Scorned Love: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Scorned Fate)
Scorned Love: Chapter 7

The SOS from Xander came at nine a.m. It was a Monday, a week after we’d moved in to the De Lucci Transnational building. I’d been planning to take it easy around the loft and maybe spend the morning scoping out furniture. I had spent most of Sunday taking behind-the-scenes photos and footage for our webpage and Donateka’s social media that I could schedule this week.

“I’ll see what the crisis is,” I told Trevor when he dropped me off forty-five minutes later. “Maybe they don’t need me for long.”

I couldn’t really imagine what it was unless a model backed out again. I hoped not. All of them seemed excited when they signed the contracts. When I entered our studio, all I saw were models, Xander, and the photographer standing around.

“What’s the crisis?” I looked around. Bianca was standing off to the side, looking pissed. The rest of the models looked bored.

“Tracy is late,” Xander informed me.

“What?” I noticed our top-signed model was missing. She was a curvy model who recently wowed at the Milan fashion show. “Did she leave a message?”

“Oh, she’s in the building,” Xander said. “She ran into Nico and apparently they’re old friends.”

The “old friends” comment was so obvious. My cousin turned to Bianca. “Care to finish the clusterfuck since you witnessed the whole thing?”

“Olga arrived in reception at the same time we did,” Bianca said. A sense of foreboding wrapped its frozen fist around my heart. “But Nico barely paid any attention to her and instead let Tracy drape all over him.”

“Olga was due for a fitting. I made this purple bustier for her.” Xander pointed to the gorgeous creation that was fitted over a dress form. “Guess what?”

“She bailed.” I scratched my brow. “Hopefully, she’ll get over it and come back.”

“She’s a diva, Ivy,” Xander said. “She was insulted. She sent me a text as her RSVP to our show saying she wasn’t making it. So you’re down a front row A-lister.”

I’d worry about that later. “And where’s Tracy?”

“Nico’s office,” Bianca said. “I’ll be working with Tracy and I don’t want any friction.”

“You don’t want to barge into something you can’t unsee,” I commented dryly. “Well, I don’t have that problem.”

Without another word, I spun on my stilettoed heel and marched back to the elevators. Maybe I could crash in there and make a Nico sex tape and post it to my feed. I hadn’t seen him in a week, but I knew he was lurking around. I didn’t care. I tried not to think about our encounter in the elevator, and how I’d felt the evidence of his boner. It just made me hot and throbbing all over, but I refused to gratify that misplaced lust by using my BOB. No way was I giving him the power to invade my thoughts and desires that way. It would only prove disastrous for the next time we were in the same room.

I stomped my way down the hallway of the twenty-second floor and spotted Jonas. He was Matteo and Nico’s admin.

“Your boss in?”

The horrified amusement on his face didn’t deter me. “Er…”

“Never mind, I know the way.” I was in a self-righteous mood. Tracy was being paid by the hour and she was late, and I didn’t know how I felt about the singer bailing on us. I wasn’t too keen on Olga, but she was Xander’s muse. I just needed to figure out something else.

When I reached Nico’s office, I did chicken out and didn’t simply storm inside. I pounded on the door, gave the handle a wiggle before I opened it.

Nico was sitting behind a dark wood desk. Tracy stood beside him, slightly leaning.

“Miss Wu, this is a surprise,” Nico drawled.

“Is it?” I shot back. “You have someone of mine.”

“Oh, relax, Ivy.” Tracy leaned over and kissed Nico on the mouth. “I’ll see you around, darling.”

Tracy sashayed past me and out of the office. I wasn’t about to berate her about professionalism. She was a hot commodity and was a diva like Olga. Obviously, Nico had a type.

He didn’t budge from his seat. “You need something?”

I was fuming. No. I was past fuming. I was a fire-breathing dragon, and I wanted to singe this asshole’s perfect hair to ashes.

I stalked toward his desk, planted my hands on it, and leaned forward. “Stay away from my models.”

“Tracy and I are old friends.”

“Is ‘old friends’ euphemism for fuck buddies?”

“Take it how you like.”

“You have a smudge of lipstick on your mouth.”

Nico did nothing but tilt that maddening grin of his to full-on mockery.

“You’re so proud of yourself, aren’t you?” I sneered. “You think you have this superpower?”

An arrogant brow arched. “Superpower?”

“To make half the women in Manhattan drop their panties.”

“And are you part of that half?”

Instead of answering him, I said, “Do you know what my superpower is?”

“Kung fu with sticks?”

A growl rose from my throat. “I’m immune.”

“Are you saying you’re immune to me?”

“Yes. I’m immune to your stupid condescending smirk, your stupid hair, and that jawline that women fawn over.”

“They’re talking about my jawline?” Nico looked like he was about to crack up laughing.

“The tabloids are stupid.”

“It seems everything to do with me is stupid,” Nico mused.

“So, yes, I’m immune to you. Stay away from the third floor.”

I spun around and strode to the door, but I never made it.

Nico grabbed me by my elbow, and I reflexively sent my palm flying, but he caught it, too.

We stumbled toward the entrance. He kicked the door closed and gripped both my wrists behind me and used his hips to lock me in. And to my horror, arousal pulsed between my legs, and my nipples hardened.

“Don’t head-butt me,” he warned.

“I’m not an idiot,” I panted. “It’ll probably hurt me more than you.”

“And don’t kick me in the nuts, either.”

“You have me locked down. Bravo, Mr. De Lucci.” I despised how my words came out in a husky breath, leaving no doubt of the state of my arousal. Because instead of outrage, I was fighting against the urge to climb his suit-clad body like a sex addict needing an orgasm. I probably should have given in to my BOB. Now I was paying the price of pent-up abstinence.

No, Ivy, he’s the enemy.

“What do you want?” I injected irritation back into my voice.

“Tracy is an old friend. I saw her last week. We had drinks. We keep in touch.”

“I don’t care if you’re fucking each other’s brains out, as long as it’s not on my dime.”

“Listen. Olga has been blowing up my phone.” Annoyance threaded his tone. “She said she was meeting Xander and thought we could have lunch afterward.”

“A lunchtime hookup. You can say it.”

“Tracy has a boyfriend and it’s serious. She just agreed to help me discourage Olga.”

I didn’t know why that gave me a whoosh of relief. “Just so you know, that cost us a front-row A-lister.”

He dropped his forehead to mine. My heart pounded at the intimate gesture.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Confusion confiscated my breath. What was he apologizing for? The undertone felt like he was sorry for more than Donateka losing Olga’s support. Was it about Tracy being late for work? Or…I faced a question I was avoiding. Was it because Tracy kissed him?

I stared into his turbulent gaze, seeing my reflection in his eyes. I struggled not to drop my eyes to his mouth, which was, again, a whisper from mine.

I couldn’t be jealous. Not regarding Nico. He made a point of telling me he and Tracy were friends. Almost as if he owed me that explanation. He didn’t. We weren’t anything. Even after we shared an almost kiss in the elevator.

Self-preservation had me gritting, “Next time, don’t entangle your love life with other people’s business. Now, let me go.”

He leaned back and eyed me for long seconds, as if he wanted to say more but thought better of it. He stepped away, released me, and opened the door.

I fled from his office, but instead of taking the elevators, I went straight into the stairwell. I descended flights of stairs to rein in my jumbled thoughts, cursing Nico for my pounding heart and unregulated breathing.

I repeated the mantra in my head.

I am not attracted to Nico.

I am not attracted to Nico.

I am not attracted to Nico.

I wasn’t sure what level I rode the elevator again, but by the time I reached the third floor, bigger problems shoved away my personal ones. The mood in the studio chilled my overheated flesh. It was almost as if I’d walked into a funeral home, hushed and gloomy with the lack of loud chatter I had come to expect. Instead, furtive murmurings buzzed around me.

Everyone was trying to give Xander space. He sat in one corner staring at his drawing board. My cousin lost his muse. And to an artist, losing his inspiration was the equivalent of death. We needed to jumpstart his enthusiasm with the ultimate front-row audience.

But then I’d have to call the person I’d avoided for six years. I reluctantly dug out my phone and brought up his phone number. I didn’t know why I hadn’t deleted it.

My thumb wavered over the button that would reconnect me to my past. A past I hated to revisit. I glanced at Xander. At the cloud of doom hovering over his head, furrowing his brows, and tensing his mouth.

I unblocked the number and called him.

He answered on the third ring. A deep baritone that made me shiver, and I didn’t know whether it was from trepidation or from my past response to him.

“Ivy…kitten…is that you?”

It took me a heartbeat and an exhalation before I responded. “Yes. Can we talk?”

Edward Sinclair’s family owned Sinclair Media Group (SMG). A powerhouse conglomerate traded on the NYSE with diversified businesses in media and entertainment. They were the parent company of Glamourique. Which meant Edward Sinclair was the boss of the editor who was snubbing our fashion week collection.

And he was my last resort.

He was my ex-lover and the reason for the broken pieces I’d painstakingly repaired in the past six years. I wasn’t sure if I was all healed. All my succeeding relationships lived in the shadow of what he had done.

I refused to let him pick me up at the loft. I just wanted to meet for drinks, but he insisted on dinner if I wanted an audience. It was typical Edward manipulation. I was older now, but I wasn’t sure if I was wiser.

I entered the swanky Leroche Tavern. I didn’t even have to identify myself to the maître d’.

“Mr. Sinclair is waiting for you, Miss Wu.”

I glanced behind me at Trevor. “I’ll be fine. You can leave me here and—”

“I’ll be at the bar,” my bodyguard interrupted unequivocally. I didn’t argue. When it came to duties, these guys were by the book.

The seating hostess led me through the tavern and into the dining room. A quieter area where people could enjoy the famed Michelin star tasting menu.

Edward rose from behind the white polyester-covered tabletops and smiled at me. What could only be a Savile Row tailored suit clothed his physique. Tall and lean, Edward’s angular face was blessed with attractive patrician features. The wisps of gray at his temples were more prominent. I had found those sexy once. He’d been thirty-nine to my nineteen when we had our six-month affair. We didn’t part in the most ideal ways. He broke up with me and I begged him to stay. Then afterward, when I’d come to my senses, he begged me to take him back, so persistent, it would qualify as stalkerish. I fled to Hong Kong and missed a semester of college. Daniel didn’t know the reason, only that I needed a break from my studies.

All these thoughts only escalated the thundering in my heart, so by the time I reached the table, I was ready to call the whole thing off.

“Ivy…” As usual, Edward’s eyes were alert and noted my desire to bolt.

“I think this is a mistake.”

“No.” His eyes met the maître d’. “Leave us.”

I stared at the place settings on the table. A finger tipped up my chin, and I stared into grayish-blue eyes that could turn stone cold in an instant.

“Have dinner with me at least,” he said quietly. “We can talk. We don’t have to mention the past.”

He probably felt me giving in, so he pulled a chair out for me. I wasn’t willing to open the Pandora’s box of memories.

The second we were both seated, a waitstaff came to the table. “May I take your drinks?”

“I have your favorite cabernet,” Edward told me. “Do you prefer it with dinner?”

“Yes, please.” I smiled briefly, then scanned the drink menu. “I’ll have the virgin mojito.”

“The wine for dinner,” Edward told the server. “A Tom Collins for me.”

“Very good, sir. Would you like the tasting menu for dinner?”

“Ivy?” Edward asked.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” I was surprised he actually asked me. Edward always ordered for me. I guess, in that regard, he wasn’t treating me like before.

As the server disappeared to take care of our orders, an awkward silence descended on our table.

I fiddled with the napkin wrapped around the silverware. I could feel his gaze on me. I unwrapped the napkin and put it on my lap before I met his eyes. It had been six years. He was as handsome as ever, but there were brackets around his mouth, a harshness around his features.

He gave me an assessing gaze followed by a brief chuckle. “You look beautiful.”

“You haven’t changed much either.”

“Married and divorced within a year.”

I circled the rim of my water glass and took a sip. Afterward, I tried to be honest, “You’re not meant for marriage, Edward.”

“Ouch.” He made a production of wincing. “We agreed not to talk about the past. Maybe let’s start with why you called.”

“I kind of feel horrible now,” I admitted.

“I did say to call me if you needed anything.”

I gave a shaky laugh. “After six years?”

He gave a bemused shake of his head. “Doesn’t feel that long to me.”

We were veering back into memory lane again. We probably needed to address what happened between us, but didn’t have to if nothing would come from our talk. Let the dead stay buried. I exhaled a fortifying breath. “You know why I called, Edward. You’re not one to head into a discussion without being prepared. But just so there’s no confusion about what this is, it’s about Donateka’s exposure in Glamourique.”

He gave a small smile. “Marie giving you a hard time?”

Marie Pierre was the editor of Glamourique. For the past thirty years in the prestigious magazine’s history, she was high fashion’s kingmaker and queenmaker. She worked miracles. Took a designer from the depths of obscurity and, within a short period, turned him into an icon. Xander was already making waves, but my cousin and Donateka could reach unprecedented heights in the cutthroat ready-to-wear market with a blessing from Marie herself.

If a designer wanted to make it in the big four fashion capitals—Paris, Milan, London, and New York—they had to capture her attention. In a way, we were starting from scratch. We were huge in Asia, but we still had to make it in the big four. Haute couture wasn’t our goal, but ready-to-wear with class was.

“I can’t get an audience with her,” I said.

“Same with other fashion houses,” he said. “I could put in a word for you. I could even be a little on the side of pushy. Marie might balk, and I don’t want her threatening to quit.” He lowered his voice. “She won’t quit, but Sinclair Media agreed not to interfere with the way she ran things.”

I bit my bottom lip. “We’re kind of hoping for front-row seats.”

Our server chose that time to return with our drinks. Just as well. It spared us another awkward moment. I balked at special treatment, but I was telling myself I was doing this for Xander.

After Edward took a sip of his drink, he said, “Tell me why she should give you a look-see.”

I launched into a brief description of our brand. Elegant and functional. “Not a lot of these named brands can claim that. We have a patent pending on our fabric that makes it possible to stretch without looking like spandex. Our Irina bustier is a hit just like our long ruffled skirt from last winter’s collection. It looks expensive because our fashion house is picky about fabric selection and structure. We don’t take shortcuts in fabrication. We don’t want logos to sell our brand. When a person sees our clothes, they immediately know they’re seeing quality. They’re meant to last and become vintage pieces. Exactly the type of stealth wealth that is so readily bandied around nowadays.

“And our show will have the most diverse cast of models ever seen to date. There was a decline of size diversity in the last fashion week.”

“It doesn’t hit the target demographic.”

“What do you mean? Any person above a size 0 doesn’t have the right to good fashion?”

Edward leaned back in his seat and drummed his fingers. “That’s just the reality of it, Ivy, but as we can see, times are changing.”

“Exactly.”

“That could be the angle for your pitch.”

“You’re going to help me?”

“Of course, there was no question about that. I just wanted you to give me a solid plan to take to Marie.” He drained his drink, and did a smacking sound of his lips, as if he was ready to work. “So, what else do you have?”

So I told him.