Rouge & Rival

The door to my office opens without a knock. I don’t look up. The sketches on my desk demand everything I have, and the fit model is waiting in the next room, shivering in a half-finished gown that’s already three days behind.

“Miss Hford.”

Not “Ms. Hford.” Not “Madame.” Miss. Like I’m a schoolgirl who’s been called to the headmaster’s office. I let the silence stretch, let the pencil scratch against the paper until the point snaps.

I still don’t look up.

“You’re late,” I say. “Your first day. Nine o’clock sharp. It’s nine seventeen.”

“My train was delayed.”

Now I look. And I hate that I look.

He’s tall. Too tall. The kind of tall that makes a woman in six-inch heels feel like she’s standing in a hole. Broad shoulders under a suit that fits him the way expensive suits fit men who don’t need them to look good. Dark hair, short on the sides, longer on top. And his eyes. Blue. Not my blue. Not the pale, washed-out blue of someone who’s spent their life indoors. His is the blue of a winter sky, sharp and cold and unapologetic.

I hate him already.

“I don’t care about your train,” I say. “I care about my schedule. You’re on probation for the next thirty days. That means you arrive before I do and leave after I do. You answer my calls within two rings. You anticipate my needs before I voice them. You don’t make excuses.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t drop his gaze. Most people do. They look at the floor, at the wall, at anything but me. Not him. He holds my stare like he’s weighing me, like I’m the one who needs to prove something.

“Understood,” he says. His voice is low, steady. No tremor. No deference. “Anything else?”

Yes. Don’t be attractive. Don’t stand there like you own the room. Don’t make me want to ruin you just to watch you break.

“Your desk is outside. Lydia will show you where the coffee is. I take mine black, one sugar, served before I ask for it. If you bring me the wrong order, I’ll know. And I won’t be pleased.”

He nods once. Turns. Walks out.

I watch him go. I shouldn’t. But I do. I watch the way his jacket pulls across his back when he moves, the way his shoulders fill the doorframe. I watch until the door clicks shut, and then I sit there, pencil in hand, sketch unfinished, and I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Interest.

It’s dangerous. I know it’s dangerous. I’ve built my life on control, on the careful architecture of distance. My lovers come and go. They don’t stay. They don’t get close. They’re bodies, warm and temporary, filling the space between midnight and three in the morning. I choose them. I dismiss them. I never let them see the woman who eats alone in her flat, who drinks wine from the bottle because setting a glass feels too much like pretending.

But this one. This one looks at me like I’m not a queen. Like I’m just a woman. Like he’s not afraid.

I should fire him. Right now. Call HR, tell them it’s not working, send him back to whatever hole he crawled out of. I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again.

Instead, I pick up my pencil and finish the sketch.

The morning passes in a blur of fittings and fabric swatches and the endless negotiation of hemlines. My team moves around me like I’m the sun. They orbit, they absorb my heat, they burn if they get too close. That’s how I like it. That’s how it’s always been.

At noon, I walk out of my office and find him at his desk. He’s on the phone, speaking in low, even tones. Something about a delivery. Something about a supplier who’s trying to back out of a contract. He’s handling it. Without me. Without asking.

I stand in the doorway and watch him work. He doesn’t notice me at first. He’s focused, his brow slightly furrowed, his pen moving across a notepad. He’s competent. I hate that too.

He looks up. Sees me. Doesn’t flinch.

“Your coffee,” he says, nodding toward the cup on the corner of his desk. “I had Lydia bring it. It’s been sitting for twelve minutes. I’ll make you a fresh one.”

“Don’t bother. I’m going out.”

“Where?”

I blink. No one asks where I’m going. No one questions my movements. I’m Penelope Hford. I go where I want, when I want, and the world rearranges itself to accommodate me.

“That’s not your concern,” I say.

“It is if you expect me to manage your schedule. I need to know when you’ll be back, who you’re meeting, and what you need from me in the interim.”

I step closer. Close enough to smell him. Something clean, something woodsy. Something that makes my stomach tighten.

“Let me be clear,” I say, my voice low. “You don’t manage me. You assist me. There’s a difference. And if you forget it again, you’ll be out that door before your probation ends.”

He holds my gaze. Those blue eyes don’t waver.

“I understand,” he says. “But I’m not your doormat, Miss Hford. I’m your assistant. That means I make your life easier. But it doesn’t mean I’ll let you walk all over me.”

I should slap him. I should fire him. I should do something that reasserts my authority, that reminds him who holds the power in this room.

Instead, I feel a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. I suppress it.

“We’ll see,” I say. And I turn and walk away.

The rest of the day is a blur. By seven, the studio is empty. The seamstresses have gone home. The interns have clocked out. Even Lydia, my senior assistant, has fled to whatever life she lives when she’s not catering to my whims.

I’m alone in the fitting room, staring at a gown that isn’t right. The draping is off. The color is wrong. I’ve been working on it for six hours, and it’s still not right, and I want to scream.

“You’re still here.”

His voice. I don’t turn around.

“Go home, Colin.”

“It’s late. You should eat something.”

“I don’t need you to mother me.”

“I’m not mothering you. I’m stating a fact. You’ve been in here since I arrived. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t taken a break. And you’re about to ruin that dress because you’re too tired to see straight.”

I spin around. The pins in my hand catch the light.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I say. “You’ve been here one day. One day. You don’t get to lecture me about my habits or my work or my life. You don’t get to stand there and pretend you understand what it takes to run this company.”

He doesn’t step back. He doesn’t apologize.

“You’re right,” he says. “I don’t know you. But I know exhaustion. I know what it looks like when someone is running on fumes. And I know that the dress you’re working on is beautiful, but it’s not going to be finished tonight. Not like this.”

I want to argue. I want to throw something. I want to prove him wrong.

But he’s right. And I hate him for it.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go home. But don’t think this means anything. Don’t think you’ve won.”

He smiles. A small, infuriating smile.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I grab my coat. I walk past him without looking back. But I feel his eyes on me the whole way, and I know, with a certainty that settles in my chest like a stone, that this is only the beginning.