Chapter 1

For an eight-year bet to secure my place at the altar, I spent eight years working as Julian Kingsley's free designer.

This eighth year, the silver-white mermaid gown I had poured my heart and soul into was supposed to be my battle armor.

But Julian handed it over to his fragile, cold-fearing childhood sweetheart without a second thought. He even had the nerve to guilt-trip me:

"Vivian, you’ve always been the bigger person. It’s just a dress. Don't pick a fight with Chloe."

The bigger person. What a joke.

I smiled, grabbed a bottle of red wine, and poured it over the million-dollar gown in front of everyone.

"Since it's dirty, it might as well be ruined."

While Julian stared in absolute fury, I threw my resignation in his face, turned around, and took the arm of the most dangerous man in the Upper East Side—Damian Thorne.

Everyone gasped. Julian waited, fully expecting that business-world psycho to tear me to pieces.

He didn't know that very night, Damian would pin me against the wall, his dark eyes burning as he whispered:

"Fifty million dollars to make you my wife? Baby, I just made the deal of a lifetime."

Later, when the Kingsley Group went bankrupt, Julian knelt outside my fashion show, begging me to come back.

I only gave him one sentence: "Late love is cheaper than dirt."

In front of the vanity mirror.

Julian zipped up the back of the haute couture gown. The soft metallic click sounded like a thunderclap in the dead silence of the dressing room.

And I, Vivian Vance, the head designer of the Kingsley Group and Julian’s nominal fiancée, stood in the shadows like a total outsider.

"Too tight? I had them take the waist in by two inches. Your waist is tiny, so this will really show off your curves."

Julian’s voice was low, carrying the very tenderness I used to crave so desperately.

Too bad that tenderness was directed at the girl in the mirror.

Chloe Sinclair.

Julian’s precious childhood sweetheart. She had just returned to the country, supposedly to recover from some chronic illness.

With her innocent, first-love face, she was currently spinning in front of the mirror, wearing the silver-white mermaid gown.

That dress was my masterpiece. I had spent three months, staying up until my eyes bled, overseeing every single stitch.

According to the bet I made with Julian's grandfather, Arthur Kingsley, eight years ago:

I would design eight show-stopping finale gowns for Julian’s annual galas.

If, during these eight years, he let me wear the finale gown and dance the opening waltz with him just once, I would win. My place as the future Mrs. Kingsley would be sealed.

But if the eight years passed and he never chose me, I would lose. I would have to walk away, hand over all my design copyrights, and leave the Kingsley family forever.

It was a secret known only to Arthur and me. Julian just thought I was trying to prove my talent.

For the first seven years, he always had perfect, ironclad excuses.

Year one, the company went public, and they needed a Hollywood starlet to bring in media coverage. I swallowed my pride and spent the night holding the actress's train backstage.

Year four, the daughter of our biggest client wanted the dress. I put on a smile and personally helped her adjust the double-sided tape.

Year seven, he told me, "Vivian, you don't need this cheap vanity. Your talent is the best brand itself."

I believed him back then. I thought I was special to him. A partner. An equal. I thought we didn't need those silly formalities.

But this year was the eighth year.

There was no client, no movie star, no corporate strategy.

There was only Chloe, crying that she had nothing to wear, that she was cold, and that she was too shy to meet people.

"Julian..." Chloe looked at herself in the mirror, her cheeks flushing. Then, a look of pure panic washed over her face. Through the reflection, her eyes cautiously darted toward me in the corner. "Should I really wear this? Vivian... she looks so pale. Will she be mad at me?"

Julian, who was adjusting the silver tassels around her waist, paused slightly.

He turned around, his gaze finally landing on me.

In that instant, the brief spark of admiration in his eyes vanished. It was replaced by a familiar indifference, even a hint of impatient judgment.

"Why would she be mad?"

Julian said carelessly, patting Chloe’s shoulder to soothe her. "You’re a guest, and you just had surgery. Your health is fragile, and you can't handle the cold. This fabric is thick. It’s perfect for you."

Thick fabric?

I almost laughed out loud.

To achieve the ultimate drape and sheen, I had used the most expensive heavy silk woven with metallic silver threads. Its value lay in its design and craftsmanship. In his mouth, it was reduced to a piece of "warm clothing."

"Besides," Julian retracted his gaze, his voice full of absolute certainty, "Vivian is always reasonable. She cares about the big picture. She only cares if the design looks perfect, not who is wearing it. Right, Vivian?"

Those words felt like a tight collar around my neck.

Reasonable. Mature. Understanding.

For eight years, these words had been nailed into my kneecaps, keeping me on the ground, making sure I could never stand up or fight back. I could only kneel and accept his arrangements.

I took a deep breath, digging my nails into my palms, forcing myself to stay calm.

I stepped out of the shadows, holding a luxurious velvet box in my hand.

To match this dress, I had personally flown to Italy to have an old artisan custom-make a pair of crystal heels.

"Julian."