreed to," I said, my voice diamond-hard. "We have a signed contract."

"Contracts can be renegotiated." He straightened, moving closer, and I forced myself not to step back, not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. "Especially when one party realizes they're dealing with an inexperienced designer who doesn't understand how this industry really works." His hand lifted, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with presumptuous intimacy. "But I like you, Chloe. You've got potential. So I'm willing to make this work—if you're willing to be reasonable."

The touch made my stomach turn, every instinct screaming at me to slap his hand away, to put distance between us, but I held my ground because showing weakness now would be like bleeding in shark-infested waters.

My mind raced through the implications of what he wasn't saying, calculating how far he'd push, how much leverage I actually had, whether the recorder in my pocket would be enough to bury him or just get me buried instead. "Reasonable, meaning what, exactly?"

Derek's smile widened, and he leaned in close enough that I could feel his breath against my ear, smell the coffee and entitlement. "Meaning maybe you and I could discuss this over dinner. Get to know each other better. I have connections that could make Nova Atelier a household name—or bury it so deep you'll be designing knockoffs in some Brooklyn basement for the rest of your career." His hand settled on my waist, proprietary and vile.

"So let me make sure I understand," I said, my voice steady despite the rage boiling beneath my skin.

"You want to cut our agreed payment by seventy-five percent, take full ownership of our trademark and designs, and in exchange for not destroying my career, you expect me to—what? Fuck you? Spread my legs and call it networking?"

His laugh was low and satisfied, like I'd finally started speaking his language. "I knew you were smart. See, this is how the industry works, sweetheart. You play nice, make the right connections, and everyone wins. Fight it, and you'll discover just how small your world can become."

I stepped back finally, letting disgust show on my face because there was no point hiding it anymore, not when I had what I needed recorded and every second longer in his presence made my skin crawl.

Part of me wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove his offer, wanted to watch his face crumble when I played back his own words, let him hear exactly how pathetic he sounded trying to blackmail a twenty-two-year-old into his bed. But Emily's voice echoed in my head—evidence first, revenge later—and I'd learned the hard way that survival meant swallowing your pride until you could afford to spit it back in their faces.

"I need to think about this," I said, the words tasting like ash and battery acid.

His smile widened, victorious, as he'd already won. "Smart girl. But don't take too long—my patience has limits."

I turned and walked out, each step measured and deliberate, refusing to let him see my hands shake or my composure crack.

The elevator couldn't descend fast enough. Forty-two floors of polished steel and glass, forty-two floors between me and air I could actually breathe.

My phone buzzed again before I could respond to Emily. Richard's name flashed across the screen.

"Get to my house. Now." Richard's voice cut through without preamble. "We need to talk."

"I'm in the middle of—"

"I don't give a damn what you're in the middle of."His voice dropped to something uglier. "Be here by six. Don't even think about pulling any of your little stunts."

The line went dead.