[EVE]
Hyun swallowed hard, his expression flickering between astonishnt and hesitation. "You . . . you're letting borrow Miss Hart's dresses?"
Dean rely nodded. "It's better than nothing, right? And don't worry—it'll stay a secret between us. If this got out, both of our nas would be dragged into a ss neither of us want."
I frowned, sothing about this making uneasy. "But . . . is this really okay?" I hesitated, glancing at Hyun. "These aren't your designs, Hyun. If we use them, wouldn't that be the sa as taking credit for soone else's work? And—" my voice dropped slightly, "won't the critics recognize Miss Evangeline Hart's signature design?"
Dean leaned against the couch, unfazed. "They would. That's why we'll make modifications. Change a few details. It's faster than starting from scratch. And besides—" he smirked slightly, "with my reputation, and my mother's, no one will dare question it once I step onto that runway."
"That's insane," Fern muttered, rubbing his temples. "Dean, this is a huge risk. If soone finds out and leaks this—your image, your mother, Hyun's reputation, everything could be ruined."
Dean didn't even blink. He simply raised a hand, silencing his manager with an air of finality.
"With my family na," he said smoothly, "no one would dare leak it." There was a touch of arrogance in his tone, but the worst part was—he was probably right.
"And besides, we should take risks while we're young, right?" He grinned, a playful glint in his ash-gray eyes before he winked at .
I should have been offended by his flirtatious remark. Any other ti, from any other man, I might have rolled my eyes or brushed it off. But with him . . . it didn't feel like flirting.
It felt effortless, teasing—like he was testing the waters, seeing how I'd react. There was no heavy intention behind his words, just an easy charm that made it hard to tell whether he was simply being friendly or if there was sothing more beneath the surface.
Fern exhaled sharply, clearly losing patience. "The better idea is for them to compensate you for your ti, cancel the show, and accept responsibility for this disaster." He turned to Georgina and Hyun, expression grim. "Frankly, this is their fault."
Dean rolled his eyes. "I've already made my decision." With that, he casually sank into the couch, his eyes locking onto again. "Now, make the call. Ti is of the essence."
Fern stared at him in sheer disbelief. "This isn't like you," he muttered, shaking his head. "You never take risks like this. Not with your na. Not with your mother's."
"And this isn't like you to question my decisions," Dean countered smoothly. "Now go."
Fern hesitated for a mont longer before sighing in resignation. With one last exasperated glance at Dean, he stepped aside to make the call.
anwhile, Hyun was still frozen in place, his expression unreadable. I wasn't sure if he was in shock, awe, or sheer disbelief. Honestly, I couldn't bla him—I wasn't sure if I believed what was happening either.
Dean tilted his head slightly. "What? You don't want my mother's designs?" His lips curled up just a fraction, as if amused by our silence.
"No, it's just . . ." I trailed off, glancing at Hyun.
Hyun blinked, finally snapping out of his daze. His expression shifted—gone was the overwheld, stunned artist, replaced by a serious, thoughtful designer. "As much as I respect and admire Miss Hart's work," he said carefully, "I can't claim her designs as my own. But . . ." His brows furrowed in thought. "If it's truly alright with her, I can make the necessary adjustnts to ensure that they reflect my own style. I swear, I won't sell them."
Dean shrugged as if it were no big deal. "Do whatever you want with them. Honestly, they're just gathering dust in the storehouse. She probably wouldn't even notice that we used them."
Hyun inhaled sharply, then stepped forward and bowed deeply. "Then . . . you have my sincerest gratitude. This will save us so much ti—and it ans we can still make the show."
"Good."
Dean sat up straighter, his gaze never once leaving .
"Miss Eve, right?"
I stiffened slightly. "Ah, yes?"
I had felt his gaze on this whole ti, intense and unreadable. And while it wasn't uncomfortable, it left unsettled. There was no malice, no smugness, just . . . curiosity. Like he was trying to place .
Dean smiled—slowly, easily. The kind of smile that had probably chard hundreds of won.
"Are you free tonight?" he asked, his tone lighter than before. "Maybe you could show the best place around for dinner?"
The room fell silent.
Then—
A collective gasp.
I didn't need to look around to know exactly what they were all thinking.
So that's why he's helping us? Did he took an interest in at first sight?
I had read about his reputation before—Dean Frizkiel, notorious playboy, heartbreaker of the fashion world. But sohow . . . he didn't look the part. At least, not in this mont.
Still, I owed him for saving our show.
And besides, I was single anyway, and this would probably get my mind off Cole and the problems inside my household.
"Alright," I said, keeping my voice even.
Dean's smile widened ever so slightly, sothing almost pleased flashing in his stormy gray eyes. "Great. I'll pick you up here around seven?"
"Sure."
Another gasp.
I ignored them.
But as Dean leaned back, still watching with that unreadable gaze, I had a sinking feeling that I had just agreed to sothing much bigger than a simple dinner.
After a short eting, Dean and Fern left the office, heading back to their hotel.
I did the sa, making my way ho to prepare for dinner with him.
The dresses wouldn't arrive until tomorrow morning, which ant I had a rare window of ti—one evening where I didn't have to scramble for solutions or put out fires. No last-minute calls, no back-to-back etings, no endless stress.
Just a simple dinner.
Maybe it was exactly what I needed—one night to unwind before diving back into the chaos. Because tomorrow, the real work would begin again, and I had no doubt it would be relentless.
At least I would be busy and wouldn't be able to think about Cole . . . I hope.
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