The boutique was louder than usual that morning.
Steam hissed from the pressing iron, scissors clicked against the table, and rolls of satin and lace were stacked high across the floor. It was one of those days when every designer had a deadline and every client wanted a miracle.
Juliette slipped in quietly, her sketchbook hugged to her chest. The air smelled of chalk dust, fabric starch, and faint tension the scent of ambition and exhaustion living side by side.
"Morning, Jules," a voice called. Tami, one of the senior designers, gave her a tight smile. "The boss said to see her as soon as you get in."
Her stomach tightened a little. "Alright."
In the head designer's office, Mrs. Vann looked up from her files, glasses perched at the edge of her nose. "Juliette," she said briskly, "you've been assigned to a new client."
Juliette's fingers curled around her sketchbook. "Who?"
"Amira Dane."
The name dropped like silk and steel soft but heavy. Everyone in the boutique knew Amira Dane: a perfectionist bride-to-be, famous for her temper and impossible standards. The kind of client who made even the most confident designers lose sleep.
Mrs. Vann sighed. "She specifically asked for someone 'fresh.' Someone with new eyes. I'm trusting you not to make me regret this."
Juliette nodded slowly. "Yes, ma'am."
Behind her, she heard another designer Nina scoff softly. "Fresh eyes or inexperienced hands, same thing."
Juliette didn't turn. She didn't have to. The words stung anyway, settling beneath her skin like a needle prick.
⸻
By noon, Amira Dane arrived.
She swept into the boutique surrounded by two assistants and the scent of expensive perfume. Her dress shimmered like liquid pearl, her chin tilted high, and her tone was sweet but sharp.
"So you're the one they chose for my gown," Amira said, her gaze sliding over Juliette from head to toe. "You look… delicate. I hope your work isn't."
Juliette forced a calm smile. "I assure you, ma'am, I take every stitch personally."
Amira smiled faintly approval mixed with challenge. "Good. My wedding is in six weeks. I don't do second fittings. I expect perfection at first glance."
Juliette nodded, jotting details into her pad as Amira spoke about the lace, the neckline, the symbolism, the way she wanted the gown to 'breathe with royalty but weep with love.'
Every word felt like a weight expectation settling across her shoulders.
When Amira finally left, the room exhaled. Even Mrs. Vann rubbed her temple. "You've got your hands full, Juliette."
"I'll make it work," she said quietly.
Nina smirked from her table. "If you don't drown first."
Juliette ignored her. She sat down, flipped open her sketchbook, and began to draw.
⸻
Hours blurred.
Lines became shapes, shapes became movement. The sketch evolved a gown that was romantic but grounded, soft but commanding. She poured herself into every curve and fold, forgetting the world around her.
By evening, her hand ached, graphite smudged her wrist, and her eyes burned
But the dress it was coming alive.
Tami leaned over her shoulder at one point and whistled low. "You're insane. That's gorgeous."
Juliette smiled faintly. "I hope Amira thinks so."
"She will. If she doesn't, she's blind."
The next day began before dawn.
Juliette was at the market by 7 a.m., weaving through stalls of fabrics, her fingers brushing across silk, chiffon, tulle. The vendors called out prices, bargaining voices rising and falling like music.
She took her time feeling each texture, testing the light against every shade of ivory until she found the one. The perfect weight. The perfect whisper of shimmer
"Expensive choice," the vendor said, folding the roll.
Juliette smiled tiredly. "Perfection usually is."
By the time she returned to the boutique, her arms ached. But when she laid the fabric across her table, it was like setting down a piece of her own heart
She began cutting carefully, tracing patterns in silence.
Every snip of the scissors echoed. Every breath matched the rhythm of her needle pulling through cloth.
And even when her co-workers left one by one, lights dimming and the air cooling, Juliette stayed.
It was past midnight when she finally looked up.
The city outside the boutique windows was sleeping, but she wasn't. Her desk was covered with pins, ribbons, sketches, and scraps of lace that looked like fallen snow.
Her hair was pulled up messily, a strand falling over her cheek. She was tired bone tired but there was a small, burning light in her chest that kept her going.
This was hers.
Her world, her work, her worth.
Somewhere, in another part of the city, Cassian Vale sat in silence at his study, scrolling through reports he wasn't reading. The faintest frown crossed his face as he checked the time. Past midnight.
She still wasn't home.
He didn't call. He didn't text.
But the next morning, when Juliette opened her sketch drawer, she found a small, beautifully wrapped box waiting there.
Inside was a limited-edition sketch pen and a silk scarf, the color of dawn.
No note. No name.
Just quiet understanding.
Juliette smiled faintly, her heart beating in that soft, dangerous rhythm she tried not to recognize.
Then she tied the scarf loosely around her neck, picked up the new pen and began again.