Chapter 2 - The Stitched Wound
Clara walked back to her worktable, picking up her silver thimble. The rain hammered against the storefront, creating an island of quiet light between them.
“You shouldn't be here, Adrien,” she said, using his first name for the first time. “If the Hawthorne family sees your car outside my shop, they will ruin my lease before the week is out.”
“Your landlord, Mr. Henderson, sold the building three hours ago,” Adrien said plainly.
Clara’s hands froze over the velvet. A sharp spike of panic hit her chest. “What?”
“He was four months behind on his commercial property taxes,” Adrien continued, taking two slow steps toward her table. “A holding company bought the deed at six o'clock tonight. The new owner has no intention of raising your rent. In fact, your lease has been extended for fifteen years at a fixed rate.”
Clara dropped her thimble onto the table with a loud clack. “Did you buy my building?”
“I secured my investment,” he corrected smoothly. “You told me my suit fit, but my wedding didn't. If I am going to dismantle a merger that three banks and two legal teams spent fourteen months constructing, I need someone in my corner who isn't afraid to tell me when I’m being an idiot.”
Clara stepped around the table, standing directly in front of him. Even without heels, her posture was erect, her full figure carrying a natural dignity that made Adrien’s chest tighten in an unfamiliar way.
“I am a tailor, Mr. Duca. I fix hems. I don't play corporate chess with men who tear up twelve-thousand-dollar satin because their feelings are hurt.”
A faint, rare smile touched the corner of Adrien’s mouth. “My feelings weren't hurt, Clara. My pride was insulted. There is a difference.”
“Not from where I’m standing,” she said, reaching out and brushing a stray raindrop from the lapel of his coat. It was an instinct born of years working with fabric, but the moment her fingers touched his chest, a sharp electric charge seemed to pass between them.
Adrien didn't pull away. He stood completely still, his amber eyes locked onto hers, his breath catching in his throat.
“Show me the repair,” he murmured softly.
Clara hesitated, then picked up the panel of Italian satin she had spent three nights joining together. She held it up to the warm overhead lamp. The delicate lace vines curved along the seam, and beneath the pearl embroidery lay one faint, perfectly uniform line of stitching—a scar transformed into art.
Adrien touched the seam with his thumb, his calloused skin tracing the line she had sewn.
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“It’s stronger than it was before it tore,” he observed quietly.
“That’s the secret of good silk,” Clara whispered, looking up into his face, close enough to see the small flecks of gold in his eyes. “If you know how to bind the thread, it never breaks in the same spot twice.”
