Chapter 4 Velvet Secrets

~Fifteen years later~

“Why is this place so jam-locked?” Ethan Wellman muttered through clenched teeth, his voice carrying the edge of restrained frustration. Tall, broad-shouldered, with jet-black hair that glistened under the streetlights, he looked every bit the man who turned heads without meaning to, but it was his eyes—those deep, warm-ocean eyes that betrayed him. They sparked when he was angry, yet had the uncanny ability to calm whoever met them.

He tightened his grip on the leather wheel of his Aston Martin DB11, the midnight-blue finish gleaming under the choking flood of headlights ahead. Manoeuvring through the endless line of luxury cars snaking toward the event entrance was like steering a warship through molasses.

“There! Ethan! Over there!” shrieked Chloe, his younger sister, her voice pitching higher than she intended. At twenty-four, Chloe was the mirror opposite of his controlled demeanour—sassy, vibrant, a kinetic ball of nervous energy. Her glossy ginger hair spilt in waves across her shoulders, catching every stray flash from the paparazzi cameras outside. Her anxiety spilt into every movement while her fingers drummed against the dashboard, her knees bouncing restlessly. She couldn’t wait another second for Ethan to wedge the car into a spot so she could burst out into the electric night air.

“Hell no, Cleo! Not my Aston Martin. You don’t get to crash this baby before the damn event even starts!” Ethan snapped, his jaw tightening, though a smirk ghosted across his lips. “We wait until the damn jam clears. Then I park her in the VVIP section—sweetly, smoothly, safely.”

Chloe rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick. Classic Ethan. Sweet when he wanted to be, impossible most of the time. She leaned closer, lowering her voice but sharpening her tone.

“Firstly, big brother of mine—” she gestured dramatically at the sleek dashboard, her manicured finger tracing invisible lines in the air as if presenting the car itself to an audience “—this is just a car.” Her wide hazel eyes fluttered with that calculated innocence she knew drove him crazy. “Secondly—” she stressed the word with a sharp nod, “—this event is not just any event. Are you even listening right now?”

Ethan sighed, his expression sliding into that familiar here we go again look as Chloe’s hands started flying, punctuating every syllable like exclamation marks.

“This,” she went on, her voice bubbling with the kind of passion only she could summon, “is the biggest and I mean the biggest event Nashville has hosted outside the Republic Day Carnival! It’s not called the Delula Fashion Hub Feast for nothing!”

Her voice rose with each word, until finally she squealed in delight, bouncing in her seat like a schoolgirl who’d just spotted her idol. “And—oh my gosh, Beauty by Dorian is showcasing his latest masterpiece tonight!” She clapped her hands together, legs shaking in sheer anticipation, her smile practically glowing.

Ethan groaned under his breath. He knew what was coming.

“And someone—” Chloe dragged the word out, shooting him a look so pointed it could slice through steel “—is about to make us miss the best part of the show because he won’t park his precious birthday present.”

Ethan chuckled, shaking his head as the Aston Martin purred into the VVIP lane. “You’re damn obsessed with this Dorian guy, Chloe. I swear, I’ll never understand what you see in him.” His voice carried a mix of amusement and disbelief, the kind only an elder brother could master.

Chloe was already unbuckling her seatbelt before the car even rolled to a full stop, her energy spilling out of her like champagne fizz. She huffed, eyes flashing with indignation. “Ugh, first of all—it’s not Dorian guy, it’s Tim Dorian. That’s his full name.” Her tone shifted to that dramatic flourish she loved so much, the kind that could hold an audience captive. “Tim Dorian is a monumental, top-tier international fashion icon. His last collection brought in multi-billions, Ethan. Billions! He’s basically fashion royalty. And—” she dragged the word with a squeal “—he’s also the most handsome man alive. And did I mention he’s only twenty-five?” She leaned back triumphantly, as if she’d just delivered the final piece of evidence in court. “At least, that’s what the tabloids say.”

Ethan scoffed loudly, the sound bouncing off the sleek interior of the car. “Ohhh, and here I was thinking I was your most handsome man alive.” His ocean-blue eyes flicked sideways to catch her reaction, lips curving into a sly grin. “Or isn’t that what you told that Italian guy who wouldn’t stop hovering over you that night? The one who ended up calling you weird?”

Chloe tossed her ginger curls with practised flair, pretending to be unbothered. “Please. I only said that to get him off my back. Desperate men don’t take hints unless you throw a bomb at them.” Her smirk softened into a mischievous grin. “And yes, Mr Ethan Wellman, my darling beloved brother, you are devilishly handsome. But…” she drew the word out like a blade, eyes glittering with playful cruelty, “I’m sorry, big bro—you just don’t come close to Tim Dorian.”

Ethan laughed outright this time, the rich sound filling the car as he eased the Aston Martin into a pristine VVIP space. He adored his sister—always had and even her endless gush over rich young men, which was part of her charm. “Chloe,” he said, shaking his head with mock exasperation, “I know you too well. Any successful guy under thirty with a clean shave and a bank account looks drop-dead gorgeous to you.”

Chloe gasped theatrically, pressing a hand to her chest. “How dare you?” Her narrowed eyes were pure mischief. “Well, you’ll see tonight. You’ll see Tim Dorian in the flesh, and when you do, you’ll realise I wasn’t exaggerating. Word is, he’s even more breathtaking in person than he is online.”

Ethan chuckled, shaking his head as he swung the Aston Martin door open. “Let’s just go in,” he said, his voice low but amused.

The flash of paparazzi bulbs chased them as they stepped onto the velvet-carpeted path, their presence drawing subtle murmurs from the crowd. Ahead of them lay the Delula Fashion Hub House—a concerto of modern excess and architectural innovation. Glass walls rose heavenward, curving into streamlined steel supports that glittered in the flood of golden spotlight illumination. The entire building seemed to have a life of its own, pulsating with energy as if it inhaled the very anticipation of the night. A massive crystal chandelier, suspended in a cleared atrium open to the outdoors, caught the lights and splintered them into a thousand sparkling pieces, sending them out across the faces of the guest throng. Fashion banners rustled in the warm night air, each embroidered with the names of international designer heavyweights. It was not a building—it was a monument to power, luxury, and style.

“Hey, Ethan,” Chloe said suddenly, her voice snapping him out of his quiet admiration. She tugged on his sleeve, her hazel eyes mischievous. “How about we bet?”

He arched a brow, instantly wary. He knew that look. Mischief was Chloe’s second skin. “A bet, huh?”

“Yes. A bet.”

Ethan exhaled, adjusting the Boris Vicuna topcoat draped over his tall frame—an outfit Chloe had all but bullied him into wearing earlier. We’re not called the Wellmans for nothing, she had said, standing arms crossed and unyielding. We’ve got a reputation to uphold, Ethan. You’re not stepping into the Delula Fashion Feast looking anything less than the sophisticated life you were born into.

Now, standing before the glittering house with the faint bass of music thumping through the ground and the MC’s voice echoing through the speakers—Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats, the show is about to begin—Chloe leaned closer.

“Here’s the deal,” she said, eyes sparkling. “When you see Tim Dorian and when you realise he’s drop-dead gorgeous, just like I’ve been telling you. You’ll have to give me your car for the beach live party this weekend.”

“Hell no!” Ethan blurted, his deep voice startling a couple walking past them. He whipped his head toward her, incredulous. “No way in hell I’m giving you my car. You smashed the last one against a pole, remember?”

“That was an accident!” Chloe shot back, her lips curving into that disarming puppy face she knew always got to him. She leaned against his arm, batting her lashes. “Come on, big brother, please?”

Ethan groaned, pressing his lips together, but the corners betrayed him with a twitch. “Fine. But I still don’t see how this makes sense. I don’t go around looking at my fellow man like that, Chloe.”

The words came out sharp, blunt—a shield. A lie.

Inside, though, Ethan felt the familiar sting of the secret he had carried for years, buried beneath the weight of the Wellman name. His mother’s voice haunted him still—her venomous words the night she had cut ties with her dearest friend after her son came out. Disgusting. Unethical. A stain on their family’s reputation. That was the day Ethan vowed never to reveal that part of himself, not to her, not to anyone.

Chloe, blissfully unaware of the storm in her brother’s chest, looped her arm through his as they continued walking toward the luminous entrance. She lifted her free hand, sketching an imaginary portrait in the air. “Just think of it as a silly adventure with your younger sister. You’ll see, Et.—you’re gonna love him. He’s everything.” Her grin widened, radiant and unstoppable. “He’s everything, ET.”

Ethan rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, “You’re just obsessed with this Tim guy…”

Before Chloe could fire back, a tall guard in a crisp black suit stepped forward at the VVIP entrance, his tone polite yet firm. “May I see your passes, please?”

“Of course,” Chloe replied, flashing their sleek embossed invitations with a flourish. “We’ve got a seat for two—premium corner.”

The guard scanned them, then gave a respectful nod. “Welcome. Enjoy the show.”

“Oh, we intend to!” Chloe said brightly, her voice bubbling over with excitement as she hooked her arm through Ethan’s and practically dragged him inside.

The moment they crossed the threshold, Ethan felt it—the shift. The air itself seemed different in here. The cavernous interior pulsed with music and chatter, walls draped in velvet and light refracting from chandeliers that looked like constellations suspended in midair. A kaleidoscope of colours shimmered from every direction—sequins, silk, jewels, each person dressed like they were a piece of art come alive.

Ethan straightened instinctively, his reserved nature prickling. He was a man of discipline, a head-straight, eyes-forward kind of life. Nights like this—crowded, loud, indulgent were foreign to him. He had only agreed to come because Chloe’s +1 had cancelled last minute, and he had never been able to tell his sister no.

And yet… strangely, now that he was here, he found himself curious. This is Tim Dorian. His sister’s obsession had seeped into him in a way he didn’t expect. What was it about this man that had the world and Chloe so enraptured?

As they made their way to the premium corner reserved for the wealthy elite, Ethan’s eyes flicked across the room. Men—no, young men of every shape and style caught his attention. Some in sharp, tailored suits. The others brazen, unconventional, flamboyant in glinting jackets, silk scarves, or flowing gowns. Each of them wore their own individuality with unapologetic brashness, indifferent to the glares, freedom in colour and attire.

Ethan's chest squeezed. He knew instantly that this was going to be harder than he imagined. Harder to keep that part of himself locked away, hidden beneath the Wellman armour.

They settled into their seats overlooking the gleaming runway. Chloe clapped delicately, her grin wide, eyes sparkling with the same childlike joy she’d had since she was little. “It’s going to be a great night,” she whispered, her voice dancing with anticipation.

Ethan chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “Or a long night… a very long night. And it’s only beginning.”

His words trailed off as his gaze shifted across the table. There, seated just a few feet away, was a man—young, chocolate-skinned, radiant under the warm lights. His makeup was subtle but emphasised his features with an ease that didn't hesitate to cross boundaries. His attire was lavish, even provocative, silk and sequins flashing light with every slight movement. A champagne flute held in one hand as he lounged, his eyes locked boldly onto Ethan.

Their gazes locked. Time hung suspended for a moment, and then, with a wink and a cunning twitch, the man smiled.

Heat flared in Ethan’s chest. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, forcing the corner of his mouth back into stillness—trying desperately to hide the smile that wanted to break free.

Chloe saw everything. She burst into laughter so suddenly that a few heads turned their way. “Oh, Ethan… relax!” she teased, leaning into him.

“I didn’t know people were quite so… open about stuff like that now,” he muttered, his voice low, betraying both discomfort and intrigue.

Chloe grinned knowingly, her tone soft but teasing. “Come on, Et. It’s the twenty-first century. People are open about a lot of things. And besides, this is a fashion show.” She shot the man across the table a girlish wave. He returned it with a confident smile and a lazy raise of his glass.

Ethan sat back, jaw tightening, forcing himself to look away. But inside, the storm churned harder.

Just as the MC’s booming voice announced the beginning of the show—“Ladies and gentlemen, the Delula Fashion Feast begins now!”—Ethan whispered under his breath, unheard by all but himself:

“Heaven help me.”