Page 2 of His By Contract
Celeste raised one finger, silencing her without a word. She adjusted her diamond bracelet, letting the moment stretch until the air felt thick enough to choke on. Georgia recognized the power play, the deliberate extension of her suffering for maximum effect.
“Tell me.” Celeste’s gaze raked over Georgia’s server uniform. “Was this really the best career move after your collection failed?”
The murmurs started like a slow tide, washing through the ballroom in waves of silk and judgment. Georgia’s fingers twitched against the tray as the cold truth sank into her bones. This wasn’t about wine on a dress—this was Celeste Montgomery ensuring everyone remembered their place in her world. The calculated cruelty of it made Georgia’s blood run cold.
A woman in midnight blue silk stepped forward, her diamond earrings catching the light. “Oh, darling.” She touched Celeste’s arm with practiced grace. “These things happen. Though perhaps if the help was properly trained…” Her gaze slid over Georgia like oil on water.
The implications hung in the air. Not just about tonight, but about everything: Georgia’s small business, her dreams, her right to exist in their world at all. The casual dismissal stung worse than any direct insult could have.
A man in the back chuckled, the sound echoing off the marble floors. Two women exchanged knowing looks over crystal champagne flutes. The room shifted, invisible lines being drawn between those who belonged and those who didn’t. Georgia felt those lines cutting through her, severing her from the world she’d fought so hard to enter.
Her chest tightened as she watched her career dissolve in real time. These weren’t just party guests; they were potential clients, investors, the very people she needed to impress. And now they saw her as nothing more than hired help who couldn’t even carry a tray properly. The weight of their judgment pressed against her like a physical force.
“Such a shame,” someone whispered loud enough to carry. “I heard her designs showed promise.”
Past tense. Already dismissed. Already forgotten. Each word twisted like a knife between her ribs.
Their stares burned into Georgia’s skin, each smirk and sidelong glance another nail in the coffin of her ambitions. She stood frozen, a butterfly pinned to velvet, watching as everything she’d worked for unraveled in the space between heartbeats. Theroom seemed to spin around her, faces blurring into masks of contempt.
Georgia’s hands shook as she lowered the tray to her side. The wine stain on Celeste’s dress spread like a wound, but the real bleeding happened inside Georgia’s chest as her dreams crumbled around her. Each heartbeat felt painful, too loud in her ears.
Celeste’s lips curved into a predatory smile as she caught the eye of Marcus Sterling, owner of the city’s most prestigious design gallery. Her perfectly manicured fingers beckoned him closer. Georgia recognized the death knell in that simple gesture.
“Marcus, darling.” Celeste’s voice dripped honey-coated venom. “I think we should do everyone a favor and ensure this… person never steps foot in a respectable atelier again.”
Marcus adjusted his bow tie, his expression hardening as he assessed Georgia. “Consider it done.”
The blood drained from Georgia’s face. Marcus Sterling’s word was law in the fashion world. His approval could make careers soar, and his disapproval could bury them. The finality in his tone sent ice through her veins.
“Such a waste of space,” drawled Victoria Chen, the designer whose latest collection had just shown in Paris. She swirled her champagne, her rings catching the light. “She won’t be working with us.”
The words hit Georgia like physical blows. Victoria Chen’s studio had been her dream workplace since design school. Now that door slammed shut forever. Another piece of her future crumbled away, leaving nothing but dust.
Whispers rippled through the crowd. Phones appeared again, this time accompanied by rapid typing. Texts and emails flew between the industry’s gatekeepers. Georgia could almost see her name being struck from lists, her portfolio being deleted from consideration.
Blacklisted. The word echoed in her mind as faces turned away, as conversations shifted, as she became invisible. In the span of minutes, every connection she’d fought to build, every opportunity she’d hoped to grasp vanished like smoke. The reality of it hollowed her out from the inside.
Her throat closed as reality settled over her. She’d never design again—not in this city, not anywhere that mattered. These people would make sure of it. Years of education, countless sleepless nights, every sacrifice she’d made—all rendered worthless in moments.
Her knuckles were white against the silver surface of the tray. The urge to beg, to plead, to drop to her knees and apologize clawed at her throat, but her mother’s voice whispered in her mind.
Never let them see you break.
She lifted her chin, meeting Celeste’s stare. The woman’s perfect features twisted into something cruel, expectant. She wanted tears. She wanted Georgia to shatter right there on the marble floor. The realization of what Celeste was waiting for sparked something defiant in Georgia’s chest.
The tray trembled in Georgia’s grip. With deliberate care, she placed it on a nearby table. The soft clink of metal on wood echoed in her ears like a gunshot.
Celeste’s lips parted, another barb ready to strike. But Georgia denied her the chance. Without a word, without lowering her gaze, she turned away from the crowd of vultures who’d just destroyed everything she’d worked for. Each step dragged the full force of what had just happened behind it, but she moved anyway.
Her steps carried her across the ballroom floor. Whispers followed. Judgmental eyes tracked her retreat. But she kept her spine straight, her shoulders back, her head high. Her mother’s face floated in her mind again, nodding with fierce approval.
Only when she pushed through the service entrance did her composure crack. Tears burned behind her eyes, but she blinked them back. She wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not where they might see. The trembling started in her fingertips and spread through her body, but still she held herself together.
Her mother had taught her better than that.
The November wind cut through Georgia’s thin server’s uniform as she stumbled away from the building. Her breath came in short gasps, each inhale burning her lungs like broken glass. Behind her, the strings of classical music leaked through the walls, the sound of privilege and power continuing without pause, the same music that had flowed so elegantly while her career was being dismantled note by note.
Her fingers shook as she pulled her phone from her pocket. The screen blurred, forcing her to blink hard to clear her vision. She scrolled to Jacob’s number: her most reliable client, the one who’d promised her three wedding dress commissions nextspring. The one whose wife had smiled so warmly when Georgia had adjusted the hem of her anniversary gown just last month.
