They laughed at a plus-size seamstress when her stepsister ripped the only dress her late mother had left her—

Over the next week, the Arts District studio became a fever dream of creation.

Hattie barely noticed the passage of day and night. She was possessed by a creative fire she had never known existed within her. With the midnight-blue silk, layers of gossamer silver tulle, and rich, structured velvets, she crafted eight breathtaking looks.

Each gown was an anthem of reclamation. They were garments designed to celebrate the female form in all its sovereign weight and curves. There were gowns with sweetheart necklines supported by internal boning, skirts that flowed like ocean waves, and jackets embroidered with intricate, soaring swallows rendered in platinum, hematite, and sapphire thread.

Ennio ensured she lacked for nothing. He imported specialized steam irons from Milan, vintage French trims from private collectors, and kept a rotating guard outside the studio twenty-four hours a day.

Late on the third night before the gala, Hattie was standing before the grand dress form, hand-stitching the bodice of the centerpiece gown—a breathtaking ballgown of midnight blue silk that shifted to deep violet under the light, featuring an off-the-shoulder neckline draped with silver swallow wings.

Her fingers were cramped. She winced, rubbing her temples as exhaustion finally threatened to overwhelm her.

Warm hands gently took the needle from her grip.

Ennio set the needle down on the magnetic dish. Without asking, he took her right hand, lifting it to his lips. He pressed a warm, lingering kiss to the scarred knuckle of her index finger.

Hattie felt a jolt of pure electricity shoot straight up her arm and settle deep in her lower stomach. Her breath hitched.

"Ennio..."

"You need to rest, *mia cara*," he whispered, his dark eyes glowing with a heat that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with the woman standing before him.

"I can't," she breathed, her heart hammering against her ribs. "The gala is in forty-eight hours. Blair and Victoria are desperate. I know they're planning something. If this collection isn't flawless, they'll say I’m an amateur who hid behind a mobster."

Ennio stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her waist. He pulled her against his solid, unyielding chest, letting her feel just how much space she occupied in his arms—and how perfectly she fit there.

"No one who sees this work will call you an amateur," he said, his voice deep and rough with emotion. "You are a queen, Hattie. And I don't give a damn about Maison Kincaid or Dario Moretti. The only reason I care about this show is because I want the entire world to see what I already know."

"What do you know?" she asked, barely able to breathe.

Ennio tilted her chin up with his thumb, forcing her to look into the raw, unguarded depth of his eyes.

"That you are the most magnificent woman I have ever laid eyes on," he said fiercely. "When I knelt in that ballroom to pick up that scrap of silk, I thought I was paying a debt to a ghost. But the moment I looked into your eyes, Hattie, I forgot the past. I only wanted a future. With you."

Tears sprang to Hattie’s eyes—not of sorrow, but of a joy so intense it felt almost terrifying.

For all her life, she had believed she was an afterthought, an unlovable shadow meant to serve the beautiful people of the world. But in Ennio’s arms, under his fierce, reverent gaze, she felt desired. She felt precious.

"Ennio," she whispered, her hands rising to touch the sides of his rugged face, feeling the prickle of his evening stubble beneath her fingertips.

He didn't wait. He leaned down and captured her lips with his own.

The kiss was neither tentative nor polite. It was deep, hungry, and possessive, carrying the weight of twenty-five years of solitude and five days of agonizing restraint. Hattie gasped into his mouth, melting against him as his hands splayed across the curve of her lower back, pressing her flush against his hardness.

She kissed him back with everything she had—all her repressed passion, all her longing, all the beauty she had poured into her silks now rushing straight into him.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Ennio rested his forehead against hers, his hands still trembling slightly against her waist.