CHAPTER 57: AS YOU WISH

Chloe hadn’t slept more than three hours the night before. After the review session that ended in no decision and plenty of verbal sparring, she had marched home with a fire in her chest and a stubborn gleam in her eyes. Damian Cross would not win. Not this time.

So, instead of sleeping, she had poured herself a glass of wine, pulled out her sketchpads, and attacked the paper with pencils and markers until the dawn broke. By morning, her table was a battlefield of crumpled papers, ink stains, and scattered swatches. But somewhere between the chaos, Chloe found gold.

And she knew it.

Now, standing in her office, she could barely suppress the proud curl of her lips as she laid her work on the table. The designs glowed with her signature flair—dramatic silhouettes, jewel-toned fabrics, a bold blend of modern structure and theatrical detailing. She’d outdone herself.

Damian entered a few minutes later, as always, precise to the second. His suit was another shade of gray (did the man’s wardrobe know no color?), his expression unreadable. He carried a portfolio tucked under one arm, his every step exuding that maddening composure that made Chloe itch to throw her pencil at him.

"Miss Smith," he said evenly, inclining his head.

"Mr. Cross," she returned with mock politeness.

They arranged their work side by side, the table forming a battlefield between them. For a long moment, neither spoke, only shuffled papers and adjusted sketches. The silence stretched until Chloe, unable to bear it, leaned back and folded her arms.

"Well," she said airily, "go on then. Rip mine apart so I can return the favor."

Damian’s gaze slid over her sketches, his jaw tightening slightly. He lingered longer than usual, his eyes following every curve of her lines, every bold embellishment. Chloe braced herself for the inevitable critique—too much, overdesigned, impractical. Sentimental and whatever else he had in mind to say.

But instead, he spoke quietly. "They’re good."

Chloe blinked, surprised by his statement. "I’m sorry—what?"

His eyes flicked up to hers, steady, calm, unflinching. "I said they’re good. Strong. You’ve pushed the boundaries, but the structure is still sound. Your work here... has merit."

Chloe nearly dropped her pen. Of all the responses she’d prepared herself for, praise from Damian Cross was not one of them. She stared at him as though he had just confessed to being an alien in disguise.

"So, you mean to say you... YOU actually think they’re good?" she repeated, her voice incredulous.

He gave the faintest nod. "Yes."

The word settled in the air like a declaration, simple but heavy. Chloe’s chest swelled with a strange warmth—part pride, part vindication. For months, she had been dying to hear him admit it, even if she would rather swallow broken glass than say so aloud.

Her lips curved in a triumphant smile. "Well. Took you long enough."

Damian’s mouth twitched, just barely, as if amused by her reaction. "You sound as though you’ve been waiting for my approval."

She gasped, placing a hand dramatically on her chest. "Approval? From you? Please. I was just making sure your taste hadn’t completely withered away in that graveyard you call a wardrobe."

Despite her words, the glint in her eyes betrayed her pride. Damian caught it, of course—he always did—and the faint smile finally surfaced. Not mocking, not cruel. Just faintly amused, as if he found her inability to admit the truth far more entertaining than an outright confession would have been.

"Regardless," he said smoothly, "I’ve acknowledged your work. That is more than I usually extend to colleagues. Perhaps, in the spirit of fairness, you might consider doing the same."

Chloe arched a brow. "Fairness?"

He placed his own designs in front of her. She hated to admit it but she’d actually been looking forward to seeing what he’d designed this time. And just as she expected, when her eyes landed on the sketches, her mouth opened slightly in awe.

They were stunning. Sleek, architectural silhouettes that blended strength and elegance, sharp tailoring softened with unexpected textures. It wasn’t cold minimalism, it was poetry in structure.

She hated to admit it, but his work was brilliant.

And from the look in his eyes, he knew it.

Her silence stretched too long. Damian tilted his head, the faintest smirk ghosting across his lips. "Nothing to say, Miss Smith?"

Chloe snapped her mouth shut, her cheeks warming. "They’re... fine," she muttered.

"Fine?" He chuckled under his breath, the sound infuriatingly low and pleasant. "That’s the best you can manage?"

She lifted her chin, masking her admiration with a scoff. "Don’t get carried away. They’re good, sure. But nothing my designs can’t outshine."

"Ah." Damian leaned back, folding his arms. "So you do think they’re good."

Chloe glared, realizing too late that she had walked straight into his trap. "Don’t twist my words, Mr. Cross."

He inclined his head, clearly enjoying himself. "Very well. I’ll take your ’good’ as the highest form of praise I’m likely to get from you."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but her heart betrayed her. She did feel pleased. His acknowledgment meant more than she wanted to admit. For once, she didn’t feel like she was fighting to prove herself against a wall of cold indifference.

Damian must have seen the flicker in her eyes, because his tone softened. "Listen, Miss Smith. We can continue this endless back-and-forth, or we can admit what’s obvious: you’re talented. I’m talented. Separately, we’re strong. Together..." He let the thought hang in the air.

Chloe tilted her head, studying him. "Together, we’ll fight over every stitch until one of us kills the other?"

His lips curved faintly. "Or we’ll prove ourselves. Not just to Ms. Laurent, but to the entire industry. If we do well and StoneTech wins this event as usual, it’ll be because we combined strengths, not weaknesses."

She hesitated, torn between instinct and reason. Pride told her to keep resisting, to never let him think she was conceding. But somewhere deeper, the part of her that wanted to win, wanted to shine, knew he was right.

"So," Damian continued, his voice dropping lower, almost coaxing, "since I’ve acknowledged you, perhaps you could forgive me—just this once—and let us work together."

Chloe’s lips parted in surprise. Forgive him? The man had spent months criticizing every detail she put forward. But the way he said it, with that calm confidence, it almost felt like an olive branch.

She tapped her chin dramatically. "Forgive you? That’s a tall order, Mr. Cross. I don’t forgive easily."

"I never assumed you did," he replied smoothly.

She studied him for another long moment, weighing her options. Finally, she sighed and extended her hand across the table. "Fine. Just this once. But don’t think this means I like you."

His gaze lingered on her hand before he took it, his grip firm, steady, and warm. "I wouldn’t dare assume."

For a heartbeat too long, neither pulled back. The spark in the air was undeniable, sharp as flint striking steel. Then Chloe yanked her hand back and grabbed her pencil.

"Good. Now let’s get to work before I change my mind."

Damian chuckled quietly, gathering his papers. "As you wish, Miss Smith."