The moment she turned off the TV, Gie couldn't sit still.
She grabbed her sketchpad, sat at her workstation, and immediately began drawing.
The ideas came fast and frenzied—bold lines, intricate details, potential gemstones that could accentuate power without arrogance. Something for his wrist this time? A custom cufflink? A chain tucked just beneath the collar of one of his perfectly tailored suits?
But as her pencil danced across the page, her hand hesitated.
Something was off.
The design was beautiful—of course it was. Her instincts were too precise, her craftsmanship too refined for anything she touched to be anything less than stunning.
And yet…
It wasn't right.
Over the next several weeks, Gie kept coming back to it.
She spent hours sketching, refining, only to crumple the page and toss it into the growing pile of discarded designs. Something was missing.
She just didn't know what.
Alina, of course, noticed.
How could she not? The overflowing trash bin. The endless torn sketches. The way Gie's usually precise movements had grown agitated, restless.
One evening, as Gie sat hunched over her desk, head in her hands, Alina leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and eyes gleaming.
"So," she drawled, "are we finally admitting that Alexander Millers has broken you?"
"Not this again," Gie groaned.
"Oh, babe. Look at yourself. You're a mess. When was the last time you finished a design without wanting to set it on fire?"
Gie exhaled, sharp and heavy. "It's just… not working."
"Maybe you need inspiration."
"That's what I've been trying to find, Alina."
Alina's grin widened. "I meant real-world inspiration."
Gie narrowed her eyes. "No."
"You don't even know what I was going to say."
"You were going to suggest going out again."
"Damn right, I was."
"Not happening."
"Come on, Gie," Alina said, stepping inside. "You're spiraling, and you know it. You need to breathe. Step outside your cave. Get some fresh air—preferably in a high-end restaurant with expensive wine and gorgeous men."
"I don't need gorgeous men," Gie muttered.
"Liar. You literally can't stop making jewelry for one."
"I swear to God—"
"Just one night," Alina cut in, voice gentler now. "No pressure. No obligations. Just you, me, and a little bit of civilization."
Gie hesitated.
She had been drowning in unfinished designs, chasing an idea that refused to take shape.
Maybe… Alina was right.
"…Fine," she muttered. "But you're paying again."
"Worth it," Alina beamed.
The restaurant was opulent.
The kind of place where the wine was older than their parents, and the food arrived in elegant, artful portions.
Gie felt lighter than she had in weeks, letting the ambiance settle into her bones as she sipped her drink.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn't thinking about failed sketches.
She wasn't thinking about him.
Until she saw him.
Seated near the back, effortlessly commanding the room, surrounded by business associates and a few stunning women—
Alexander Millers.
Her stomach tightened.
It was ridiculous. She had no reason to feel like this. And yet, her body betrayed her—heat rising up her neck, a shiver slipping down her spine.
As if he could feel her watching, he glanced up.
Gie felt like she was melting.
The restaurant buzzed around her—the hum of conversation, soft music, the clink of crystal against china—but none of it mattered.
Because he was here.
Alexander Millers. The man who lived in her sketches. Who wore her work like it had always belonged to him.
The lapel piece glinted under the soft lights, catching with every slight movement. It looked obscenely good on him, so much that Gie had to look away to stop the blush from climbing up her throat.
Alina, of course, noticed.
And she had no mercy.
"You should go talk to him," she whispered, sipping her wine.
Gie nearly choked. "What? No."
"Yes."
"No."
Alina rolled her eyes. "You made that piece for him. It's on his body. You could literally walk up and ask how he likes it."
Gie gripped her glass tighter. "He doesn't even know me personally."
"Even better," Alina smirked. "You can introduce yourself. Something like, 'Hey, Mr. Inhumanly Hot Billionaire—I've been sketching you in my dreams—wait, no, designing jewelry for you.'"
"I hate you."
"You love me," Alina shot back. "And I love that you're squirming over a man for once. It's delicious."
Gie groaned and dared a glance at him.
Alexander was speaking to someone at his table, voice low and smooth, his posture relaxed but powerful. The image of control. Of danger. Of temptation wrapped in tailored perfection.
The more she looked, the more the unfinished design in her head taunted her.
It still wasn't right.
And damn it—Alina was right, too.
Maybe if she got closer… if she saw him up close… she would know what was missing.
"I… I can't just walk up to him," she whispered.
"Why not?" Alina tilted her head. "You're the most exclusive jeweler in the country. If anything, he should be honored."
Gie's pulse thundered. "What would I even say?"
"Start with the jewelry," Alina said. "The rest will come naturally."
That was the problem.
Nothing about Alexander Millers felt natural.
Everything about him felt like a risk. A trap. A temptation dressed in sin and power.
And yet…
As their dinner ended, as they moved toward the exit, something in Gie snapped.
Her feet moved before her mind could stop them.
Alina said something—maybe another tease, maybe a final push—but she didn't hear it.
Because she was walking toward him.
Toward Alexander.
Knees weak. Hands clammy.
Like a woman in love.
Like a woman in trouble.
And so, so red.