The boutique felt different the next morning.
Too quiet. Too watchful.
Juliette pushed the glass door open, and the soft chime above it sounded almost intrusive too bright, too delicate for a room so heavy with silence.
Every conversation faded.
The air was thick with curiosity, whispers pressed between the seams of fabric rolls and the rustle of gowns. The morning light spilled through the wide windows, catching on sequins and lace, but even that shimmer felt uneasy like it didn't belong.
Her heels clicked softly on the tiles, the sound too loud in a space that suddenly refused to welcome her. Heads turned, glances darted away. A few pretended to keep working, their movements stiff, rehearsed.
Juliette held her chin high barely. Her throat was tight, her stomach hollow, but her hands didn't tremble. Not today.
"Juliette."
Her name cut through the room like a blade.
Mrs. Ajayi's voice calm, crisp, and low came from the back office. There was no anger in it. That was what scared her most.
Juliette's palms dampened against her skirt as she walked through the narrow passage between sewing tables. She could feel every stare against her back, each one waiting to see how she'd fall apart this time.
The office door shut softly behind her.
Mrs. Ajayi was standing behind her desk, arms folded, eyes cool and sharp the kind of look that made even seasoned designers lose words.
"I received a call from Mrs. Dane last night," she said.
Juliette's pulse stopped.
Her boss's tone didn't rise, didn't soften. "She said everything has been… resolved."
For a heartbeat, Juliette thought she misheard. "Resolved?"
"Yes." Mrs. Ajayi's gaze flicked up. "They're keeping the gown. And they've withdrawn their complaint."
Juliette blinked once, twice trying to make sense of it.
The perfume bottle. The shouting. The broken glass that caught the light like scattered diamonds. The look on Mrs. Dane's face when she said, You'll never work with me again.
Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
"I don't know how you did it," Mrs. Ajayi continued, her voice finally loosening just a little. "But whatever it was, I'm grateful. Still her gaze softened, be careful next time. Mistakes like that don't always leave room for miracles."
Juliette could only nod.
The words didn't register. The relief didn't come.
She left the office quietly, but she could feel the weight of every pair of eyes following her curious, envious, suspicious.
She sat at her desk, pretending to rearrange sketches, though her thoughts were far from the paper. She could still hear the crash, the gasp, the insult the heat of humiliation burning under her skin. And now, the impossible calm that followed.
Something was off.
Something didn't make sense.
She hadn't fixed anything.
But somehow, someone had.
And that thought followed her all the way home silent, confusing, heavy.
The night before
By the time Juliette made it through the front door, the world outside had blurred into streaks of city light. She didn't even bother to turn on the hall lamp.
Her hands shook as she slipped off her shoes, her breathing uneven. She felt small like something inside her had splintered. The weight of Mrs. Dane's words still echoed in her mind, cruel and polished, like glass pressed against her skin.
She moved toward the staircase and almost collided with him.
Cassian stood there, halfway down the hallway, the dim light spilling over his face. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie loose, his hair slightly disheveled that rare, undone version of him she'd only seen late at night.
He stopped when he saw her.
And she froze, too.
Her eyes were red, rimmed with tears she'd tried to hide. Mascara had smudged at the corners. There was a faint bruise on her wrist from when she'd tried to save the perfume bottle before it shattered.
"I'm fine," she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to betray her.
He didn't answer.
He just looked at her a long, quiet look that made her chest tighten.
Then, slowly, Cassian stepped aside, giving her space to pass.
She did. And the soft sound of her door closing down the hallway felt like an ache.
He stood there for a moment longer, staring at the closed door, then took out his phone.
His voice was low when he spoke. "Find out what happened at House of Avenir today."
An hour later, he had everything.
The broken bottle.
The public insult.
The humiliation that spread through the studio like wildfire.
And the fact that her boss would call her in the morning to end her contract.
Cassian didn't move as he listened.
He didn't speak.
But when his assistant's voice faded, he said only one thing:
"Send me the address."
The Dane residence glowed like money cold, bright, and heartless.
Cassian's car stopped at the gate just before midnight. The security men exchanged glances before opening it, uncertain but obedient.
He stepped out in silence, the night air cool against his face. His suit was black, his presence darker.
When Mrs. Dane appeared at the door still in her robe, hair wrapped in silk she looked startled. Then confused. Then a little afraid.
"Mr. Vale?" Her voice wavered, the arrogance from earlier dissolving at once. "Is did something happen?"
Cassian's gaze was steady.
"You insulted my wife."
The world stilled.
She blinked, unsure she'd heard correctly. "Your…..your wife?"
"I believe you owe her an apology," he said quietly. "And much more than that."
There was no threat in his tone, no raised voice just that unyielding calm that made the space between them tremble.
He didn't have to say who he was. The name Cassian Vale carried its own gravity. His silence was its echo.
Mrs. Dane's confidence cracked instantly. She stumbled over words, her hand trembling as she gestured toward her assistant.
"I oh my God, I didn't realize Mr. Vale, please, it was a misunderstanding
Cassian said nothing.
He only looked at her and in that gaze, the truth settled: this man didn't make threats. He simply made things happen.
By the time he left, she was the one apologizing. Repeatedly. She even called the boutique herself, retracting her complaint, insisting everything was "perfect."
Cassian handed her a card before leaving.
"Consider it a replacement for the perfume," he said, his tone polite. "And the rug. And your conscience."
It wasn't a cheque. It was a transaction of silence.
Enough to erase the incident fourfold.
But before he left, he paused by the doorway, his voice dropping low:
"No one at the boutique must hear of this. Not a word. I respect her too much to take that from her."
Then he walked out into the night, the door closing softly behind him.
The next evening
Juliette came home later than usual. Her steps were slow, her shoulders heavy. The boutique had been restless all day eyes watching, whispers blooming and dying wherever she went.
No one asked. No one congratulated her. They just looked.
She didn't know if she preferred that or the silence that waited for her here.
The house was dimly lit, the scent of something warm drifting from the kitchen.
She set her bag down and turned and then she saw it.
On the marble counter sat a cup of chamomile tea, steam curling softly into the air.
The teabag string was still wet. Recently made.
Juliette froze.
No one else was home. The staff had left early. The house was quiet that rich kind of silence that seemed to listen.
She stared at the tea for a long time. Her fingers trembled when she reached out. The warmth pressed gently into her palms, soft and grounding.
A small note lay beside it folded once, plain.
She opened it.
You did well.
No signature.
No handwriting she didn't already know.
Her throat tightened. She blinked fast, the words swimming before her eyes.
He hadn't said a thing.
Not last night. Not this morning.
But he'd done something far bigger and left no trace of himself in it.
Juliette set the note down gently and wrapped her hands around the cup again, breathing in the scent. It felt like safety disguised as tea.
And though she didn't say thank you, her silence was soft enough to mean it.