Beatrice POV .
The Elliott Mansion didn't feel like a home; it felt like a museum dedicated to the concept of coldness. The ceilings were vaulted, the marble floors polished to a mirror shine, and the air carried the faint, lingering scent of expensive lilies and floor wax. As I followed the silent maid through the alley, I clutched the garment bag containing the deep-red commission.
"Mrs. Elliott is in the solarium," the maid said, her voice barely a whisper. "Please wait there. "
I was led into a room of glass and wrought iron, overlooking the frozen gardens of Flensburg. Sitting on a velvet chaise lounge was Aunt Emily. She was exactly what the tabloids described: sharp, elegant, and possessed of a gaze that felt like a surgical opening of one's secrets. Beside her, a young girl, who was sketching in a notebook, her expression far too somber for someone her age.
"You're late," Emily said, not looking up from her tea.
"I was held up in traffic " I stammered, stepping forward.
"Excuses are the currency of the unsuccessful, Miss..." She trailed off, finally looking at me. Her eyes narrowed, scanning my simple dress and the way I held myself. There was a flicker of something in her expression, "Kingston, isn't it? The little seamstress from Oakhills."
"Fashion designer, ma'am," I corrected.
I unzipped the bag, revealing the crimson coat. For a moment, even Emily's icy composure faltered. The color was visceral. Kassandra looked up from her sketchbook, her eyes widening.
"It's beautiful," the girl whispered. "It looks like... like the sun."
"It's a bold choice," Emily said, standing up. She walked toward me, her heels clicking like a metronome. She reached out to touch the fabric, but as she did, the double doors of the solarium swung open.
Uncle Spencer marched in, his face still flushed with the rage of the morning's board meeting. He didn't even notice me at first.
"That boy is really hard to deal with " Spencer snapped. "He has the old man's backing, it will be very difficult to terminate the extension at Nile town, if he manages to succeed we will be lock out for another 5 years"
"Calm yourself, Spencer," Emily said' "We have a guest."
Spencer turned, his eyes landing on me. He looked me up and down, his lip curling. "A dressmaker? You're worrying about hemlines while our inheritance is being burned in a warehouse?"
"I am worrying about optics," Emily replied coolly. "Now, Miss Kingston, let's see the fit."
The next hour was a blur of pins and sharp remarks. Emily treated me like a mannequin, her comments on my common background intended to sting. But as I worked, my eyes drifted to a grand piano in the corner. On top of it sat a silver-framed photograph.
My heart stopped.
The person in the picture was the man from the hotel. He was in a sharp, charcoal suit, standing next to Tyler and the Old Master.
Lucas Elliott. The name hit me like a physical blow. I was in the lair of the man who owned half of Germany. The man who my sister had used as a weapon against me.
"Is something wrong?" Emily asked, her eyes following my gaze to the photo.
"No," I lied, my fingers trembling as I pinned the shoulder of the coat. "Just... admiring the frame."
"That is my stepson," Emily said, her voice dropping an octave. "He is the master of this house. But he doesn't care for 'pretty things,' Miss Kingston. He prefers things that are efficient. Things that don't break."
I finished the fitting in a trance. I needed to run before the front doors opened and he walked in. If he saw me, what would a man like that do to a girl like me?
"I'll have the final adjustments made by tomorrow," I said, packing my kit with frantic speed.
"Send it by courier," Emily said, turning back to her tea. "I've seen enough of you for one day."
I didn't wait for a second dismissal. I burst through the iron gates, not stopping until I was three blocks away.
Minutes after the taxi carried Beatrice away, the heavy rumble of an engine echoed in the driveway. The armored SUV pulled up, and Lucas and Tyler stepped out.
Lucas's face was smudged with the soot of the warehouse, his expression unreadable.
"I need a drink that isn't scotch," Tyler muttered, heading for the door.
Lucas stopped in the foyer. He tilted his head, his nostrils flaring slightly.
"What is it?" Tyler asked, stopping.
Lucas didn't answer. He walked toward the solarium, his eyes scanning the floor. There, near the chaise lounge where Emily had been sitting, was a small scrap of fabric.
He picked it up. He didn't know why, but as he touched the silk, that strange, localized heat bloomed in his chest again.
He leaned down, catching a faint, lingering scent in the air.
Jasmine. And rain.
"Brandon!" Lucas's voice thundered through the house, making the shadows jump.
"Sir?" Brandon appeared, breathless.
"Who was in this house?" Lucas demanded, his hand tightening around the red scrap until his knuckles turned white. "In the last hour. Who was here?"
"A... a tailor, sir. For Mrs. Emily," Brandon stammered. "A girl from Oakhills."
Lucas looked at the scrap of fabric, then out at the dark Flensburg sky.
"Get the name," Lucas whispered. "Now."