The next morning, we didn’t talk about almost having car sex.
Because obviously, pretending nothing happened was the mature thing to do.
The silence stretched across the table like a bad wifi connection—patchy, tense, and just begging to crash.
I was the first to crack. ‘Can I ask you sothing?’
Ashton looked up. ‘Sure.’
‘I went to LGH that day, and Dominic said you were out on a date with so actress. Octavia Grey, he’d said. But then she told last night you two are just mates. So, who was the mystery woman you were actually hooking up with?’
I’d told myself I didn’t care.
Turns out I was full of shit.
His silence had been gnawing at all morning.
He was the one who’d kissed like he wanted to morise the taste of my tongue, and now he was sitting here, sipping his coffee like we hadn’t nearly dry-humped in a Maybach.
Ashton choked.
Full-on, coughing-up-a-lung choked.
He grabbed a serviette and wiped his mouth, coughing out, ‘I never went on a date with any actress. Dominic was just... talking nonsense.’
‘Right,’ I said, narrowing my eyes.
Because Dominic Everett, a man who looked like he alphabetised his Spotify playlists, just strikes as the kind of guy who randomly makes up celebrity hook-ups for fun.
Sure.
But if Ashton wanted to lie, that was his problem.
It wasn’t like our contract had a truth-telling clause.
He reached for his water and muttered, ‘Clearly I’ve been giving Dominic too little work. He’s got too much ti to be creative. I’ll dock his pay.’
Poor Dominic.
Sowhere across the city, he was probably sneezing and had no idea why his pay cheque was about to suffer.
I took it out on my toast.
Four aggressive bites in and half a slice down, Ashton glanced up again.
‘No one’s stealing your food, Mira. You can slow down.’
I gave him a smile that said ‘bite ’.
So I couldn’t ask about his secret shag partner and also couldn’t chew my carbs like a normal person?
He cleared his throat and, in that clearly-I’m-trying voice, asked, ‘Did you send the sketches to Octavia? Was she happy with them?’
‘Yeah. Sent the roughs last night. She said she loved them. I’ll tweak a few details today, and we can start sampling tomorrow. Only...’
I stared down at my empty plate.
Only I didn’t have the bloody equipnt.
No casting machine, no wax injector, no laser welder—just a pretty little sketch that couldn’t magic itself into diamonds and gold.
If I wanted BloomState to actually exist, I had to go back to Nyx Collective and use their gear.
Which ant risking a Violet Lin sighting.
And I was not in the mood for that.
Ashton must have read my mind. ‘I’ve got a friend who owns a small jewellery studio. Not as polished as Nyx, but it’ll get the job done.’
My eyes lit up. ‘That’ll be perfect. Thanks.’
It wasn’t just Violet I wanted to avoid.
It was also Savannah and the risk of her finding out I was designing red carpet jewellery for Octavia Grey.
If that got back to Nyx, I’d be labelled a traitor faster than you could say ‘conflict of interest’.
Savannah wouldn’t care—my contract said freelancer, loud and clear.
But Violet would twist it into so backstabbing, under-the-table betrayal, and I wasn’t giving her the ammo.
After breakfast, I headed over to the studio Ashton recomnded.
It was called Moss & Fla, and it was tucked behind a bakery in a part of the city where parking tickets reproduced like rabbits.
The owner, a wiry redhead in her fifties nad Lorna, greeted at the door like I was her long-lost niece.
She showed around, and insisted—twice—that I call her if I needed anything, even if it was just a different gauge of saw blade.
I liked Lorna instantly, except she had this funny look on her face when I ntioned Ashton told they were good friends.
The studio was a small place, but sharp.
Full toolkit—benches, loupes, torches, stone-setting tools—and they even cleared out a little office space for , complete with a cracked leather chair and a coffee machine.
I stuck around all morning, working.
Started with CAD to tweak the finer angles on the design, then ran a 3D print of the main pieces in wax.
The resin ca out a little rough, but it was good enough for moulding.
For the more complex elents, like the lattice settings and that hinged clasp Octavia liked, I cast a quick prototype in brass to test the functionality and make sure nothing snapped under pressure.
Used a micro-motor to clean up the edges, then soldered a sample setting just to see how the curves held under heat.
Not showroom quality, but it was taking shape.
I didn’t realise it was way past noon until my stomach growled.
The studio wasn’t close to Ashton’s house, so heading back for lunch felt like a trek.
I wandered into a nearby mall and grabbed sothing spicy—jerk chicken with rice and plantains.
Just as I sat down, plastic fork in hand, I looked up—and nearly choked on a pepper flake.
Serenna Oakley.
We hadn’t seen each other since the Laurent party.
You know, the one where I punched her in the face.
I locked eyes with my chicken and pretended she didn’t exist.
Didn’t work.
Stilettos clicked. Shadow lood. Poison perfu hit my nose two seconds before her voice did.
‘Bit far from Nyx Collective, isn’t it? What are you doing here?’
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