CHAPTER 84: DID YOU JUST LAUGH?

The late morning sun poured through the high glass windows of StoneTech’s design studio, washing everything in clean, white light. Bolts of silk shimmered on tables, mannequins stood like silent witnesses, and the faint scent of coffee and fabric starch lingered in the air.

Most of the team was out preparing for the presentation, but inside the main workspace, Chloe and Damian were locked in a quiet, stubborn war.

Damian stood at the center table, tall and sharp in a tailored black shirt, his sleeves rolled up with immaculate precision. Across from him, Chloe leaned over a mannequin, adjusting a half-pinned bodice made from pale satin.

The design— a couture evening gown for fashion show event— was their joint project. Or, as Chloe liked to call it, their battlefield in silk.

"Move that dart half an inch to the right," Damian said, his tone as exact as his posture. "It ruins the symmetry of the bodice line."

Chloe stifled a sigh and glanced at him. "It’s supposed to break the symmetry. That’s the point. It’s not a math equation, it’s movement, Mr Cross."

He crossed his arms, unimpressed. "Movement without structure is chaos."

She straightened, one hand on her hip. "And structure without movement is dead."

Their eyes locked — creative philosophies colliding like two clashing fabrics. No matter how hard they tried, agreeing on one thing was going to be difficult.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Chloe grabbed a pencil and sketchpad from the table. "Look," she said, sketching quick, confident lines. "This curve isn’t random — it follows the flow of the body. It draws the eye. It’s what makes the dress breathe."

Damian leaned in slightly, watching her hand move. Her strokes were loose but precise, her ideas instinctive. When she held the sketch up to the light streaming through the windows, the faint sheen of graphite caught on the page like movement itself.

"See?" she said softly. "You feel it now."

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the sketch and then, inevitably, on her. Her locs were tied back in a ponytail, a few locs falling on her face. Her eyes gleamed with the thrill of creation.

Finally, Damian said quietly, "You might be right."

Chloe blinked. "Sorry, what?"

He looked back at the drawing. "It works. Against my better judgment... it works."

Her lips parted, half in disbelief. "You actually agree with me?"

He gave a tiny smirk. "On rare occasions, Miss Smith, miracles happen."

She laughed — a light, surprised sound that filled the studio. "Well, someone mark the calendar. Damian Cross just said I’m right."

"Don’t let it go to your head," he murmured, though there was a faint warmth in his voice.

She tilted her head. "Too late. I’m already framing it in my memory."

He chuckled softly, the sound so unexpected it almost startled her. She’d seen him irritated, critical, infuriatingly composed — but smiling? That was new.

And unfairly distracting.

"Wait.... was that.... did you just laugh?" she said, wanting to tease him.

He turned away, clearing his throat. "Focus, Miss Smith."

"Oh, I am focused," she teased. "I just didn’t know you were capable of that sound. Should I record it for proof?"

"Do that, and you’re off the project," he said dryly, but there was amusement in his tone.

"As if you could. We wouldn’t be standing here together in the first place," she said with an eye roll.

Then for a brief moment, their eyes met again. Something flickered there. Not the usual tension, or rivalry. It was something softer and warmer.

And just as quickly, it was gone.

Chloe glanced down at the table to break the gaze, her voice lighter. "You know, I always thought you hated working with people."

"I do," he said simply.

"Wow. You could’ve pretended otherwise for morale’s sake."

"I’m honest," he said. "It saves time."

"Honest or brutally blunt?"

He considered her question for a second, then tilted his head and said, "Both."

She chuckled under her breath. "At least you’re consistent."

They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes. Then Chloe noticed him pause, his jaw tightening slightly.

"Damian?" she asked, softer this time. "You okay?"

He didn’t answer right away. His hand brushed the ruler, once, then twice, almost as if he were debating saying something.

Finally, he murmured, "My father used to say a single imperfect line ruins everything."

She tilted her head. "Sounds like a stressful childhood."

"He wasn’t wrong," Damian said, though his tone lacked conviction. His eyes stayed on the drawing. "He believed perfection is control. Lose one, lose the other."

Chloe studied him quietly. His expression didn’t change, but there was something distant in his voice — a hint of wear beneath the precision. For the first time, she realized that maybe his obsession with control wasn’t arrogance. Maybe it was armor.

Chloe quickly turned back to the mannequin, tugging at the fabric as if the gown had offended her. "I guess that’s the reason you’re obsessed with perfection," she said lightly.

"Am I?" Damian asked with raised brows.

She nodded. "Yeah. You act like one wrong seam will cause the world to implode."

Damian was silent for a beat. Then he said, quietly, "Well, that’s because once something’s perfect, no one can take it from you."

Her hands stilled on the fabric. She looked up. His eyes weren’t on her now — they were somewhere distant, lost in a memory. His jaw was tight, the usual calm cracked at the edges.

"Who took something from you?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He blinked, as if her voice had pulled him back. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might actually answer. Then the shutters came down again.

"Doesn’t matter," he said, stepping back. "It was a long time ago."

But Chloe didn’t look away. "That’s not the same as doesn’t matter."

He exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to her face. "You always do that."

"Do what?"

"See more than you should."

She smiled faintly. "Bad habit."