Semua Bab FALLING FOR THE COLD BILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR: Bab 61 - Bab 70

VivianThe afternoon sunlight spilled lazily through the wide glass windows of my studio, casting soft streaks across the scattered rolls of fabric. The air smelled faintly of coffee and fresh linen, the kind of scent that made everything feel possible.Yvonne was perched on my worktable, cross-legged, flipping through one of my sketchbooks. “You know,” she said, tapping her pen against her lips, “if this collection doesn’t make you Avron’s next big thing, I’ll eat that silk scarf.”I laughed under my breath. “You won’t. It’s imported.”She grinned. “Then I’ll just wear it dramatically while crying at your fashion week debut.”That made me smile — a small, fragile one, but real. It had been weeks of no sleep, endless fittings, invoices, and endless second-guessing. But today, for once, I felt light. The first batch of the dresses — my first official line — was finally on the way. It was like breathing after being underwater for too long.Yvonne tossed her pen aside. “So when’s the big

VivianThe studio smelled like fabric and burnt coffee again.It was a good sign—normal, messy, alive.A week had passed since the accident. Seven days of meetings, re-ordering fabrics, re-drawing sketches from scratch. I was still behind schedule, but for the first time, it didn’t feel impossible.Half of the damaged dresses had been sent to a repair team that Vincent somehow convinced to work double shifts. The rest—I decided to start again, from zero.I rolled up my sleeves, set my coffee aside, and studied the mannequin in front of me. The fabric draped over it wasn’t perfect, but it was progress.Yvonne’s voice broke through my thoughts. “If I see one more sketch of that neckline, I’m calling an intervention.”I turned, smiling faintly. “You’d have to catch me first.”She laughed, dropping her bag on the couch. “You haven’t slept properly, have you?”“Sleep is for people not debuting a collection in four weeks,” I muttered, adjusting a seam.Yvonne shook her head. “You do realize

VincentThe office was quiet, the hum of the city far below my floor, and for once, I wasn’t thinking about contracts or projections. My mind was on her.Vivian.Her first PR event was in two days, and I had been pacing between meetings all day, wondering how to mark the occasion. I wanted to do something meaningful, something that showed her I wasn’t just… observing from a distance. But what? Flowers? A note? Neither felt like enough.I leaned back in my chair, trying to organize my thoughts, and Damon, as always, noticed.“What do you think I can get Vivian for her PR event?” “Still thinking about what to do for her?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he leaned casually against the doorframe.“I don’t know,” I admitted, running a hand through my hair. “I want it to be… something that matters. Something more than the usual congratulations.”Damon smirked knowingly. “You’re overthinking it.”I shot him a look. “I am not.”“Uh-huh.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Look, why don’t yo

VivianI’d read somewhere that the night before something life-changing, sleep becomes optional.That’s exactly how it felt.I tossed around until dawn, staring at the faint city glow through my curtains, Vincent’s message from last night still sitting on my screen.You’ll be amazing tomorrow, Vivian.He’d sent it after midnight, probably after we got back, and somehow it still made my heart flutter like I was sixteen again. I didn’t reply. I just stared at it until I fell asleep with my phone on my chest.By morning, I was a mix of exhaustion and adrenaline.This was it. My first-ever PR event as a designer. The official debut of Vivian Kim.⸻The small ballroom in Avron’s city center wasn’t anything grand, but to me, it might as well have been the Met Gala.Rows of seats faced a narrow runway, soft jazz played in the background, and racks of my clothes lined the side walls.Each piece felt like a heartbeat—stitched, pressed, and perfected with trembling hands.Yvonne was everywhere,

VivianI wasn’t sure what to expect when Vincent texted me that morning.Vincent: Dinner tonight. 7PM. Don’t ask questions.No explanation, no emoji — just pure Evans-style directness.Still, something in my chest fluttered.Ever since our road trip, things between us had changed. We hadn’t exactly labeled what we were — but the way he looked at me, the small gestures, the messages that came at odd hours — they all meant something.Still, I hadn’t confirmed anything. Not out loud. Not yet.So when I found myself standing in front of my mirror that evening, fussing with my earrings for the fifth time, I told myself it was just dinner.Except even I didn’t believe that.⸻He was waiting by his car when I stepped out of the elevator.Vincent Evans — in a charcoal suit, no tie, sleeves rolled just enough to show the hint of a watch I’d once teased him about being too expensive to wear casually.“Hey,” I greeted.His lips curved. “Hey. You look… stunning.”“You look like you practiced that