Chapter 52: Excessive? Predictable?
The next morning at StoneTech, Chloe strutted into the design floor, hiding her sleepless night behind a coat of flawless makeup and her brightest red lipstick. Her heels clicked defiantly as if daring anyone to notice the slight drag in her step.
Damian was already there. Of course he was. Standing by his desk, flipping through his sketch book as though he had been waiting for her all morning. Which he had.
His posture was annoyingly perfect, his charcoal suit tailored within an inch of its life, and his expression unreadable.
Chloe rolled her eyes when she saw him. Was that the only suit he had? If it’s not gray, then it’s charcoal. She thought with a lazy shake of her head.
Miss Laurent had called to informed her Damian would be moving into her office in regards to them working together. Even though she didn’t like it, she’d been left with no choice.
"Miss Smith," he greeted, his tone clipped, as though they were merely colleagues, not mortal enemies locked in a creative war.
"Mr. Cross," Chloe replied with equal iciness, dropping her sketch pad onto her desk with a deliberate thud. "Did you bring your beige masterpieces, or should I brace myself for a nap?"
Damian’s eyes flicked to her, the faintest spark of irritation dancing there before he smothered it beneath cool indifference. "I see you’ve kept your sense of humor, even with those dark circles under your eyes. Or is exhaustion part of your creative process?"
Chloe’s jaw clenched, but she flashed a dazzling smile. "Funny. At least I worked hard enough to have dark circles. Some of us don’t rely on recycled tuxedo sketches and call it innovation."
For a moment, his expression almost broke, a twitch of his mouth threatening to betray amusement. But he simply set his portfolio on the edge of her desk. "Shall we, then?"
She rolled her eyes but tugged her sketch pad open. "Fine. Ladies first."
The first sheet slid across the desk between them. Chloe kept her chin high, but her heart hammered as Damian’s cool gaze swept over her designs.
Damian’s eyes lingered longer than she expected. One sketch showed a gown that cascaded like molten gold, the bodice structured but dramatic, the skirt exploding in a wave of sequins that shimmered under the light. Another featured a suit—feminine yet daring, its tailored edges softened by a cascade of silk sleeves. Each piece bore her signature: bold, theatrical, impossible to ignore.
Damian was quiet for too long. He’d known she was good but this? He’d never have expected this astonishing design from her.
Chloe arched a brow. "Well? Cat got your tongue? Or are you stunned into silence by actual creativity?"
His gaze finally lifted to hers. His face was maddeningly calm, but there was a gleam in his eyes that betrayed him—he was impressed. Very impressed but he’d die before he told her that.
"They’re... excessive," he said at last.
Chloe barked a laugh, stunned he’d ever say that. "Excessive? That’s the best you can do? Those designs are alive, Mr Cross. They breathe. They sing. They’re what people will remember long after your charcoal suits have been forgotten in a closet."
Damian’s lips twitched. "Perhaps. But fashion is not a fireworks display, Miss Smith. It’s about longevity. Timelessness. Drama fades; craftsmanship endures."
She leaned forward, her eyes flashing. "Craftsmanship doesn’t mean boring. And drama doesn’t fade—it defines eras. You’ll see."
"Very well," Damian said evenly, sliding his own folder across the desk. "Your turn."
Chloe snatched it up with mock boredom. "Let’s see the stupid design you have here to call mine excessive," she said with a scowl.
But when she flipped the first page, the taunt died on her lips.
His designs were immaculate. Clean lines that somehow radiated quiet strength, muted palettes elevated by subtle textures and detailing that spoke of precision. One suit jacket bore hand-stitched embroidery along the lapel—so minimal it whispered rather than shouted, but the artistry was undeniable. Another design paired a structured suit with an asymmetrical drape of silk, elegant and arresting in its restraint.
They weren’t lifeless. They weren’t dull. They were... powerful.
Chloe’s throat went dry. She hated it. She hated that she could see the genius behind every sketch. But he’d called hers excessive and she wasn’t going to admit to him that his designs beat her expectations.
She quickly snapped the folder shut, pretending she hadn’t lost words from staring at the designs a while ago. "Well. That was... predictable."
Damian’s brow arched. "Predictable?"
Was she joking or was that what she actually thought?
"Yes," she said breezily, though her pulse raced. "Safe, bland, utterly uninspired. If the runway theme is ’corporate board meeting chic,’ then congratulations, you’ve nailed it."
For the first time, Damian smirked, the faintest curl of his lips. "Interesting. You studied every line as if it might bite you, and yet you call it uninspired?"
Chloe’s cheeks warmed. "I studied them so I could figure out how to improve them. Don’t flatter yourself, Mr Cross."
"Improvement?" His tone dipped lower, amused now. "You mean drowning them in glitter?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Better glitter than a personality so dry it could put an insomniac to sleep."
He leaned in, close enough that she caught the faintest trace of his cologne—woodsy, sharp, irritatingly distracting. "You stayed up all night, didn’t you?"
Chloe stiffened. "What’s it to you?"
"Only an observation," he murmured. "You wear exhaustion like a badge of honor. Admirable. Though I do wonder how long your energy will last if you insist on burning yourself out in one night."
She bristled. "Don’t you dare patronize me. I could work circles around you with both eyes closed."
"I’d believe it," he said smoothly. "You look halfway there already."
Chloe gaped at him, speechless for once, before snapping her sketch pad shut. "You’re insufferable."
"And yet," he countered, his eyes holding hers, "you’re smiling."
She realized, with a jolt, that she was. A small, sharp smile tugged at her lips, betraying her irritation.
She huffed and turned away. "You’re delusional. I’m smiling because I can’t wait to watch your precious suits get swallowed alive by my gowns."
Damian’s voice followed, calm, assured. "We’ll see whose work stands when the applause fades."
They returned to their desks, their sketches spread across the desk like dueling weapons. Chloe’s colors lit up the room; Damian’s clean lines anchored them.
And though neither would admit it, their designs spoke to each other in ways they couldn’t. Her fire softened his steel; his restraint gave her chaos structure. They were opposites, infuriatingly so—but together, there was something undeniable. Perhaps that was what Miss Laurent saw.
Chloe stole glances when she thought he wasn’t looking, and each time, she caught the faintest flicker of respect in his eyes. The same respect she refused to show him aloud.
She hated him. She really did.
And yet—
As pieces of his designs flashed through her eyes, her lips curved despite herself. Tomorrow, she decided, she’d outdo him again. Even if it killed her.