Chapter 4

I sipped the Earl Grey slowly, letting the warmth calm my nerves. Charles had settled across from me at the long neatly cleaned counter, his sleeves pushed up, a faint crease between his brows. He looked more relaxed now, less like the elusive fashion icon and more like a man who enjoyed good tea and even better company.

“This blend,” I said, cradling the cup, “it’s perfect. Subtle, but strong. Like your designs, actually.”

His mouth twitched with a small smile. “You see connections in everything, don’t you?”

I shrugged, embarrassed but pleased. “It’s just how my brain works. I guess it’s the storyteller in me.”

“You’ve got a rare gift,” he said, setting his cup down gently. “You don’t just write—you feel. That’s what made me agree to this as I have been reading your blogs since my niece told me about you.”

His words caught me off guard.

Yes Daddy, fuck me already.

I wasn’t used to such direct praise, especially not from someone like him. For a moment, I just stared into my tea, unsure how to respond.

“You know,” he added after a pause, “most people just want to know about the money, the fame, the ‘scandalous details’ of the brand’s growth. But you… you’re interested in the story under the fabric.”

He was wrong for this part, really wrong. I was interested in the dick!

I was interested in the meat under the fabric, fuck!

His deep baritone voice was not helping at all

Why was he so slow to pick up the fact that my pussy had turned into brewing refinery by just staring at him.

But I had to play pretend.

I looked up, feeling my cheeks warm. “That’s the real story, isn’t it? Not the headlines, but the heartbeat.”

We shared a quiet smile.

Then, because the silence was starting to feel a little too long, I glanced around and said, “You’re so put together. I wonder what you home would look like, I guess beautiful. It would feel lived-in but still elegant. Like someone who reads a lot and appreciates silence.”

That was my first shot at him trying to know I wanted a special invite to his house already.

He chuckled. “That’s oddly accurate. I like space. I don’t do well with too much noise.”

“I’m the opposite,” I replied. “I love a bit of chaos. The fashion shows, the street markets, the back alleys of cities most people wouldn’t bother with. There’s always something unexpected.”

“Have you travelled much?”

“Not as much as I want to,” I admitted. “But I’ve got a list. Paris, obviously. Tokyo, for the edge. Lagos for colour and culture. You?”

“Been to all three,” he said, eyes distant for a second. “But not as a tourist. Always work. Never really had the luxury to wander and enjoy.”

“That’s sad,” I said without thinking. “All that beauty, and you’re too busy to take it in?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Maybe I didn’t have the right reason to slow down.”

There was something about the way he looked at me then—curious, as if he was still working out whether I was the reason or just another observer passing through his world.

I quickly changed the subject. “Did you always want to do fashion?”

God knows the conversation was beginning to taste like burnt fried egg. I was too thirsty for this man to sit through this conversation and not show him how much I want him.

He leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “No. At first, I wanted to build houses. Be an architect. I used to draw buildings in the back of my school books.”

“What changed?”