I was grateful Ashton had taken over the company. I was.
But staying here —being the face of the brand, walking around with a title that didn’t belong to me—it was already messing with my head.
I hadn’t designed a single new piece since the buyout.
My ideas felt second-guessed before they even reached the sketchpad.
While I was debating whether I could fake an allergy to the paint fumes and flee, my phone buzzed.
Bank notification. Another two million had landed.
Monthly transfer, on schedule.
I hadn’t even used the last batch.
Okay, I had bought some clothes, a few handbags. That was it.
Add the ten million Ashton had wrangled out of his father and evil stepmother back at that birthday dinner, and my account was now sitting pretty at just under fifteen million.
I stared at the number.
My fingers started moving before my brain caught up.
A studio. My own. Small, focused, mine.
Even with Skyline’s real estate prices, where a black market heart transplant might be cheaper than your own flat, I could still afford a decent space with the money I had now.
And I would have enough left over to cover everything else: staff, furniture, utilities, casting tools, inventory.
I could make it a niche brand—custom commissions, limited drops, high-end but personal.
If I could convince Octavia to mention my studio in her post, we’d have credibility from day one.
I wouldn’t need investors. I wouldn’t owe anyone anything.
It was what I used to dream about.
Now it didn’t just feel possible—it felt overdue.
I couldn’t sit still.
Pacing, as much as the space allowed me to, I was about to call Ashton, then figured, given the time of day, he was probably in a meeting.
I switched to text instead.
He replied before I sat down.
[Do whatever you want. You have my full support. Go for it.]
I read it again. And again.
My fingers curled around the phone.
A slow heat spread through my chest, steady and grounding, like the rush you get after stepping into a hot shower on a freezing day.
I felt settled. Clear-headed. Ready to tear the world a new one.
Then I messaged Yvaine.
[Thinking about opening my own studio. Thoughts?]
Yvaine: [Finally. I’ve been waiting for you to get out of Nyx Collective. When Octavia tagged you last month, I heard a bunch of brands were sniffing around.]
Me: [They were all tiny. None better than Nyx.]
Yvaine: [Which is why you should do your own thing. Pick a space. Don’t just sit around in that sad office.]
‘I’ve got time this week,’ she said. ‘Bored out of my mind. Let’s go location hunting.’
We met that afternoon.
The next day, we found the place.
One street over from Nyx, tucked between a tea shop and some massage place with tinted windows.
It used to be a florist. The owner was moving away and needed to let it go fast.
There was a huge glass window out front, clean and high. The sunlight came straight through, bright and even.
The walls were pale cream, no weird murals or tacky decals.
Just a clean space that smelled faintly of eucalyptus.
There was a narrow staircase tucked into the back wall that led up to a second floor.
I could already see it—guest lounge, private client meetings, maybe even a coffee bar if I had money left over after the renovations.
I walked around twice, touching the walls, checking the flooring for squeaks, looking at the wiring.
Big enough without feeling empty. Modern finishes, decent layout, and no stupid columns in the middle of the room.
Yvaine liked it too. Mostly because across the street, there was a cake shop also up for grabs.
‘I’m taking that one,’ she said immediately. ‘If I run a bakery, maybe my mum will stop accusing me of freeloading. And Emmett can shut the hell up for once.’
‘You and Emmett still at war?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘He said I’m an idiot, called me immature. He barely talks to me now. Won’t even look at me if we’re in the same room. But he’s full of shit. I’m his only sister. He’ll come crawling back when I’m rich.’
She pushed her hair off her face and grinned. ‘Once I’m the boss of a whole empire, he’ll be the one begging for meetings.’
‘An empire built on cakes?’
‘Why not? Frederick Belmont could do it. Why not me?’
That spark in her voice pulled me in. I wanted in on the empire-building too.
‘What are you doing with the shop?’
‘You know how to bake?’ ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ nοvelfire.net
‘God, no.’ She laughed. ‘I’m getting it gutted and hiring someone who won’t set the kitchen on fire. Me, I’ll be the manager and official taster. And you’ll be my first VIP customer.’
We went out for dinner that night. She picked a place with brick walls and dim lights and actual cloth napkins.
Her good mood lasted all the way through to dessert. ‘Once we’re both moved in, I can come over anytime. No more waiting for you to get off work. I can just cross the road.’
‘That reminds me.’ I frowned thoughtfully. ‘I should install an intercom. No unsolicited visitors.’
She ignored me and raised her glass. ‘To the future.’
I lifted mine. ‘To the future.’
We clinked and drank.
Once we signed the leases, we started renovations. Mine first.
Most of the florist’s stuff was useless—cracked shelving, rusted hooks, water-stained counters.
Everything had to go.
Yvaine stuck a ‘Closed for Renovation’ sign on her shop and left it alone.
She said she’d deal with it later.
For now, she was too busy treating my studio like a real-life Tycoon game, gleefully bossing around contractors and haggling over cabinet handles.
We were both drowning in packing tape and delivery boxes, so I texted Priya.