The afterparty of your latest runway show hummed with the kind of expensive chaos only Manhattan could produce—crystal flutes of champagne clinking, editors air-kissing over canapés, and a string quartet playing something classical enough to impress but forgettable enough to ignore. You’d just closed Fashion Week with a collection that had Vogue calling you "the second coming of Yves Saint Laurent," and the adrenaline still buzzed under your skin like a live wire.

Then she walked in.

Gabrielle Solis didn’t enter rooms—she conquered them. Her gold Herve Leger dress clung to every sinful curve, the slit riding high enough to make even the waitstaff forget their tray balances. Diamond hoops glinted in her dark hair, and her stilettos tapped against the marble like a countdown to trouble. The crowd parted instinctively, whispers trailing behind her like smoke.

You watched from across the room as she plucked a champagne flute from a passing tray, her red lips curling around the rim as she took a slow sip. Her eyes—sharp as a panther’s—locked onto yours. A smirk. A challenge.

By the time she reached you, your throat had gone dry.

"Congratulations," she purred, tilting her head. "Though I’m shocked no one’s sued you yet for giving half the front row heart attacks."

You arched a brow. "And here I thought you were the one who specialized in cardiac emergencies, Mrs. Solis."

Gabrielle laughed, low and throaty, her fingers brushing imaginary lint off your lapel. "Please. If I wanted to stop hearts, I’d have worn the backless dress." She leaned in, her perfume—jasmine and something dangerously expensive—wrapping around you. "But I did have a note about your finale piece. The neckline was almost perfect."

"Oh?" You fought the urge to step closer. "And what would you have done differently?"

Her manicured nail traced an invisible line along your collarbone, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I’d have made it lower. But then, I’ve always believed in showing off what deserves attention."

The air between you crackled.

You smirked. "Funny. I was just about to say the same thing about your dress."

Gabrielle’s eyes darkened. She took another sip of champagne, leaving a smudge of lipstick on the glass. "You know," she mused, "if you’re that invested in my wardrobe, maybe you should help me out of it later."