Hello, Goodbye - Vaultboy; Counting Stars - One Republic
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Chapter Twelve
Diane had barely slept. After she got home, she had dinner and threw herself back into her work, refusing to let the thought of a certain someone suck her in. The day had been a real piece of work, a blur of actions, a really long day and she had an inkling tomorrow's gonna be a whole ass day. She finally decided to get some sleep and stop her work for the day. she walked into her room, crawled into bed; she turned and tossed in bed until dawn crept through her curtains, pulling her reluctantly into another day.
Well, her feeling from the previous day was not far of from the mark as her day started with her phone buzzing incessantly with notifications. A photoshoot had been delayed, an international supplier had sent the wrong shipment, and her assistant, Lola, was asking if Diane wanted to approve the new designs before they went into production. For a moment, Diane simply stared at the screen, wishing she could vanish into silence and nothingness.
But she was Diane Dalton—the face of Diane Couture. There was no room for silence, not when the world expected her to be flawless, untouchable, and always in control.
Dragging herself out of bed, she slipped into her silk robe and padded toward the floor-length mirror in her walk-in closet. Her eyes looked tired, but her posture remained regal. Fake it till you make it, she told herself, a mantra that had carried her through countless boardroom battles and runway debuts.
By the time she arrived at her company's studio downtown, the buzz of activity swallowed her fatigue. Models, stylists, and seamstresses bustled about, preparing for the upcoming fashion week. Mannequins stood like silent soldiers draped in exquisite gowns, each piece bearing Diane's signature: bold yet refined, daring but elegant.
Lola rushed up to her, tablet in hand. "Diane, the Milan buyers confirmed for Friday, but they want an exclusive preview tonight. And" she lowered her voice dramatically, "the press is sniffing around again about your 'mystery dinner companion.'"
Diane froze, her jaw tightening. She didn't need a crystal ball to know who Lola was referring to. Jeffrey Black. Of course the press had noticed. Two high-profile families sharing a dinner wasn't something society vultures would miss.
"Ignore them," Diane said briskly, flipping through fabric samples on the nearest table. "The designs speak louder than any rumor."
But even as she said it, her chest tightened. Because no matter how much she wanted to bury the thought, Jeffrey lingered like the faint trace of cologne after he'd left her car that night. He had dropped her off with his usual mix of teasing charm and sharp restraint, and though she had slipped quietly into her family's estate, she could feel her parents' knowing eyes tracking her every step.
She swallowed hard. She couldn't afford distractions. Not now.
Chelsea arrived mid-morning, breezing into the studio with her signature flair, a camera slung across her shoulder and her notebook tucked under her arm. As a journalist, Chelsea thrived on chaos; she called it "the perfect backdrop for truth."
"You look like you fought a lion in your sleep," Chelsea said, plopping onto a nearby stool. "And lost."
Diane shot her a glare, though the corner of her mouth twitched. "Good morning to you too."
"Morning, darling," Chelsea grinned. "Now spill. Don't give me that 'oh, it was just dinner' nonsense. You disappeared with the enigmatic Jeffrey Black, heir of an empire, royal blood and all that. Do you expect me not to ask questions?"
Diane sighed, rubbing her temples. "Chelsea, please. My head is already about to explode."
Chelsea leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "So he did get under your skin."
"No, he didn't." Diane snapped a little too quickly. She fumbled with the swatches in front of her, reorganizing them unnecessarily. "He's arrogant, infuriating, impossible to read. And....."
"And?" Chelsea prompted, smirking.
"And nothing," Diane said firmly. "I have a show to run, Chelsea. Buyers to impress. That's all I care about right now."
But the words rang hollow, even to her own ears.
The rest of the day blurred in a whirl of fittings, critiques, and endless decisions. Yet every now and then, she'd catch herself drifting, her mind conjuring Jeffrey's smirk, his sharp gaze, the way he leaned slightly closer when teasing her as though he enjoyed watching her squirm. She hated that she remembered. She hated more that she cared.
By evening, exhaustion gnawed at her bones. The studio emptied out gradually, leaving Diane alone with the quiet hum of the sewing machines. She walked over to one of her newest creations: a crimson gown with dramatic folds and a daring slit. She traced the fabric with her fingertips, a surge of pride mingling with the heaviness in her chest.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn't Lola or the buyers. It was a simple text.
J: Don't overwork yourself. You'll need energy for round two.
Diane's heart skipped. Round two? She clenched her jaw, typing back furiously before she could think better of it.
D: What makes you think there will be a round two?
His reply came instantly.
J: Because you haven't stopped thinking about it either.
Her phone slipped from her hand, landing softly on the fabric. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. He was insufferable. He was arrogant. And yet… he wasn't entirely wrong.
For the first time that day, Diane allowed herself a small, private smile.
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