Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The morning sun filtered through the loose curtains, casting soft light across the room as the alarm clock shouted its rude wake-up call. Lisa stirred in the bed and groggily stretched.

She glanced at the clock - 6:00.

Exactly two and a half hours to make it across town for the most intimidating interview of her life, for a job she still wasn’t entirely sure she wanted. At Revière, the biggest fashion magazine in the country. A world of high heels, designer handbags, and fabrics she couldn’t even pronounce.

She laid there for a moment, weighing the pros and cons one last time, then sighed and threw off the covers. Time to get ready.

After her morning workout,a discipline carried over from her last job, she jumped in the shower and brushed her teeth. Standing in front of her wardrobe, she looked at her clothes. They were simple, comfortable, and Lisa didn't feel bad about her lack of style (not yet, anyway).

Lisa Swain had spent most of her adult life in boots and body armour. Fifteen years on the force, seven of them as a detective sergeant. She could read a suspect’s face like a book. But fashion? Matching colours? Knowing the difference between Prada and Chanel styles? That wasn’t her world, not even close.

Lisa never thought about leaving the police force until her life had been rewritten by loss. Four years ago, her wife, Becky, died while on duty. Their daughter, Betsy, just thirteen at the time, cried every night, begging Lisa to quit the job that stole her other mum.

Lisa did.

She traded in her badge for books, enrolling in journalism and media courses, and quickly discovered she had a real writing talent. Over the next two years, she rebuilt herself from scratch. Thanks to her police contacts, she almost immediately got a job on a local magazine in Manchester, where she worked for a year before moving to London. There, she joined The Register, a small British magazine, where she was praised for her tough reporting and clean, precise writing. Work was going well, but Lisa couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t getting anywhere. A workaholic to the core, she found the lack of progress quietly, but persistently, demoralising.

That's why Lisa (surprisingly to herself) agreed to today's interview. Her friend Abi from The Register, who had moved to Revière, had seen that the chief editor was looking for a new junior personal assistant — someone grounded, no-nonsense, who wouldn't crumble under the chief editor's withering stare. And Lisa thought that as a Detective Sergeant for so many years, she'd seen it all, so whoever this chief editor was, she could never frighten Lisa. Maybe Lisa didn't know much about fashion, but she was good with information, willing to work and never gave up when the going got tough.

In the bathroom mirror, she frowned at her reflection. The ponytail was neat, tight, and slick. Her white-blonde hair shimmered faintly under the overhead light. She looked fine, but still brushed a few strands behind her ears a bit too nervously.

She wore an old-fashioned beige blazer that had seen better days, its shoulders slightly too boxy and the cut doing her no favours. Underneath, a light violet knitted vest peeked out, paired with a crisp white shirt she’d ironed twice that morning just to be sure. Her black trousers were plain and practical, sitting a little wide at the hips, and the shoes were… well, they weren’t heels, but they were polished.

Get a grip, Swain. Don’t let the nerves kick in. It’s just an interview. What’s the worst that could happen?

After a quick breakfast and a strong black coffee with two sugars, she glanced at herself once more in the mirror.

“Can’t be harder than solving a case,” she muttered, and finally stepped out the door.

The streets of London were already humming. She didn’t belong to this world - not really. This was a city of power suits and cold brews. Everything here moved fast, looked expensive, and smelled faintly of ambition and perfume. Lisa tugged her coat closed against the early morning chill and adjusted the strap of her worn leather bag. Her look wasn’t exactly blending in on the stylish streets of central London. She had been in the city for two years, but the energy of the place still hit her like the rush before a big arrest. It was electric. Overwhelming. And completely outside her comfort zone.

Every step closer to Revière made her feel more out of place. She passed boutiques with mannequins in sculpted gowns and handbags worth more than her car. A woman in head-to-toe camel cashmere swept past her with a practised click of heels. Lisa glanced down at her sensible flats and winced.

By the time she reached the towering glass building that housed Revière, her heart was thumping like it used to before a stakeout. The lobby of Revière was all chrome and glass. Everyone seemed to glide rather than walk. The receptionist looked up with a faintly arched brow. Lisa cleared her throat.

“Hi,” Lisa said, when her throat went dry mid-sentence. “I’ve got an appointment with…” She glanced at the crumpled note in her palm, “Sarah Platt?”

Before the receptionist could respond, a figure swept in from the side, compact and frighteningly good-looking.

“Lisa Swain?” the woman said, voice crisp as morning frost.

The woman was petite, definitely a bit younger than Lisa, dressed head to toe in structured black. Her features were almost doll-like: soft cheekbones, pillowy lips, and porcelain skin. But any illusion of sweetness was shattered by her dramatic eye makeup and her expensive jewellery that glittered with menace.

“Human Resources certainly has an odd sense of humour,” Sarah said coolly, barely sparing Lisa more than a once-over. “Follow me.”

Lisa blinked but obeyed, her shoes clicking awkwardly behind Sarah’s elegant stride. They walked briskly through the buzzing editorial floor, weaving past assistants with glossy lookbooks and mood boards. Phones rang in clipped tones, and the scent of expensive perfume lingered in the air. Lisa caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored walls - beige blazer, light violet knitted vest, black trousers, and low shoes. She tugged at her sleeve, suddenly overly aware of every thread.

Sarah led her down a long corridor lined with minimalist photographs of models and issues covers. All monochrome, all arresting.

“Carla’s looking for a second assistant,” Sarah began, her tone suggesting Lisa should already know this. “She sacked the last two young girls in under a month. One cried in the lift. It was tragic.”

Lisa exhaled loudly in an attempt to quell the nervous chuckle at the back of her throat.

“We need someone who can survive here,” Sarah said pointedly, shooting a glance at Lisa’s blazer. “Do you understand?”

Lisa frowned slightly. “Yes, yes, of course. Who exactly is Carla?”

Sarah stopped walking. She turned slowly, her expression frozen somewhere between horror and fascination, as if Lisa had just asked who Shakespeare was. Or God.

“I will pretend you haven’t just asked me that,” Sarah exhaled, composing herself. “She is editor-in-chief of Revière. Not to mention, a legend. If you're lucky, she’ll forget your name before she has the chance to say it with disappointment.”

Lisa swallowed. “Right.”

“Right,” Sarah smirked, then resumed walking. “A million girls and women would kill for this job.”

Lisa cleared her throat, her voice steadier this time. “Look, I understand. But I’m here because I think it’s a great opportunity. I’d love to be considered.”

Sarah paused mid-stride and turned, arching a perfectly drawn brow. There was a flicker of amusement in her expression.

“A great opportunity,” she echoed, almost dreamily, she was testing the phrase against her own experience and finding it mildly offensive. “Darling, this is Revière. You do realise we’re a fashion magazine?”

Lisa blinked. “Yes.”

“And you do understand that interest in fashion is crucial here?”

“I-” Lisa began, then stopped. “What makes you think I’m not interested in fashion?”

Sarah didn’t answer. She froze, one heel mid-turn, eyes darting to her phone as it buzzed in her palm. The screen lit up with a single notification. Her entire expression shifted. Her lips tightened, bach straightened, she was like a soldier just called to attention.

“Oh, hell. No, no, no.”

She didn’t explain. Instead, she turned sharply and walked back to her desk, a little quicker than necessary. Her hand hovered just a moment before picking up the phone. “She’s on her way,” she said, her voice steady but tight. “Tell everyone.”

Suddenly, the atmosphere around them changed.

Desks sprang to life. Phones were slammed down. Coffee cups vanished. A ripple of barely concealed panic ran across the floor. It felt like someone had just hit a silent alarm. People straightened their backs, fixed their collars, threw their only opened breakfasts in the bin, and women reapplied lipstick in brighter shades.

Lisa was baffled by the sudden transformation.

“Wait, what’s happening?” she asked, catching up to Sarah, who was already snapping orders to a nearby assistant about clearing the corridor.

Sarah barely glanced back. “What’s happening,” she hissed under her breath, “is that she’s arriving twenty minutes early, because her facialist ruptured a disk. And nobody - nobody - is ever ready when she walks through that door.”

Lisa tried to keep up as the pace quickened, the whole floor seeming to pulse with a kind of reverent chaos. Sarah shoved a folder into her hands without looking.

“Hold that. Sit behind the desk. Don’t breathe too loudly.”

Lisa opened her mouth to protest, but Sarah was already gone.

The black double doors of the lift at the end of the hallway loomed larger now, and through them… came silence. Tense. Expectant. The stillness before thunder.

And Lisa, still holding the folder, still wearing the wrong shoes, realised she was about to meet the woman who ran Revière.

Carla Connor.

Chapter Text

The streets of London were glazed with an early frost, sunlight breaking across the polished bonnet of Carla Connor’s black car. She sat upright in the backseat, her legs crossed, a finger tapping against the leather of her Prada handbag. Her driver pulled up to the curb outside Revière’s headquarters: a tower of ambition. The moment he unlocked the doors, Carla stepped out. The crisp spring air kissed her skin, and she took a deep breath before entering the building.

She wore a fitted black eco-fur coat that fluttered slightly with the breeze, revealing the dress beneath:deep purple with open shoulders, cinched at the waist with a bold purple belt. Her dark brown hair was straight, grazing her collarbones. Big gold hoop earrings glinted in the sun, and her D&G heels struck the pavement with the kind of authority that made pedestrians look twice.

Black leather gloves. Oversized Prada sunglasses. Unapologetic poise.

The revolving doors of the building opened for her without a word.

Inside, everything changed.

People were darting out of her way, practically tripping over themselves to clear a path. A young woman who had just stepped into the lift took one look at Carla, blanched, and quickly backed out, mumbling a barely audible, “Sorry, Carla.”

Carla didn’t blink. Carla didn’t care.

She glided across the marble floor. Every room in the building seemed to bend to her will. No one dared to challenge her, no one risked letting her down. She demanded clarity, precision, and an unshakeable sense of responsibility. At the magazine, people watched her with the wary eyes of prey sensing a predator close by. Yet, beneath their fear, there was a deep respect. They all knew that her word carried weight, that her judgment could make or break a career. In the world of fashion, her opinion wasn’t just important - it was gospel.

As she stepped out onto the executive floor, Sarah Platt came rushing forward. “Carla,” she greeted, holding her folders and magazines like a shield. “Good morning.”

Carla didn’t stop walking.

“Why is it so difficult to confirm my appointments?” Her voice came out husky. She didn’t so much as glance at Sara, but the tight set of her jaw showed a simmering irritation.

Sarah blinked. “I did confirm-”

Carla didn’t let her finish. “The details of your incompetence do not interest me.”

She peeled off her sunglasses slowly, slid them into her handbag, and finally came to a halt by the large reception space outside her office - the heart of Revière. She took her gloves off one finger at a time, her tone clipped and steady.

“Tell Simone I’m not approving the girl she sent in for the Brazil layout. I wanted clean, athletic, and smiling, not dirty, tired and paunchy... ” This was the fourth model Carla had dismissed without a second thought. Too thin, too plain, too lifeless; vulgar, forgettable, uninspired. At times, it seemed the editor-in-chief possessed a wider vocabulary of scathing critiques than the rest of the fashion world combined. Nothing escaped her ruthless eye: the wrong shade of blonde, a mole slightly off-centre, a smile that didn’t seem natural enough. And until every image met her impossible standard of perfection, no one dared exhale even for a brief second.

Sarah scribbled quickly into her notebook. “Yes. Got it.”

“Get Lottie from L’Atelier Noir. I want the complete AW line sent here for preview - every fabric, every stitch. Tell her I don’t care where she’s sourcing them from.”

“Done.” Sarah kept her responses short, knowing better than to make a single unnecessary sound when her boss was in this kind of mood.

“Third, call Marcus at Michael Kors. He thinks he has fourteen days. He has four for his project. And I want a revised mock-up of the editorial layout on my desk by this afternoon.” From the outside, it resembled an army more than a fashion magazine. Every department marched to the relentless beat set by Carla Connor, buckling under the weight of her demands. She left no room for resistance, only obedience. “Also, I need to see what Ryan has called in for Gwyneth’s second cover try...”.

“Of course.”

“And fourth, find me someone who can translate the Tokyo preview issue with full annotated notes, by tomorrow morning. Also fluent in sarcasm. Am I reaching for the stars?” The question might’ve passed for a joke if it hadn’t come from Carla, whose dead-serious tone left no room for anything but a ‘yes.’

Sarah hesitated, a nervous laugh forming. “No, no. Absolutely doable.”

Carla gave her a sideways glance. “Good.”

With that, she shrugged off her coat and threw it effortlessly across Sarah’s desk. She turned to continue walking, then stopped. A flicker of movement caught her eye. A woman sat at the desk designated for the second assistant, her eyes fixed in a wide, almost trance-like stare. She was hypnotised.

Unfamiliar.

Unfashionable.

(But ethereally beautiful).

Clearly mesmerised by Carla’s presence.

Carla’s head tilted just slightly, her green eyes narrowing with laser focus. She turned to Sarah with a slow, measured step.

“…Who’s that?”

“Who’s that?”

“Nobody,” Sarah replied quickly, stepping slightly in front of Lisa to shield her from Carla’s line of sight. With a strained half-smile, she added, “Human Resources sent her up for the assistant job, and I interviewed her for you, but-”

She didn’t get to finish. Carla raised one hand, fingers splayed in a sharp, silencing gesture.

“I’ll do it,” she said, to Sarah’s great surprise. “The last two you sent me were total disappointments. Send her in.”

The brunette’s steady, unflinching gaze made it crystal clear: Sarah had better get back to her tasks or HR would soon be hiring two new assistants instead of one.

Carla Connor had learned long ago that if something needed to be done right, she’d have to do it herself. It was the principle that had shaped her career, starting years ago with the business she’d inherited from her first husband. Technically, the company had been left to her, but it was under Carla’s command that “Underworld” became the elite lingerie powerhouse of Manchester. Her designs dominated the European market: crafted with brutal precision, coveted by haute couture houses, and whispered about in showrooms of Paris and Milan.

She had transformed a factory into a fashion empire.

And after all those years of work, the only person she could trust completely was her brother. Aidan. They understood each other halfheartedly and had always been there for each other in the hardest of times. He’d been her business partner, her anchor, her co-conspirator, her heart. She’d been his. Until she wasn’t. Until she was no longer enough to help Aidan through the pain. Until the pain swallowed him whole.

He took his own life. It shattered her. She sold Underworld, vanished for almost a year, and returned to London to build something new. To get back to the start. To forget her grief.

Grief still lingered, of course, it always would. But she’d learned how to live around it, how to wear it like a hidden lining beneath her couture.

Reverie is her resurrection. Glossy, ruthless, addictive. Like Carla Connor herself.

She's known for her cold assessments, impossible standards, and tongue-in-cheek cruelty that keeps her staff both terrified and obsessed. Carla doesn’t explain herself. She doesn’t apologise. She simply expects everyone to either keep up… or get out of the way.

Carla radiated superiority but she wore it so effortlessly, so naturally, that it became almost captivating.

Lisa couldn’t look away.

For a brief second, she forgot why she was even there. Her nerves, her spiralling thoughts, her tightly coiled anxiety - all vanished in an instant. It felt like she was losing consciousness, like the world around her had narrowed into a tunnel vision focused solely on the woman before her.

Lisa had never had a thing for bitches. She didn’t like arrogant, aloof types. But here, just for a moment, she allowed herself to acknowledge the truth: the woman in front of her was breathtaking. Carla Connor was drop-dead gorgeous, and only a blind person would deny it.

The blonde woman was jolted from her thoughts by Sarah's voice announcing that Carla wanted to see Lisa in her office. At that moment, the tension hit her with renewed force, and she walked to the main office on wobbly legs.

The door clicked shut behind Lisa, and suddenly the temperature in the office seemed to drop several degrees. A chill swept over her so sharply that she half expected her teeth to chatter loud enough to echo off the walls.

Carla Connor sat behind a sleek, minimalist glass desk, flipping through a layout spread with deliberate, almost surgical precision. Her eyes locked onto Lisa’s. Lisa’s breath caught, and she instinctively stood straighter, every muscle tensing. One more second under that unflinching stare, and she was certain she’d turn to stone where she stood.

"Who are you?" Carla asked, her voice quiet.

Lisa blinked and stepped forward, extending her CV like a peace offering. Carla didn’t reach for it. She simply stared, one eyebrow arched in cool impatience.

"My name’s Lisa Swain. I, uh, recently-"

"What are you doing here?" Carla cut her off. She had no time for rehearsed speeches or empty credentials. She saw through people in seconds. And judging by her last two assistants, the editor-in-chief was long past believing that a polished CV meant someone was actually cut out to survive in her world.

Lisa swallowed. “I think I could do a good job as your assistant, and-”

A flicker of something crossed Carla’s face. A warning.

Lisa panicked. Words tumbled out before she could stop them. “I moved to London to make a change. I was a copper for a while, Detective Sergeant, and then after… everything, I worked for a local magazine in Manchester. Then I got a reporting job at The Register. I know someone in HR here and she suggested I apply. So… it’s this or back to writing about bin collections.”

Her voice faltered. The last bit came out quicker than intended. It sounded ridiculous the moment it left her lips.

Carla's face remained unreadable as she carefully set the layout pages aside. Yet something inside her shifted. Just for a second. Whether it was the mention of her hometown, Manchester, the sheer absurdity of Lisa’s career path, or the undeniable charm radiating from the woman standing before her, Carla couldn’t tell. Her job was to seek out beauty - identify it, elevate it - so of course, she couldn’t ignore it when it appeared so blatantly. But there was something more alluring about the blonde than just her ridiculously pretty face. Her big green eyes held something Carla recognised all too well, something so familiar it made her freeze for a moment.

"You don’t read Revière," she said, emerging from a trance the other woman hadn't even noticed she was in.

Lisa shook her head. “No.”

"And before today, you’d never really heard of me."

Another shake of the head. “No.”

"And you have no style. No sense of fashion.”

Lisa hesitated. “That depends on-”

“That wasn’t a question,” Carla replied, flat as ever.

Lisa flushed, her jaw tensing. But she pulled herself together.

“I worked on violent crime cases for nine years,” she said, voice steadier now. “I dealt with gang leaders, grieving parents, and spent months undercover once. After I left the force, I taught myself to write on deadline and eventually earned a byline at The Register. I’m not a fashion girl, but I know how to listen, how to adapt, and I don’t flinch under pressure.”

Carla lifted her hand to cut her off. “That’s all.”

The dismissal hit hard. Lisa lingered for a beat, unsure whether to say more. But the look on Carla’s face left no doubt. She turned, feeling humiliated, and walked to the door, her pulse thudding in her ears.

But just as her hand reached the handle, something in her paused. Lisa remembered exactly why she was here, and the iron-clad resolve, forged through years on the force, surged back through her veins.

She turned around.

“You’re right,” she said quietly, “I don’t belong here. I’m not glamorous, I’m not a model, and I’ve got no idea what’s on-trend this season. But I’m smart. I learn fast. And I’ll work harder than anyone else you’ve ever had sitting in that chair.”

Carla said nothing. Just watched. The silence stretched between them. For a heartbeat, it felt like a standoff, neither woman willing to blink first, neither ready to back down.

Then the door swung open, and in burst Ryan, one of the magazine's leading fashion authorities, close confidant and nephew of Carla, with a new mockup in his hand. And if anyone ever dared accuse the brunette of nepotism, they only had to look at poor Ryan, who failed the interview for the creative department internship five times, to know that favours weren’t extended, not even to family.

“We got the exclusive on the new Dior heels for Anya,” he said, not even looking up, “but if she wears them with that tweed jumpsuit, she’ll look like she’s auditioning for Doctor Who-”

He stopped. Eyes flicked to Lisa.

Lisa, summoning the last of her dignity, met Carla’s gaze. “Thanks for your time,” she said softly.

Then she walked out, spine straight, eyes forward.

Ryan turned to Carla with a slow blink. “Who is that sad little person?” he asked, aghast. “Are we doing a ‘Before and After’ feature I wasn’t told about?”

Lisa walked through the foyer of the towering building, feeling (much to her surprise) utterly disappointed. It wasn’t that she desperately wanted the job, or was eager to work for someone as arrogant, impatient, and unapologetically bitchy as Carla Connor. But there was something about the woman, about her gaze, her presence, that made Lisa’s blood boil in her veins. It ignited something raw and defiant. A need to stand her ground, to prove she could hold her own, and to make damn sure Carla Connor never got the chance to look down on her just because she wasn’t wearing Dolce & Gabbana.

She was so lost in the swirl of her own thoughts that she didn’t hear the hurried footsteps behind her until Sarah’s voice caught up with her.

“You’re hired. Tomorrow, at eight o’clock. Sharp.”

Sarah didn’t wait for a response. Her tone made it clear she wasn’t thrilled with the outcome, and before Lisa could even process it, she’d already spun on her heel and disappeared down the corridor.

Lisa remained where she was, right in the centre of the humming building, as the reality slowly sank in.

It was just like everyone in London said: once you’ve worked at Revière, you can write your own ticket to any of the most prestigious magazines in the country. A single line on your CV - “Carla Connor’s assistant” - was a definite guarantee of quality, which could open doors that would otherwise stay slammed shut.

But for Lisa, it wasn’t just about the opportunity. It was about proving something. To herself. To everyone who thought she didn’t belong.

And maybe, just maybe… to the fierce, stunning woman with an intense gaze.

Because Lisa Swain had never been one to back down from a challenge.

And Carla Connor? She looked like the challenge Lisa would gladly take on.

Chapter Text

Lisa had been working at Revière for just over three weeks now. She hadn’t memorised all the fabrics yet (Chantilly still sounded like a dessert to her), but she was learning how to work with Carla Connor. You had to be quick. Precise. Always thinking two steps ahead. She’d come to understand that expecting gratitude from Carla was pointless. If the editor-in-chief didn’t rip something apart or raise an eyebrow in disapproval, that was as close to praise as you got.

And yet, despite Carla’s clinical indifference (which Lisa found herself oddly desperate to crack) and the fact that Carla still called her Sarah occasionally, Lisa knew she liked her new position. She liked being busy. The constant flow of tasks helped to calm the swarm of thoughts buzzing in her mind.

She was meeting new people, learning things she’d never expected to care about, and most importantly, finding fresh common ground with her daughter. Betsy, seventeen and bursting with opinions, was studying fashion at college with a particular flair for lingerie design. Their relationship was complicated, like most things in Lisa’s life, but since starting her work at Revière, she’d felt a shift. Hope. A flicker of something beginning to mend.

However, today felt a bit more charged than usual. Carla had summoned Lisa to a meeting where the creative team was planning to discuss a new lingerie collection that would anchor the upcoming issue.

The big conference room in Revière’s office was unlike anywhere Lisa had ever been. It was a cathedral of cold light, all sharp lines and deadly silent. A steel meeting table stretched the length of the room, surrounded by blush velvet chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the London skyline, the sunlight spilling softly into the almost motionless room.

Carla sat at the head of the table like a queen of everything. She wore a sleek, black dress that hugged her body with effortless elegance, the cut stopping just below the hip. The V-neck dipped just low enough to reveal the faintest curve of her cleavage. Draped over the dress were layers of golden chains - long, glinting, unapologetically sexy. They shifted and caught the light every time she moved. Her whole look was more like a fashionable whisper - nothing too revealing, just a little provocative. The kind that everyone notices, but no one dares to look at for too long.

Over it all, she wore a structured gold blazer that gleamed softly. And then there were the heels. The classic Louis Vuitton stilettos, ones that announced her power before she even opened her mouth.

Her makeup was darker today. Smoky, highlighting her eyes in a way that made them seem deeper. Her high cheekbones, her smooth skin. Carla Connor looked like she’d burn you alive if you interrupted her… and you’d thank her for the privilege.

Lisa, seated two chairs down, couldn’t stop watching her. Couldn’t look away. There was something magnetic about the woman’s poise and her total command of the room. Carla didn’t need to raise her voice to silence a table. One glance was enough.

And Lisa (whether she was ready to admit it or not) was utterly mesmerised.

At the same time, Lisa sat a little stiffer in her chair, thinking about the fact that her wardrobe hadn’t exactly evolved with the job. She hadn’t had the time, or the courage, to venture into fashion-forward territory.

Today, she was wearing a knitted blue shirt layered over a plain white blouse. The shirt clung a little awkwardly at the shoulders. Her black trousers had seen better days. They faded in places, and the fabric around the knees was soft from years of wear. And her shoes… Well, no one, in a place like this, would ever make eye contact with them.

Next to all the designers and stylists in their effortless glam, she felt... not invisible exactly, but certainly mismatched. She glanced over at Carla again. Those gold chains, that blazer, those heels. Every line of her body said she belonged here. Lisa, on the other hand, still wasn’t sure where she belonged at all.

A Junior Stylist, who was giving a presentation for the last twenty minutes, clicked to the next slide, voice trembling slightly.

“We’re centring our autumn feature on lingerie as powerwear. We’ll use lace, mesh, silk, and sculpted silhouettes. La Perla, Coco de Mer, Fleur du Mal have all sent samples. We’re thinking moody lighting, shadowplay, edgy looks, powerful women.”

The projection cycled through images of impossibly elegant models in delicate constructions of fabric that looked more like artwork than clothing. All the samples made the women look bolder, stronger, and completely in control of their sexuality. Everyone in the room seemed impressed by the images and enthusiastic about the new collection. Lisa’s brows knit together as she tried to stop the heat rising up her neck and see what everyone else so clearly saw. But looking at the stunning models on the screen, she suddenly felt shy.

She tried not to stare; she didn't want to embarrass herself in a place where she was not taken seriously. Under her breath, mostly to herself, she muttered, “They all look like the same pair of knickers to me.” And it was far too late when she realised that she had said it out loud. Silence fell in the room. Heads turned slowly.

“I beg your pardon?” Carla asked, her voice cool and slicing.

Lisa blinked, realising she’d been heard. She sat up straighter, feeling all defensive.

“Nothing. I just meant the first few looked... similar, that’s all.”

Finally, Carla looked her in the eyes. Her gaze was sharp, aimed straight at Lisa.

“Right. Of course. Because twenty pounds of mesh and lace stitched in a backroom in Soho is obviously the same as eighteen hundred pounds of French silk engineered to cradle the body like a whisper.”

She stood, the heels echoing across the polished floor as she approached the projection. She gestured toward one of the images on the screen.

“This piece,” she said, voice even, “features hand-finished edging. No visible seams. Double-boned corsetry hidden beneath what appears to be tissue. It took six weeks to construct.”

She clicked to the next.

“And this? Stitched in Antwerp by a designer who learned his craft in a monastery. Every thread touched by a man who used to sew altar cloths.” Turning back to the table, she let her gaze settle on Lisa. “All these pieces were created to empower every woman who has ever felt not confident in her own skin. We spent months on this project to give women the freedom to reclaim and embrace their sexuality.” Lisa swallowed hard, feeling like her soul was leaving her body under the intensity of Carla’s look.

“But yes… ‘just knickers.’”

There was a beat. A moment. Then the shot.

“Tell me, Lisa, did you ever look at a Rembrandt and think, ‘nice sketch’?”

Lisa’s face burned, but she didn’t flinch. Her voice, when it came, was steady if a bit tight. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I’m just… unfamiliar with the details. I’m still learning about this stuff.”

“This stuff?” Carla repeated the words, spitting each letter right into Lisa's face. She began to move with slow steps as she circled the table. Then she stopped, directly across from Lisa.

She leaned in just slightly, resting one hand on the edge of the table. The V of her dress dipped just enough for Lisa to catch a glimpse of soft and tanned skin - and God help her, Lisa noticed. Hated herself for noticing. Hated it for all the wrong reasons.

Carla’s voice dropped.

“You think this has nothing to do with you. You reach into your wardrobe and pull out, let’s say, that lumpy blue sweater, because you want the world to believe you take yourself too seriously to care about clothes. But what you don’t realise is that your sweater isn’t just blue. It’s cerulean.”

She paced again, eyes sweeping over the room, commanding everyone's attention.

“In 2002, De La Renta launched a collection of cerulean gowns. Yves Saint Laurent followed with a military jacket in the same shade. That September, we did the definitive layout on the colour. Cerulean trickled through the collections, filtered down to department stores, and finally landed in the bargain bin at - what was it - Primark?”

She paused, turning her gaze back to Lisa, a faint smirk curling at the edges of her lips.

“And there you are, believing you’ve made a choice that somehow sets you apart. That exempts you from the fashion industry. When, in fact, you're wearing a colour that was selected for you... by people in a room like this one.”

Lisa’s jaw tensed. She could feel heat rising in her neck, burning up toward her cheeks. She hated the sharpness in Carla’s tone, the way the woman’s words sliced through her. But most of all, she hated that it was Carla saying it. Carla, who had this infuriating way of getting under her skin like no one else. Lisa couldn’t quite place it, but every time Carla challenged her, she wanted to fight back. She wanted to prove herself, wanted to show Carla who the real Lisa Swain was. She didn’t understand why Carla’s opinion held so much weight, why it felt like she was the only woman in the world who really mattered. But somehow, she did. And Lisa hated it.

“I’m willing to learn,” was all that the blonde could reply.

Carla tilted her head. The annoyance and exhaustion on her face were obvious to everyone in the room. “Willing is adorable. But this isn’t the Salvation Army, is it?” She crossed her arms, her expression didn't change. “It’s Revière. You don’t get a badge for trying. Nobody is going to bother with you.” She straightened, beginning to turn, but then paused. Her tone changed. Just a little bit.

“But you’ve survived worse, haven’t you?” There was something different in the brunette’s eyes. Her voice wasn’t warm (never that), but maybe... knowing?

Lisa blinked. The words caught her off guard.

“…Yeah. I have.”

In another moment, Carla has already turned her attention back to the junior designer, who has been sweating during the whole banter. The projector flicked forward. Carla raised her hand.

“I’ve seen enough for today. That’s all.”

The storm passed.

Lisa exhaled, trying not to make it obvious. She gripped her pen tightly, her heartbeat thudding in her ears as she exited the room. No one looked at her.

Carla didn’t look at her.

And Lisa (if she was honest with herself) wasn’t entirely sure whether that left her relieved or disappointed.

The week flew by in a blur from Monday to Thursday. Lisa did her best not to dwell on her humiliation at the start of the week, choosing instead to focus on the steady stream of important tasks Carla had handed her. By the time Thursday rolled around, she was completely drained. The only thing keeping her spirits up was the thought of a quiet dinner with her daughter, which was a rare, welcome moment of domesticity in an otherwise chaotic week.

The flat smelled like garlic and thyme, warm and inviting in contrast to the drizzle tapping against the windows. Lisa stirred the sauce with one hand, the other resting on her hip as she kept an eye on the oven timer.

Betsy sat at the kitchen table, scrolling on her phone. She was so disinterested that a bowl of fresh salad sat untouched in front of her for 20 minutes.

“You could at least pretend to be impressed,” Lisa said, glancing over her shoulder. “That chicken took proper effort.”

Betsy raised her brows. “One good evening together won’t make up for all the rest,” She didn’t mean to snap, but she was too tired to care.

Lisa didn’t press. Instead, she plated up the meal and slid one dish in front of her daughter with a quiet clink. “How’s college?”

Betsy shrugged, digging in with her fork. “Just got back some sketches. My tutor said they were ‘confident but lacking finesse’ - whatever that means.”

“It means you’re doing better than most,” Lisa replied, trying to encourage her daughter. “Confidence is half the game.” She adored Betsy and genuinely believed in her abilities. Yes, sometimes she was really bad at showing it, but she tried. She tried, even when all she got in return was silence. And she would never stop trying.

“And the other half is knowing the difference between linen and muslin,” Betsy muttered.

Lisa chuckled, sitting across from her. “Trust me, I’m still learning that one.” Even though Lisa wasn’t completely sure what those fabrics looked like, she was proud of herself, absurdly proud, that she could now genuinely complain about the same things as her daughter. It felt like progress.

They ate in relative peace for a moment, just the clatter of cutlery and the sound of the storm outside, until Lisa’s phone vibrated against the counter. She reached for it without thinking and saw Carla’s name across the screen.

Lisa froze for a heartbeat, then answered. “Carla?”

“I need a flight from Amsterdam. Tonight. Everything’s grounded because of the storm. Fix it,” came the voice, sharp and urgent.

Lisa blinked. “You’re in Amsterdam?”

“I was meant to be back two hours ago,” Carla snapped. “The airport’s a mess. I need to be in London by seven o’clock in the morning - find me a plane. A jet, a chopper, a flamin’ hot air balloon. I absolutely don’t care. Just get me out of here.” Carla wasn’t panicking, her voice was as calm and commanding as ever, but somewhere between the words, Lisa caught the sharp exhale of irritation.

The blonde stood, already pacing toward her laptop. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Carla hung up without a goodbye.

Betsy looked up, eyebrows raised. “Was that-?”

“Work,” Lisa muttered, tapping at the keyboard. “Absolute nightmare.”

For the next three and a half hours, Lisa clicked through every charter service and private jet company she could find. Every single one had the same message: grounded until further notice. Visibility was too poor, and winds were too strong. Even the private services wouldn’t take the risk.

She called seven different hotlines, only to be told the same thing, politely and firmly: impossible. Lisa closed the laptop, pinched the bridge of her nose, and let out a long breath.

“Well?” Betsy asked, already in her pyjamas, planning to go to bed.

“No chance,” Lisa said weakly. “Nothing is flying out of Amsterdam to London tonight. I couldn’t even get her a kite.”

Betsy tilted her head, a little amused. “Think she’ll yell at you?”

“Certainly not. But it’s even worse.” Lisa was so exhausted she couldn’t even process what was happening, but she knew she was in serious trouble.

They sat in silence for a beat.

“You could’ve just told her to build a raft,” Betsy offered, a small smirk playing at her lips. She was trying to cheer her mum up, just a little. Because right now, looking at her, Betsy was worried, as she looked like someone who already knew she had lost her job.

Lisa gave a tired laugh. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Chapter Text

Lisa wanted the ground to open up and swallow her whole. She’d barely slept, spending most of the night tangled in sheets, bracing for the inevitable fallout from one particular brunette. Logically, she knew she’d done everything she could. She couldn’t control the weather, build a plane, or sprout wings to fly down and scoop Carla up herself. But the sting of failure was acidic, rising hot and fast in her throat, choking her with the weight of it.

“Sarah?” Carla’s voice was cold.

She blinked, startled, only realising the name was meant for her when Sarah glanced sideways. With a weary sigh, Lisa pushed herself to her feet, heart thudding like she was walking to her execution.
The glass door clicked shut behind her, and suddenly it was just the two of them. The office was quiet except for the low hum of the city beyond the windows and the sound of Carla flicking through the morning’s schedule on her laptop.

Lisa stood a few feet away, tense. Carla didn’t look up.

“When I say I need a flight, I need a flight,” she said flatly, eyes locked on the screen. “Not a hotel room. Not a delay. Not excuses. A flight.”

Lisa opened her mouth. “Carla, I tried-”

“I don’t want to hear that you tried,” Carla’s voice was low, controlled and deadly calm. That made it so much worse. “I had to be back in London. I had to be at Leanne Battersby's shoot. But guess what? I wasn’t there because of your incompetence. Because of your inability to do your job properly.”

For a flicker of a second, Carla faltered. The words hung in the air, they were harsh even to her own ears. Lisa looked so small standing there, so defeated, that it stung to look at her. And somewhere, buried beneath her armour, Carla knew the truth: Lisa was good. Really good. She’d picked things up fast, took the job seriously, and handled pressure better than most who’d come before her. But Carla shut that thought down before it could grow roots. No mercy. Lisa had failed her. And this… this was what happened when someone failed Carla Connor.

Lisa took a breath, trying to steady herself. “There were cancellations across the board. The weather-”

“The weather?” Carla laughed bitterly, finally raising her eyes. “Is that what you’re going with?”

Lisa didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Not when every word that came to mind sounded like a justification or a plea.

Carla stood. Walked around her desk. Slowly. When she stopped in front of Lisa, she tilted her head slightly. There were only centimetres between them. Close enough that Lisa could feel the air shift. Close enough that the intoxicating scent of Carla’s perfume wrapped around her like velvet. It was layered with notes of pomegranate, dark and tangy, softened by something woody beneath and a whisper of spice. Sophisticated. Feminine. Addictive. The kind of scent that lingered long after Carla had walked away.

Lisa inhaled involuntarily, head spinning (not just from the perfume).

“Do you know why I’ve hired you?” Carla asked, voice low. Lisa shook her head, jaw tight, trying not to look away from Carla’s gaze.

“I always hire the same girl,” Carla continued. “Stylish. Slender. Worships the magazine. And more often than not, they turn out to be disappointing and stupid,” she stopped, locking eyes with Lisa. “But you... your CV was different. Former policewoman. Tough background. That little speech about work ethics? I thought, alright. Maybe this one’s actually made of something. Take a chance, hire the smart, unfashionable woman.”

Lisa's breath hitched, almost making her choke. Carla was standing too close, and it knocked the ground out from under Lisa’s feet. Despite all the sharp words that had come from her, Lisa couldn’t tear her eyes away. Carla’s face was utterly mesmerising, and those striking green eyes cut straight through her, and Lisa had no idea how to resist them.

“I had hope,” Carla added. “I always have hope. But you’re as disappointing as anyone else.”

She didn’t look away, her gaze locking onto Lisa’s. She was searching for something there, digging deeper, like she wanted to peel Lisa open and see how much damage she’d done. She wanted to see the hurt spark behind Lisa’s eyes. To remind her who held the power here.

“I did everything I could think of,” Lisa managed, but her voice was hoarse.

“That’s all,” Carla said coldly. She turned her back, like Lisa wasn’t even worth the last word.

Lisa didn’t flinch, but something in her dropped. She searched desperately for even the smallest crack in the impenetrable mask of the woman before her, but every attempt was futile. So, she clenched her jaw, forced a nod, and turned to leave before anything showed on her face.

It had been a terrible day.

Carla had started calling Lisa “Sarah” again without even a flicker of amusement to soften the blow. Not giving her so much as ten minutes’ rest, she'd barked orders one after the other, each more impossible than the last. Lisa hadn’t dared to talk, to slow down, to breathe. Not after the look Carla had given her earlier. Not after that word “disappointment” still echoing in her ears, as if it had been stitched into her brain. Every time Lisa thought the brunette was disgusted by her or despised her, a dull ache settled in her chest.

Thankfully, at 4 p.m. Carla swept out of the office with her coat draped over one arm and her phone already pressed to her ear, heading off to an early dinner with some up-and-coming designer she was considering for the autumn shoot. The moment the glass doors shut behind her, the entire floor seemed to exhale. The atmosphere eased. Some of the staff began filtering out for the weekend, and the usual chatter had dropped to a soft murmur.

Lisa sat at her desk, shoulders tight, staring at the barely touched notes in front of her. Her tea had gone cold. Just as she was starting to believe the day might finally taper off without another blow, Sarah approached, gliding across the office like a cat. Her notebook was clutched neatly to her chest.

Lisa glanced up, determined to sound composed. “Right. Carla wants a few things sorted out for next week,” she said, flipping her notebook open.

Sarah raised an eyebrow as if to say Of course, she does. And Lisa continued, reading through her scribbles.

“We need to get ten, maybe fifteen, skirts from Calvin Klein. She didn’t specify colours, patters, shapes or fabrics.”

Sarah nodded slightly, scribbling in her notebook.

“Remind Jocelyn we want to see a few of those pieces Marc’s doing for the presentation. And we need to tell Simone that Carla will take Daisy if Bethany isn’t available on Thursday.”

She paused for breath, then added the last point. “Oh…and we need Demarchelier’s confirmation as soon as possible. She wants him to be locked in tonight.”

Sarah’s eyes flicked up from her notebook. “Fine. I’ll handle Jocelyn, Simone and Demarchelier.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You’ll go to Calvin Klein.”

Lisa blinked. “Me?”

Sarah tilted her head, eyes wide with mock concern. “I’m sorry. Do you have a prior commitment?” her voice dropped into a slow, exaggerated drawl. “Some hideous pants convention you have to go to?”

Lisa stared at her, stunned. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. The jab landed hard and cruel, even more because of its casual delivery. Sarah flashed a sharp, insincere smile, then turned and walked off without waiting for a response.

Another slap. Honestly, it was the last straw for today.

Lisa wasn’t breathing for a moment, frozen in place, her hands resting on her desk, searching for something solid to hold on to. The shame rose hot in her chest, burning at the back of her throat, tightening behind her eyes. She didn’t just feel humiliated. She felt out of place. Small. Useless.

And it hit her all at once: she missed her old life. She missed being a policewoman. She missed the way she used to walk into a room, knowing exactly who she was and what she stood for. Back then, she’d had a purpose - solving crimes, protecting people, and standing up for something. And she’d been good at it. Respected. In control.

Here, at Revière, she felt like a ghost. The rhythm was all wrong, the language too foreign, the rules unspoken but merciless.

The thoughts in her head grew loud and heavy, buzzing like wasps. What am I even doing here? Why did I think I could pull this off? Her vision blurred. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes before she could stop them.

Maybe it had all been for nothing.

The door to Ryan’s office clicked shut behind her. Lisa didn’t knock. She barely had the composure to. Her eyes were still glassy, rimmed red from the lashing she’d taken in Carla’s office, the impossible workload, and Sarah’s mean little comment. She hadn’t said a word to anyone on the way down, just moved on autopilot.

Ryan almost always stayed late, something she had come to rely on, and she was quietly grateful to see his light still on, his silhouette hunched over some mood boards. She just needed somewhere private. Somewhere away from the silence that followed every cruel thing everyone had said to her today.

Ryan looked up from his desk, brow raised.

“You look like you’ve been run over by one of the delivery vans. Twice.”

Lisa didn’t laugh. She dropped onto the nearest chair like she was deflating.

“Every one hates me here. She hates me, Ryan.”

He leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “Ah. The Carla Connor experience in full technicolour.”

Lisa didn’t answer. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

“I need your help,” she said finally. “I don’t know what to do. It’s like I’m completely beneath her contempt.”

“So quit,” Ryan said routinely.

She blinked. “What?” Lisa would be lying if she said she hadn't thought about it, but for some reason, it was suddenly hard to hear it being said out loud.

“You heard me,” he said, flicking through the pages of a lookbook before setting it down. “We could replace you by next Monday with someone who’d chew their arm off to get in that chair. If you want out, get out.”

Lisa stared at him, dumbfounded. She was exhausted; she could feel the weight of the day pressing on her, but she wasn’t about to give up. Especially not now. Certainly not when Carla had called her a disappointment. Lisa was stronger than that, and she was ready to prove it. The thought both motivated and terrified her. An overwhelming need to show Carla that she was more than what she’d been dismissed as. To reveal the strong, brave woman she truly was. (To be closer to her.) And for that, Lisa was prepared to fight. Even if she wasn’t ready to admit, even to herself, why Carla’s opinion meant so much to her.

“That’s not fair.”

“This industry isn’t fair, Lisa. Welcome to fashion,” he crossed his arms again, but his gaze softened. “But if you’re not quitting, stop sulking and start fighting.”

Over the past month, Ryan and Lisa had built something. Not quite a friendship (not yet), but a quiet understanding rooted in trust. He was always direct, never one to sugarcoat or dance around the truth. But he genuinely liked Lisa. He saw her potential, her persistence, the way she never backed down even when everything around her screamed that she should. They had never spoken about why she took the job, but Ryan sensed there were deeper reasons behind it, ones she hadn’t yet voiced. Still, now she needed a reminder. A reality check. And Ryan had every intention of giving her one.

Lisa ran a hand over her face. “I’m trying. Honestly. I didn’t get it at first: the weight of it, this place. But I do now. I want to be here. But it’s like… no matter how hard I try, I don’t do anything right.”

Ryan sighed. A beat passed before he spoke.

“You’re not trying. You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

Lisa looked up, stung. But Ryan didn’t flinch.

“You think she’s hard on you? Good. That means she thinks you’re worth it. Carla doesn’t waste time on people who aren’t. She’s brutal, yeah, but she’s not careless. You want a medal because you came from the police force and thought you’d crack publishing by sheer force of discipline? That’s not how this works.”

To be honest, Ryan hadn’t understood Carla’s decision to hire the blonde at first. Lisa seemed completely out of place at the magazine, it was almost bizarre. But over time, he began to sense it. Lisa was something more. She brought something no one before her had ever had. She was different, and that difference was exactly what Carla had been looking for.

Ryan noticed the flicker in Carla’s eyes whenever she looked at Lisa, the way something deep and unspoken stirred beneath the surface. It was buried so far down Carla would never admit it, but whatever it was, it pulled her toward Lisa in ways she probably couldn’t explain.

Ryan saw it, even if he never said a word, partly out of self-preservation. He liked his job, after all. But still… a little honesty, a quiet admission that Carla cared? That wouldn’t hurt anyone. Right?

Lisa stayed quiet, her jaw still tight. She knew Ryan was right. This was uncharted territory, and she needed to learn. Fashion was another world to her, but she was ready to try. Of course, she didn’t want to lose herself, but she wanted to find new ways back to who she truly was. And the thought that, deep down, Carla Connor might think she was worth the time… that was, unexpectedly, the reason she wanted to try harder.

“I know I’ve messed it up. I know I’m behind. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Ryan stepped closer, arms loosening slightly.

“Then stop fighting the current. Ask for help if you need it,” he tilted his head. “Don’t be proud. Be smart. Be inventive. Surprise her and yourself. Show yourself.”

Another beat passed.

Lisa’s shoulders slowly sank with a little bit of relief, just a fraction.

“There’s one person I think might actually know how to help,” she murmured.

Ryan gave a small smile. “Then ask this person, Lisa. You have a great potential, you just need a bit of refraining.”

The door creaked open as Lisa stepped into the house, and the smell of dinner leftovers lingered in the air. She dropped her keys into the bowl by the stairs and kicked off her boots with a sigh.

All the way home, Lisa’s thoughts were with Betsy. Her daughter had been the reason she’d taken the job in the first place. Since Becky’s death, things between them had grown tense, strained by grief, distance, and teenage breakdowns. Betsy, once so open and full of light, had become snappy and guarded. The pain of losing her mum never left her, and though she was learning to live with it, some days it felt like Lisa couldn’t reach her at all.

But fashion… fashion was Betsy’s world. Fashion design, fashion houses, and catwalk shows. She has spent every spare moment sketching, researching, and dreaming. And for Lisa, there was nothing more important than seeing that spark in her daughter's eyes. She wanted to be a part of that spark. She wanted to understand Betsy’s world, to find new ways back into her life, to prove that she wasn’t done yet. That they weren’t done.

So when the job at the most talked-about fashion magazine came along, Lisa jumped at it. Not for the glamour, but for the chance to build something new between them. A fresh start. And now, after everything, she had one more reason to try, because she needed Betsy’s help.

“Bets?” she called out.

“Up here!” came the reply, accompanied by the clack of a laptop closing.

Lisa climbed the stairs and found Betsy sprawled across her bed, sketchbook open beside her. Her head didn’t even lift. “Thought you were working late again. Get fired already?”

Lisa sighed and dropped her bag onto the floor. “Not quite. Just emotionally crushed. New experience for the week.”

Betsy finally looked up, one eyebrow arched. “What, did Carla throw a shoe at your head?”

Lisa gave her a look. “No. But she called me a disappointment.”

“Oof. Brutal. She's not wrong though,” Betsy quipped, smirking but softening immediately as she noticed her mother’s expression. “Oi, I’m kidding.”

Lisa flopped down beside her, exhausted. “It was bad and I feel like I’m drowning in all of it.”

Betsy arched a brow. “Well, you didn’t expect to roll into Revière in your old blazer and suddenly become Coco Chanel, did you?”

“Oi,” Lisa half-heartedly said. “That blazer is soft.”

“It’s beige, sad,” Betsy deadpanned. “And I guess you had bought it before I was even born.”

Lisa rubbed her face, then looked at her daughter properly. “I need your help.”

"You’re not about to ask me to babysit someone’s dog or go to some weird long lost relative’s funeral, are you?" Betsy eyed her suspiciously.

“I’m serious,” Lisa said. “Ryan gave me clothes. Loads of them. Prada. Chanel. Dolce.”

Betsy’s eyes widened slightly.

“But I haven’t got the first clue how to style any of it.”

“So what, you want me to help you put looks together? Like... actually dress you?” Betsy asked, barely containing her excitement.

“I want us to do it together,” Lisa gently said, tapping Betsy’s forearm. “You’ve got the eye. I’ve got the body. And also… the clothes.”

Betsy grinned. “You really are desperate, aren’t you?”

Lisa laughed. “Completely.”

“And your hair’s a war crime,” Betsy added, standing now, warming to the idea. “We’re fixing that too.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“It screams ‘cop’. You’re in fashion now. We need it to whisper ‘editorial chic with mature edge’. I have a friend who can help. She’s brilliant.”

Lisa sighed, but there was relief in her shoulders now, too. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Betsy beamed. “Honestly? Yeah. I’ve waited my whole life to take the reins on your wardrobe. You’re like my own personal before-picture.”

Lisa rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Don’t go too far.”

“No promises,” Betsy said, already pulling out her phone. “We’re starting tomorrow. And you’re going to look like a woman who actually belongs at Revière and maybe even the great Carla Connor won’t be able to take her eyes off you.” She winked and disappeared behind the door, calling her friend.

Lisa leaned back and stared into the void. The mention of the editor-in-chief was unexpected. Why would Betsy even say this about Carla? Lisa couldn’t tell, but she couldn’t focus on anything else now.

Carla Connor couldn’t look away...

Lisa tried to reason with herself, to find a logical explanation for why that thought lingered, why it tempted her so much. But no answer came. And for now, she just forced herself to push it aside.

Because, in the end, this was about her and Betsy, about repairing their relationship. Their connection. And maybe, just maybe, they were about to finally find their way back to each other.

Chapter Text

The morning was freezing, even for a London spring, but brighter than any of the cold, gloomy days before. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching the glimmer of fabric samples pinned on mood boards. From early on, the editorial floor buzzed with focused energy. The coming weeks promised to be intense, as the collections for the summer issue were nearing final approval. And the most important trip of the year has been approaching rapidly. Paris. It was still more than a month away, but in the fashion world, that hardly mattered.

Lisa Swain stepped through the glass doors, her head held a little higher than usual.

The weekend had been pure chaos, an endless whirlwind of trousers, blouses, and blazers being flung across Lisa’s bedroom. Betsy had taken charge like a woman on the most important mission, teaching Lisa how to spot different brands at a glance and how to combine intricate fabrics and colours without looking like a patchwork quilt. One of Betsy’s friends, a budding hairstylist, had worked magic on Lisa’s hair, naturally silky but in desperate need of a proper cut. By Sunday evening, Lisa hardly recognised herself in the mirror. She looked, and more importantly, felt, like a completely different person. For the first time in four years, a genuine happiness stirred in her heart.

Since Becky had died, Lisa hadn't had the energy or desire to care much about her appearance. It wasn’t that she had completely stopped caring about her reflection in the mirror, but the importance of how she looked had diminished significantly. Over the past four years, it had taken everything she had to build a new life for herself and her daughter, to piece her heart back together, to find the strength to move forward. And the overwhelming, all-consuming realisation that she would never be truly happy with anyone else had only convinced her further that there was little point in worrying about how she looked.

However, working at a fashion magazine stirred something long forgotten in Lisa. All her colleagues looked like models who had just stepped off the catwalk. And no, they didn’t all look the same. They weren’t just thin, tall, lifeless, and perfect. Everyone around her was different, unique, and striking in their own way. Walking into the editorial office, it was immediately clear that Carla valued diversity and, piece by piece, had built an incredible team of distinct and talented professionals around her. Yet they all had impeccable style, as if ready to step into a fashion shoot at any moment. And despite wanting to be above it all, Lisa couldn’t help but quietly love the way everyone around her knew how to express themselves through their style.

And deep down, Lisa knew that her main motivation for the change was the editor-in-chief. But, of course, she wasn’t ready to admit that her fascination with Carla Connor went beyond simple admiration. She wasn’t ready to admit that sometimes, in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep, Carla’s face would slip into her mind. She was definitely not ready to admit that, lately, Carla’s name had been escaping her lips more often during orgasm.

Lisa told herself none of it meant anything. Carla was, objectively, an incredible woman, and Lisa was just someone who couldn’t help but notice her beauty. That was all. It was simply a reaction to Carla’s physical attractiveness and nothing more.

And yet, recently, Lisa had begun to wonder if maybe it was time to try again. To open herself up to someone new. To believe, even just a little, that she could be happy despite everything. But she also knew one thing for certain. None of that could ever happen with Carla Connor. Even if her attraction wasn't purely physical, nothing could ever happen with her boss. So Lisa didn’t let herself think about it. She buried the thought deep down.

Still, even though she knew it was a game she could never win, she wanted to place a quiet little bet. Just to see what kind of effect the new Lisa might have on Carla Connor. And even though the cost of this game was far too high, she couldn’t resist the thrill of taking a small risk. The key was not to get used to it. Because once you start gambling, it doesn’t take long to lose everything.

Even with all the dangerous emotions stirring beneath her ribs, Lisa cherished an unforgettable weekend with her daughter. Betsy was buzzing with excitement, finally getting the chance to unleash her creative energy, and for Lisa, it felt like they were a real family again. Honestly, something she hadn’t dared hope for in a long time. No matter how hard she would have to work to succeed in her new job, Lisa knew it would all be worth it. If this was the price of reconnecting with her little girl, she'd do it a hundred times over.

Today, she’s a different sight altogether. A deep emerald green silk blouse tucked neatly into high-waisted, tailored black trousers that hug her figure in all the right places. A vintage gold chain glints under the open collar, catching the morning light. Her hair, usually scraped back into a slick ponytail, now falls in soft, effortless waves around her shoulders, a freshly cut fringe framing her high cheekbones. There's a swipe of soft berry lipstick on her lips, and a light eye make-up. Her look was just enough to turn heads without trying too hard. And her black boots, heeled, polished, and confident, clicked decisively against the marble floor.

Lisa looked sleek. Sophisticated. Surprising. And even though there was a self-conscious flutter under her ribs, she knew she looked good.

Lisa made her way towards her desk, the quiet hum of the office subtly shifting as she passed. A few heads turned; whispers stirred like a soft breeze through the room.

Ryan, perched casually nearby, caught her eye and grinned. It was impossible not to notice that Lisa had taken their conversation on Friday to heart. Over the weekend, she had transformed herself in the most striking way. She seemed to glow from within. She looked absolutely mesmerising, and everyone in the office had noticed.

“I didn’t know you had such silky hair,” he teased, his voice just a bit amused.

Lisa let out a dry chuckle, her cheeks colouring slightly under the sudden attention.

“Neither did I,” she said, half laughing, half shy. “Turns out I do, just had to let it out.”

She settled into her seat, pretending not to notice that Sarah stared openly, her mouth slightly ajar. Lisa tapped at her keyboard, feigning nonchalance, though a small, satisfied smirk tugged at her lips.

The atmosphere felt different today, as if the whole floor was holding its breath. And for the first time since she’d walked through Revière’s doors, Lisa wasn’t just surviving the room. She was commanding it.

The lift clanked quietly as Carla stepped out onto the executive floor. Her morning had been exhausting; she'd spent the whole weekend dealing with the results of the shoot with Leanne. Most of the photos were terrible. Carla couldn't understand how her team had let this happen. Once again, nothing could be done without her presence. Anger at Lisa gripped her again - well, couldn't Lisa just find a way to get me back to London? Disappointment.

Sometimes, Carla's thoughts lingered on Lisa Swain longer than they should have.

There was something about the blonde that made Carla’s mind short-circuit. She didn’t know much about Lisa, but she remembered Abi, Lisa’s friend from the Register, once casually mentioning, during a conversation with Ryan, that Lisa had very tragic reasons for leaving the police force. Later, over dinner with her nephew, he had filled in the gaps, telling Carla everything he knew about her second assistant. The story had left an uneasy feeling gnawing at her chest.

And even though Carla still didn’t know all the details, and there were still many blank spaces in Lisa’s story, she realised she had an incredible, strong, resilient, and brave woman by her side. And Carla found herself wanting to know more. Something about Lisa made her nervous, fascinated, enchanted. Her delicate, pure beauty was only part of it; beneath that softness, Carla sensed that extraordinary strength. Lisa could be unsure of herself, could doubt, stumble, and make mistakes, but she seemed never to give up. She’s stood her ground. Always ready to fight for herself, even when she was scared.

Carla could see it (could feel it actually) that rare combination of sensuality and resilience. And it unsettled her more than she dared to admit.

Intimidated by the direction of her thoughts, Carla made a habit of keeping herself in check. She controlled those impulses ruthlessly, refusing to dwell on the idea of getting to know Lisa better, at least not in any real, dangerous way.

Instead, a darker instinct whispered to her, coaxing her toward sabotage. If she gave Lisa enough chances to fail, she could finally convince herself that Lisa was no different from anyone else - another disappointment. Just a disappointment.

(Well, perhaps not quite like everyone else. Much more beautiful, even though Lisa was an expert at hiding it. But that didn’t matter, anyway. It wasn’t supposed to matter.)

Ryan fell into step beside Carla, pulling her out of her thoughts, a stack of files balanced under his arm.

“…so Catherine Moreau’s confirmed for Thursday,” Ryan said, flipping through his notes without missing a beat. “She’s bringing her deputy editor, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to push for an exclusive agreement.”

Carla gave a noncommittal hum and barely glanced at him. Her thoughts were somewhere far away.

They rounded the corner toward her office, and the door was slightly ajar. Inside, Lisa stood at Carla’s desk, laying out the morning issues with practised efficiency. She wore a deep emerald green blouse tucked into tailored black trousers, her hair loose around her shoulders in soft, effortless waves, a freshly cut fringe framing her face.

It was an utterly unforgettable sight. The blonde seemed to glow with a quiet light, so radiant that, for a moment, Carla thought she might go blind. It felt as if the world had stopped, frozen in that single moment.

Carla stopped walking. Stopped breathing for a second.

Her gaze swept over Lisa instinctively, from the confident line of her posture to the sharp cut of her clothes, to the way the sunlight made the silk blouse gleam against her skin. Without thinking, Carla wetted her lips slowly.

In that moment, the brunette felt everything around her spiral out of control. Lisa’s angelic beauty was so disarming that the editor-in-chief could not summon the strength to resist.

Ryan, halfway through another sentence, noticed the sudden silence. He turned his head and caught Carla staring.

"You alright?" he asked, a teasing edge slipping into his voice.

Carla didn’t answer immediately. Lisa, oblivious to the charged air behind her, finished arranging the stack of magazines, smoothed her hands over the desk, and walked out of the office. She glanced between Carla and Ryan with a polite, professional smile.

She noticed the sudden gleam in her boss’s eyes, the way her mouth parted slightly as if trying to draw in more air, the way her entire body tensed just a little more than usual. Mentally, Lisa savoured the moment. It took all her police training to stop herself from breaking into a smile at the sweet taste of victory. Because it was obvious to anyone who looked at the expression on the brunette’s face, Carla Connor was impressed. And that meant Lisa’s bet had paid off.

"Morning," Lisa said lightly, her voice steady as she passed them by on her way out.

Carla’s eyes followed her without shame. The click of Lisa’s boots echoed down the hall before Carla finally dragged her gaze back to Ryan.

He raised an eyebrow, an unmistakable smirk tugging at his mouth.

"Should I give you a minute, or...?" Ryan murmured, arms folding across his chest.

Carla shot him a sideways look, schooling her expression back into something vaguely neutral. She strode into her office without responding, but Ryan caught the slight flush creeping up her neck before she turned away.

He grinned to himself as he followed her in, already making a mental note to tease her about it later mercilessly.

The early afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, casting long, warm stripes across the floor. Carla sat hunched over her desk, papers spread out like a battlefield in front of her. The steady clatter of her pen against the page and the occasional sharp tap of her fingers on the keyboard filled the room.

Today, Carla found it nearly impossible to concentrate. Time and again, her gaze drifted through the transparent door of her office and landed on her assistant. She couldn’t stop looking at her. Every so often, Lisa caught her eye, but the brunette never hid. She didn’t blush, didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. She held her ground and kept working. But all of it was just a polished surface because inside, it felt like fire was spreading at an unimaginable speed.

The new image of Lisa occupied Carla’s thoughts more than she cared to admit. She couldn’t stop thinking about the silk blouse, the perfectly tailored trousers, the way Lisa’s hair shimmered like golden sunlight. Her green eyes, so vivid they reminded Carla of summer meadows. Her bright smile, which she offered every morning to Carla, who didn't even nod in return. Her figure, graceful and sculpted, was like the marble goddesses of ancient Greece.

Carla had caught herself thinking these thoughts five times already, and each time she felt borderline insane. Teenage obsessions and silly crushes were supposed to be long behind her. Since her last divorce, she’d locked the door on anything “Cupid-related”. And yet here she was, drowning in this relentless stream of saccharine thoughts, frustrated and furious with herself for being so affected.

She was struggling to work, to push away the entirely inappropriate warmth that bloomed in her chest, when a soft knock came at her open door.

Lisa Swain leaned casually against the doorframe, one hand flicking back a loose strand of hair. She looked impossibly stunning, the emerald silk of her blouse shimmering as she shifted. Her light green eyes sparkled in the sunlight, and a slight smile played at the corner of her lips. It was exactly all the details that kept the brunette on edge.

"I’m going to Calvin Klein to pick up the skirts," Lisa said, her tone routine. "I’ll be back in an hour," Lisa expected no reply as usual, not even a glance, and turned on her heel toward the exit.

Carla didn’t look up right away, pretending to study the folder in her hands, though a smile was already tugging at her lips. Her voice came out dry, almost amused, but right on time so Lisa could hear her.

"Going to turn more heads in Soho, are we?"

Lisa laughed a little nervously. She turned around to make sure she hadn't misheard, and Carla had indeed complimented her. She met an unexpectedly soft gaze she had never seen before. Suddenly, an uncharted courage stirred inside her, enough to meet the boss’s game head-on.

"Is it that obvious?" Lisa offered a small, still quite shy, smile.

Carla smirked harder, wondering if Lisa Swain was no longer hiding but had chosen to join the game. The blonde's openness and assertive gaze, her posture, and the glint in her eyes sent a slight tingle through Carla's lower abdomen. Something inexpressible passed between them, something warm and electric that lingered in the air.

And in that moment, all the sounds around them faded, and both women felt as though they were standing at the edge of something unprofessional, but unexpectedly desired by them both. It was just a conversation, yet something real, something honest. And they both understood that nothing changes in an instant, but in the eyes of the other, each saw the inevitability of their connection.

Neither Lisa nor Carla believed in higher powers or fate. Too many random things had happened to both of them over the years to make such faith feel plausible. But standing close like this, something shifted. It felt as though there was an undeniable force in the world, something that simply would not allow them not to crash eventually. And that crash, when it came, would be earth-shattering for sure.

Carla studied the blonde’s face with a steady gaze, marvelling at how soft and light her features were.

"It’s silk," she said in a low voice, breaking the silence. "That blouse whispers luxury."

Lisa shrugged, a playful gleam in her eyes, "I was told I needed to stop dressing like I’m undercover in a biscuit factory."

Carla gave a low chuckle, sitting back in her chair, her eyes never leaving Lisa’s body.

"Whoever told you that was doing the Lord’s work."

She let her gaze flick down and up again, a wicked little glint in her eyes. Lisa wasn’t ready for that look. It caught her off guard, setting something fluttering in her chest. For the first time since she’d started working there, she saw something in Carla’s eyes that wasn’t cool indifference.

There was respect, maybe even a flicker of admiration. And something else, something hotter, heavier. A pull that made Lisa’s pulse quicken. She couldn’t quite place it. (Or maybe she just didn’t dare to name it.)

"But I have to admit..." Carla said, letting the pause stretch just a little too long. "I didn’t expect you to pull this off. You look..." Another slow sweep of her gaze. "…unexpectedly sharp."

She should’ve stopped there. However, words kept slipping out dangerously. She didn’t know why she was talking more than she ever had. But something about the heat in the room, or the way Lisa stood there, so effortlessly stunning, made her unable to think straight. Pardon the pun.

Lisa grinned, still a little shy but with a flicker of newfound courage sparking behind her eyes.

"I’ll take that as a compliment?"

"You should," Carla said nonchalantly. "I don’t hand them out easily. Especially not before lunch time.” Carla let her eyes wander again, lingering just a little longer on the glint of the golden chain and the soft curve of cleavage the blouse offered. “Or after." The air felt heavier, charged with something electric.

It was always nice to hear compliments from women, even if Lisa had never been particularly good at receiving them. But hearing them again after four years of feeling like a ghost was something else entirely. And hearing them from Carla Connor? That was beyond imagination.

For a moment, Lisa wondered if she was dreaming. Maybe it was all some silly trick of her mind, and she’d slept through her alarm, caught in a haze of wishful delirium. But then she caught that look in Carla’s eyes, roaming slowly over her body. The way her pupils were slightly dilated. The parting of her lips. That slight smile. The tension in the air, warm with flirtation. It pulled Lisa right back into the moment, back into the reality of what was happening.

Carla Connor wasn’t just paying her a compliment. She was flirting with her.

And all of it, every glance, every pause, was slowly but surely stirring a delicious sense of smugness inside the blonde. She arched a brow, a little cocky now.

"You keep looking at me like that," she said, her smile tugging a little wider, a little bolder, "and I might get used to you being nice."

Carla leaned forward over her desk, resting her chin lightly in her hand, voice dropping a fraction lower.

"Oh no, Lisa," she murmured, lips curling into a dangerous smile. "Wouldn’t want that. The fun is in keeping you guessing."

Another pause, thick with tension. Neither moved, though Lisa felt it, felt every charged inch between them. For a moment, they both forgot where they were. Lisa couldn’t even remember why she’d come in at all.

The air in the office seemed to grow thinner with each breath, and both of them were acutely aware that the pause had stretched too long. Yet there was something inexplicably soothing in the silence. Something weighty, unspoken, and impossible to define, tugging at the invisible thread between them. Strangely, it brought with it a sense of calm, of quiet acceptance, of sharp inevitability. And despite the fear simmering beneath the surface, the interest sparking just under their skin was impossible to hide.

Lisa cleared her throat, breaking the spell. “I should get going," she said, though her feet felt reluctant to move. Her smile lingered as she silently stepped back, turning away and disappearing through the door.

Carla watched her go, the office suddenly feeling a little too still, a little too empty. She set one of the folders down with a soft thud and murmured under her breath, a smirk playing at her lips: "Silk was made for you to wear, Swain."

(“And for me to take it off”).

Chapter Text

By evening, the floor always became quieter: the phone calls gradually subsided, the meetings ended, and an enveloping silence spread through the rooms. After an intense day filled with checking new collections, scheduling photoshoot dates, checking layouts, and planning fashion weeks, the tension gradually dissolved into the spring air. The week slipped by almost unnoticed, except for the fact that every day, Lisa surprised her colleagues with a new look.

Betsy had taken charge, carefully picking out outfits and coaching her on accessories and shoes with the precision of a real stylist. They even planned to go shopping this weekend and visit a modern art exhibition together. Lisa couldn’t find the words to explain how much this meant to her. This fragile thread that is pulling her and her daughter closer again, stitch by stitch.

But, of course, Lisa couldn’t deny the flicker of satisfaction that came with every admiring glance from her colleagues. Heads turned; whispers followed. Even Sarah (still sceptical) couldn’t completely ignore the shift, though she maintained her frosty distance. Lisa didn’t mind. She met it with steady kindness.

However, there was one particular look she wasn’t able to ignore - Carla’s.

The editor-in-chief's gaze found her everywhere: passing reception, during meetings, at photo shoots, and especially when Carla summoned her assistant into her office. That look wasn’t casual. It was so intense that Lisa sometimes felt she might catch fire under it. And if she didn’t know better, she’d swear something else lurked behind that polished, indifferent mask. Something raw.

Lisa wasn’t uncomfortable under those stares; if anything, she welcomed them. In truth, she, too, had been unable to tear her gaze away from Carla since the first day they met. And yet, each time it happened, she felt the heat rising under her skin, and her cheeks becoming red. Carla didn’t even try to hide it; her eyes were shamelessly direct, bold enough to steal the breath right out of Lisa’s lungs.

Carla mesmerised her. Everything about her - the cool elegance of her stride, the effortless way she commanded the room, the scent of power that lingered everywhere she walked. She never apologised. She never second-guessed. Lisa knew that normally, she’d find that kind of arrogance grating. But in Carla, it wasn’t arrogance, it was pure and unapologetic reality. And that truthfulness, that raw certainty, pulled Lisa in deeper.

But then, in those stolen glances, Lisa caught flashes of something else. Something fragile flickering just beneath the diamond-hard surface. And her fingers trembled just so slightly every time she forced herself to look away, afraid she might fall into something dangerous.

Because the truth was, she didn’t want to look away. She didn’t want to turn back to her desk and pretend she had seen nothing. She wanted to stay. Get closer. Be close enough to discover whatever it was she wasn’t supposed to see. (But she knew, didn’t she? Carla would never let her get that close.)

And despite the totally unexpected conversation with her boss on Monday, Lisa tried not to be charmed. Her colleagues had warned her it was rare, but sometimes Carla could be soft, open, even relaxed. If you were lucky enough to catch one of those moments, you had won. But they were fleeting, never something to count on. So Lisa tried not to dwell on it, not to hope that Carla might make an exception for her, might let her in.

She did her best to ignore the gnawing feeling in her chest, the quiet voice in her mind whispering that maybe, just maybe, there was hope. That maybe Carla looked at the blonde differently than she looked at anyone else. But ignoring it was getting harder every day.

The soft glow of the Friday afternoon light reminded Lisa that soon enough, she’d be at home, sharing dinner with her precious daughter, and the thought warmed her from the inside out. She sat at her desk, scrolling through page proofs with a red pen in hand, jaw tight with concentration, determined to finish the task as quickly as possible. Her phone lay silent beside her, switched off for the meeting and, truthfully, forgotten about since.

The lift dinged, and in strolled Betsy. She wore Chanel boots, a mini skirt, and a sharp black blazer from the iconic '90s Chanel collection. She’d swiped a few pieces from her mother’s wardrobe, something she never imagined she’d ever do. Massive gold earrings framed her face, while her makeup was light, just enough to gently highlight her soft features. The look was immaculate, vintage yet undeniably fresh. Just a little overdressed, but it’s never a crime, right?

“Oi, Mum,” Betsy called as she approached Lisa’s desk, drawing more than a few glances to her in the quiet office. “I’ve been ringing you for the last hour.”

Lisa blinked, pen paused mid-scribble. “You what?” Her shoulders stiffened as reality caught up. She grabbed for her phone, flipping it over in her palm and seeing the dark screen. Right. Still switched off from the meeting hours ago. Guilt prickled sharply. “I’m so sorry, Bets. I forgot to turn it back on. Why are you here?”

Betsy rolled her eyes, more theatrical than truly annoyed. “Eva’s invited me to her family’s country house for the weekend. Her parents are away, it’s all above board, promise. I’ll be back Sunday night.”

Lisa arched a brow, crossing her arms. “But I thought we had plans this weekend, didn’t we? Shopping, exhibition, remember?”

She felt a sting of disappointment at her daughter choosing someone else over their plans. But she swallowed it down and forced a small smile, determined not to let it show.

“Yeah, yeah, Mother,” Betsy waved her hand, her gold rings catching the light. “Let’s do it next weekend, shall we? Eva’s is happening now. Everyone’s going.” She didn’t even pause to reconsider, and that little twist of hurt lodged deeper in Lisa’s chest. But she couldn’t push her daughter. Not now.

Betsy turned to go, already half-distracted, then paused mid-step. Her gaze flicked sideways, zooming in on Carla Connor’s glass-walled office.

Inside, Carla was in the middle of a phone call, standing by the window with her back turned to the room. Her classy all-black suit and sharp-shouldered blazer were sculpted to perfection, and black cigarette trousers made her look even more statuesque. The late afternoon sunlight caught the dark gloss of her hair, making it gleam. Her posture was that effortless blend of loose and commanding, one of her hands was buried in her pocket, the other holding her phone while she was talking.

Betsy let out a low whistle. “Honestly, Mum. How have you not fallen in love with her yet? She’s a thirst trap.”

Lisa’s head snapped up, heart thudding. “Betsy-”

“What? I’m right.” Betsy jerked her chin towards the office. “Look at her! It’s criminal. She’s like… haute couture personified. And she’s got impeccable taste. You should seriously get some lessons off her.”

Lisa hissed, cheeks burning hot. She glanced around in panic, praying no one else had heard. “Oh god. Stop talking.”

But Betsy just grinned wickedly, slinging her bag back onto her shoulder. “Fine, fine, mum. I’ll leave you to it.”

And then she was off, weaving through the rows of desks. Lisa sagged back in her chair, face flaming, muttering curses under her breath. She was doing everything in her power not to sneak another glance at the woman behind the glass. Lisa Swain felt a cold spike of terror at the thought that the brunette might have heard them.

But, if she was honest with herself, she had to admit: Betsy wasn’t wrong.

Carla Connor was gorgeous.

And it was criminal.

The sky outside had turned a dark, smoky grey. Most of the staff had cleared out for the weekend hours ago, leaving the floor hollow. Lisa hadn’t moved. She told herself she was finishing off reports, but really, she didn’t fancy going home to an empty flat. Lisa realised that the moment when Betsy would leave home for good was creeping closer, inevitable now, really. She knew she had to get used to her daughter carving out a separate life of her own. And she was glad, genuinely glad, that Betsy had friends, and interests, and was living every day to the full.

But that deep, maternal urge to stay close, to be able to pull her daughter into her arms at any moment, sparked a sharp ache beneath her ribs. A dull, persistent pain she could not quite shake. She had even listened to “Slipping Through My Fingers” several times while scrolling through new mood boards, but it had not helped her focus at all. In the end, she had to dash to the bathroom. The last thing she wanted was to cry in the middle of the office.

These thoughts consumed Lisa so completely that she didn’t notice when Sarah slipped out for the evening. Didn’t see Ryan pop in to say his goodbyes to Carla. She just sat there, rooted to her chair, physically aware of the silence that had settled over the office, a silence so unfamiliar in this usually bustling place. It wrapped around Lisa, wrapped around her whole, like a heavy blanket, lulling her into a kind of trance.

She was so lost, so tangled up in that ache in her chest, that she remained oblivious to what was unfolding behind the glass walls of the editor-in-chief’s office.

Inside, Carla Connor had finished her calls for the day a good forty minutes ago. She ought to have gone home by now. But instead, she’d dimmed the lights, fished a bottle of red from the bottom shelf of her wardrobe, and poured herself a generous glass.

And now, she watched the blonde silently.

Watched every measured movement as Lisa’s pen scratched over the paper. Watched the subtle rise and fall of her chest when she remembered to breathe at last. Even in the soft, amber half-light, that white-blonde hair glistened, catching what little glow there was, as if it were spun from threads of late sunlight.

Carla noticed the way Lisa wrinkled her nose, just slightly, when she was concentrating too hard. Saw how, every so often, the blonde’s gaze would lose focus entirely, her eyes going soft as they stared blankly at the sheets before her. And God, Carla found herself wishing she knew what was running through her head. Wished she could just ask outright what was troubling her. Wait… what?

With a soft, frustrated huff, Carla leaned back in her chair. A half-empty bottle of Malbec sat on the desk, an elegant glass by her hand. Her heels lay abandoned on the floor where she’d kicked them off, and her black blazer hung loosely over the back of her chair.

Her body felt more relaxed now, calmer than it had all day. She’d handled several big wins, including signing off on a contract with young designer Nina Lucas, who’d be unveiling her debut collection in next month’s issue. All in all, a productive day. She should have been feeling smug about it.

But instead, her mind kept circling back, again and again, to her assistant. To Lisa. And it irked her, this fixation. Or rather, it usually did. But right now, with the warmth of the wine spreading through her veins and making everything soft at the edges… Right now, she was feeling something else entirely when it came to the blonde. And that, frankly, was even more unsettling.

Carla had tried, really tried, to shove the thoughts away. To push them down where they belonged, buried under work and logic and self-control. But the week’s fatigue, mingled with the alcohol, was getting the best of her. She tipped her head back, considering. Battling herself.

But in the end, her hand betrayed her. Before she could stop herself, she reached for her phone.

Across the open floor, Lisa’s work phone buzzed. The sound snapped her out of her thoughts, jolting her back to reality so fast it almost left her breathless. For a split second, the blonde couldn’t even place where she was, her mind scrambling to catch up. But then, as her gaze flicked up and caught the briefest glimpse of Carla through the glass doors, the brunette leaning back, dark eyes gleaming, that damned smirk tugging at her lips, Lisa felt it. A jolt of pure instinct. Danger. Trouble.

“Still here, Swain?” Carla’s voice drawled down the line, too casually. “Fancy a drink before you turn into a hermit?” Like it was the most ordinary thing in the world, a simple offer. Like she hadn’t been keeping Lisa at arm’s length since day one, never letting her within an inch of her guarded world. Like she wasn’t the same woman who, in more than a month Lisa had worked at Revière, had only once deigned to offer her so much as a real smile.

Lisa opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her brain was a mess of jumbled letters that refused to fall into place. Her heart did that ridiculous little stutter again, the one she hated, the one she couldn’t seem to control, and she forced herself to look up. Carla was watching her. Right through the glass. One dark brow arched in challenge, lips still curled into that cocky, knowing smirk.

Lisa swallowed hard. She wanted to say no. God, she meant to say no. But she couldn’t. She never could when it came to Carla Connor. The brunette with her wicked mouth, those glittering eyes, the elegant neckline of her silk blouse dipping just low enough to steal Lisa’s breath was a living hazard. And Lisa… Lisa felt her body betray her completely, every muscle going soft, useless, like she’d been turned to cotton wool. Like she had no control at all.

It was as though they were opposite charges, pulled towards each other by some unseen force. And sooner or later, they were bound to collide.

A minute later, Lisa was standing awkwardly in Carla’s office doorway.

Carla gestured to the spare chair with her wine glass. “Come in, copper.”

Lisa stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Copper.

Carla had never called her that before. And the way it had rolled off her tongue sent a flicker of something dangerous through Lisa’s chest. There was a flash in Carla’s eyes, too, something dark, and Lisa wasn’t sure which unnerved her more.

It was dim in the office now, the only light coming from the city glow outside and the low desk lamp that cast everything in gold and shadow. But even in the gloom, Lisa’s gaze betrayed her, tracing every inch of Carla Connor’s silhouette.

The tailored blouse fitted just enough to leave things half to the imagination. The elegant slope of her tanned collarbone, skin that looked maddeningly soft, so much so that an intrusive, reckless thought flared in Lisa’s mind: God, I want to run my tongue right there- Jesus. No. Pull yourself together, Swain.

“I… I didn’t notice it was getting dark,” Lisa mumbled, eyes dropping to the floor, willing the heat in her cheeks to fade. “Just about finished my report. I’ll, um… try to get out of your hair soon.”

But Carla didn’t so much as blink at that. Instead, she poured a second glass of wine and slid it across the desk towards Lisa. “Stay,” Carla said simply. A command, not a request.

Lisa’s throat went dry. She lifted her gaze carefully and instantly regretted it. Because there Carla was, in full devastating detail: sharp cheekbones cutting through the soft shadows, dark green eyes locked on hers, unblinking. And those lips… Full, poised, and very kissable. God, Swain, what’s wrong with you tonight? Lisa’s pulse stuttered.

She wanted to believe this was a game, that Carla was just toying with her. But there was no smirk now. No mockery in those eyes. Just intensity. Like she was looking right through Lisa, peeling back layers, searching for the spot where it would break the fastest. A challenge. A dare.

Lisa’s feet moved before her brain could stop them, carrying her slowly to the table. She lowered herself into the chair opposite, heart hammering. And then, without quite meaning to, she leaned forward and nudged her glass closer, a silent acceptance of whatever dangerous game this was. The wine was obviously expensive and rich, just like everything about Carla. She could feel Carla’s gaze on her. Heavy, lingering. Around the table hung the overpowering scent of wine, laced with perfume, the same fragrance that had thrown Lisa off balance not so long ago.

The atmosphere was so charged it seemed to press down on her, making it hard to straighten up, as though the heavy air itself was pinning her in place.

In the dim light, Carla's movements appeared slower. She rose from her chair and perched on the edge of the table, far too close to Lisa. The blonde tensed, instinctively wanting to shrink back, to put even the smallest distance between them but there was nowhere to go. The space between them had become dangerously small.

Carla's presence surrounded her, stealing the air from Lisa's lungs. And yet, Lisa couldn't look away as the brunette raised her glass and took a slow sip, leaving a trace of red on her lips. She licked them agonisingly slow, before setting the glass down on the table behind her.

“You know, Lisa…” Carla spoke very slowly, almost in a half-whisper. Her eyes slid deliberately over the features of the face opposite her, studying every micro-reaction, every slight shift in expression. “I’ve been called a lot of things over the years, since I’ve been in this business. I can’t remember all the nicknames, all the insults. But there’s one I can’t seem to shake off…”

Her hand moved slowly down her thigh, brushing off invisible dust with the kind of grace that only Carla could manage.

Lisa, caught in the pull of Carla’s presence, felt like her thoughts were colliding with each other. She couldn’t concentrate. Carla’s nearness, the way she seemed to fill every inch of space around her, made it impossible to focus. Her pulse quickened, and she swallowed softly, looking up at Carla with confusion flickering in her eyes.

Carla smiled then, watching Lisa’s scattered attention. “Do you think it’s true?” she asked, her voice teasing.

The thoughts in Lisa’s head didn’t stop for a moment. They swirled, too fast, too many, and she couldn’t seem to grasp any of them. The weight of Carla’s question hovered in the air, but she couldn’t quite get a hold of it. She tried to steady her breathing, but it came out in shallow bursts instead.

“W-what?” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper, her mind still struggling to catch up.

Carla’s smile remained, lingering like a challenge, and her gaze didn’t waver for a second.

"That I’m a….what did, I suppose, your daughter’s called me… ah, yes. A thirst trap."

Lisa was pulled out of her trance instantly. She choked on her breath, coughing. “Oh, for f-” She set the glass down hard. “You heard that?”

Carla leaned back, smiling like a cat with cream. “Clear as day. Your daughter’s got a big gob.”

The blonde groaned, scrubbing a hand over her face. The worst-case scenario has literally become her reality. “I’m sorry, I’m going to talk to her.”

The editor-in-chief didn’t move, didn’t change her expression, but her gaze sharpened. “You agree with her, though.”

Lisa’s head snapped up. “What?”

Carla shrugged, swirling her wine casually. “You agree that I’m a thirst trap and it’s criminal to look this good”. She smiled so innocently as it was the most obvious thing to say.

Lisa blinked. She couldn’t believe Carla had heard everything, and what was worse, Carla was so smug now that Lisa wanted to wipe that smile off her lips by any means necessary. In fact, there was only one way she could think of at the moment.

"That’s a bit desperate, innit? Fishing for compliments at this hour?" She tried to steady her voice, to sound not affected by this whole conversation, but her eyes couldn’t stop roaming over Carla’s body if actually considering admitting that Lisa agreed with her daughter.

Carla extended her hand and lightly touched Lisa’s hair "Maybe. Or maybe I just enjoy watching you squirm when things get a little too close for comfort." Carla gently tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, her touch on Lisa filled with a tenderness neither of them had felt in years.

Despite the unexpected gentleness in Carla’s eyes, Lisa scoffed. "Sometimes I can’t believe that someone can be so full of themselves."

Carla’s smile widened; she was clearly getting used to their back-and-forth. “Oh, that’s only because I’ve earned it,” her gaze fixed on Lisa. “But don’t you think you should be a bit more careful with your commentary? You wouldn’t want to get fired for disrespecting your boss, would you?”

Lisa stilled. Suddenly, she realised she might’ve crossed a line. An overwhelming fear gripped her, squeezing her lungs tightly until it felt like she couldn’t get a breath in. Her thoughts started spiralling: had she just lost the job? The one that was demanding (sometimes absurdly so), but the one she’d genuinely started to like? Her cheeks flushed the colour of Louboutin red.

Carla laughed loudly, but Lisa barely heard it, her anxiety pulsing in her ears.

“Relax, Detective Sergeant, I’m just messing with you,” Carla said teasingly, leaning in close enough that Lisa could smell the wine on her breath. “You worked on the force for years, but I’m the one who terrifies you.”

“I’m not Detective Sergeant anymore. And I’m not afraid of you,” Lisa straightened in her seat, trying to make herself look bigger, to show that Carla’s words didn’t have any effect on her (even though the warmth in her cheeks and somewhere in her lower belly said otherwise).

Carla just smiled, satisfied with herself. “You do look flustered, though. I quite like it.”

Lisa was holding her ground. "You like playing with people."

Carla tilted her head slightly, considering. "Only when these people blushing like mad."

Lisa's blush crept further. A silence settled, heavy and electric. Neither of them was ready to unravel the tension between them, but it felt so obvious, so raw and natural, that neither could step back now.

Carla was so close that Lisa could feel the warmth radiating from her body. Lisa wanted to reach out, to touch, to trace lazy circles on the other woman’s thigh. She wanted to pull the brunette even closer, settle her on her lap and kiss her senseless- Good God, Swain. Stop this. Immediately, her inner voice screamed, but her body wasn’t listening. Four years without almost any sexual release started to become too obvious.

Her mind was blurry. Lisa no longer knew where she was, or what was happening. There was only her, the woman sitting on her desk, looking absolutely breathtaking. Intoxicating. Addictive. Lisa wanted her. God help her, but she wanted her, and she couldn’t lie to herself about it anymore.

Since the first day, Lisa had been trying to ignore the fact that her boss could easily pass for a top model. Perfect silky dark hair, sharp cheekbones, piercing green eyes. Slim, not tall enough, probably, but with her posture, every agency would have overlooked the height requirement. Carla had that undeniable air of elegance and an impeccable sense of style. She knew exactly how to highlight her features, so expertly that no one could look away. Everyone was mesmerised, and the brunette knew it, liked it, and used it.

Lisa had sworn she wouldn’t be one of the many who fell under Carla’s spell. She had promised herself she’d protect her heart at all costs. But this conversation… this was getting to her. She could feel it - control slipping through her fingers.

Lisa stood up, trying to put some distance between them and stood behind the chair she was just sitting in. When she spoke, her voice was lower, rougher.

"I think you’ve had a few too many of these, Carla," she muttered, lifting her own wine glass slightly. "And now you’ve started flirting uncontrollably with your employees."

Carla didn’t move, but her gaze stayed locked on Lisa, trailing over her. The look was so obvious, so blatant, that Lisa nearly choked on air. Heat crept up her neck. The attention was… very pleasing, but she was so unused to it that she felt almost shy. No one had looked at her like that in four years. And it was utterly terrifying because the brunette’s gaze was intense but it wasn’t laced only with desire.

When their eyes met, she felt it. Warmth, gentleness, genuine interest. Lisa felt seen. Really seen.

And for a brief second, she had the absurd sensation that Carla was looking at her like she was the most beautiful woman in the world. No one had ever made her feel that way before.

Carla licked her lips, then smiled innocently, as if they were having the most ordinary conversation in the world.

"Who said it was flirting?" she murmured.

"Then what is it?" Lisa shot back, her voice tighter now, trying to regain a little control.

"We’re just talking, DS Swain." Carla stood up, taking a slow step closer. "No need to get so worked up."

"Stop calling me that..." Lisa muttered. She used to like her title, but it wasn’t really part of her anymore. And every time the brunette said it, it felt like some sort of game, like part of her role-play, and that absolutely wasn’t helping in the current situation. "It’s distracting."

"Good," Carla whispered, moving in even closer. Lisa stayed frozen, her body stiff, refusing to turn around even as she felt Carla’s presence right behind her, close enough that she could feel the older woman’s breath warm against her ear. "Don’t you think I’m far too deliberate to flirt uncontrollably after just a few glasses?"

"Then you’re doing this on purpose." Lisa inhaled sharply, trying to steady herself as Carla's nearness threatened to undo her completely. She could almost feel the brunette’s front brush against her backside, sending a rush of heat through her, desire was coiling through her body.

“Maybe I just don’t want you to think about anyone else tonight." Carla was surprised by her own boldness. She’d been watching Lisa all week, and every day it had become harder to deny the attraction. After Lisa’s makeover, when she revealed her beauty in full colour, Carla slowly but relentlessly started to lose self-control.

Lisa’s ethereal beauty had enchanted her the first time she laid eyes on her, but lately, the spiral of thoughts had been constant, gnawing at her peace. She hadn’t felt such sincere interest, such magnetic attraction, in so long, she could hardly believe this was happening.

And now she was testing the waters. Trying to understand whether she was just craving real attention, not the everyday glances of admiration or fear, but genuine desire. Or there was something more dangerous simmering between the two women.

Lisa didn’t reply immediately. She didn’t need to. Instead, she turned carefully, trying not to increase the distance between them.

She stared into the green eyes opposite her, searching for even a flicker of doubt but all she found was extraordinary confidence. Lisa didn’t know when Carla had decided to cross the boundary, or when this simmering tension had begun to exist between them.

She had always assumed that her occasional obsessive thoughts about her boss were nothing more than a need for attention. But standing this close, close enough to see the fine lines around Carla’s eyes, to smell not just her perfume but the faint scent of her shampoo, Lisa realised something else was flickering between them.

Something fragile. Something real. So real it felt like a single breath could shatter it.

And it was the first thing she had truly felt since her wife’s death. It terrified her. It genuinely terrified her.

What terrified her even more was the fact that, unexpectedly, Carla seemed perfectly fine with them getting closer. Or, to put it more accurately, she was the one initiating them getting closer. Maybe a little too close.

Blonde’s gaze dropped to Carla’s lips, then flicked back up. They were standing mere centimetres apart, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to stop. Both of them wanted to lean in so badly, the restraint was physically painful. Carla lifted her hand to stroke Lisa's chin, lightly tracing her lower lip with her thumb.

Lisa kept her gaze on Carla's lips, and at that moment, it seemed to both of them that a second more and the whole office would blow up in an all-consuming explosion of tension.

But Lisa was the first to break the spell, suddenly hyper-aware of the flush in her cheeks, the sound of her laboured breathing and rapid pulse rate. "I should go," she said, barely audible, her voice unsteady, almost like a plea. She couldn't be in the same room with the brunette anymore. It was all getting too much.

Carla’s expression was unreadable as she whispered back, "You should."

She didn’t dare to touch Lisa, not quite sure how either of them would react. But she felt it, saw it: the way the blonde’s breath hitched, how the blonde’s gaze flickered to her lips and stayed there. Carla knew she’d gone further than she intended, but in this moment, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

"But you won’t stop thinking about this, will you?" she added, studying Lisa’s face one last time. She was testing her. She knew she was scaring her, but she couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to.

Lisa didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The tension, laced with raw fear, was pulling her apart. Without a word, she gave Carla one last look, then slipped past her, squeezing between the brunette and the chair, and vanished into the darkness of the corridor. She hastily shoved her belongings into her bag and darted into the arriving lift, never once lifting her eyes from the floor.

Carla stood there for a moment, exhaling slowly. Her head was dizzy, either from the wine or from the electric charge of standing so close to the woman who had just walked away.

She hadn’t sobered up enough yet to start overthinking, to overanalyse her actions and feelings.

She stayed there, looking out over the quiet city, and whispered into the darkness,
"I won’t think about anyone else either, Lisa."

Chapter Text

Most people hated Mondays, and for good reason. But Lisa, a born workaholic, had always loved them. For her, every Monday was a new beginning, an opportunity to try something new. And although she had not been fond of change in recent years, her youthful energy and openness to the unknown sometimes got the better of her. And the symbolism of Monday as a new beginning really stuck with her. Yet today, she felt something different, an unexpected flicker of overwhelming excitement.

She’d thought that after what had happened on Friday, she’d wake up frozen with fear. But instead, she felt a sense of freedom. The feeling of closeness to Carla, the potential of getting to know her, fascinated her. Yes, the guilt still sat heavily on her chest, the feeling of betrayal towards Becky tightening around her ribs. And now and then, a cold shiver ran the length of her spine. But it couldn’t drown out the bright, almost reckless rush of courage that bloomed deep in her heart.

A courage she hadn’t known in four years.

In the time since Becky’s death, Lisa had come to believe she’d lost herself. As a police officer, she’d once felt strong and fearless. She was certain. But after losing her wife, all of that had crumbled. Every decision was difficult for her, and not only job-related ones. She couldn't open up to people anymore, and fear spiralled her breath into short bursts far more often than she liked to admit. Anxiety wrapped around her: unseen, but always there. And over time, she had simply learned to live with it.

Until now.

Because today, something had shifted. Lisa felt alive.

As alive as you feel at the beginning of something unknown but incredible. As alive as the first time, a warm, youthful feeling sparked in her chest. As alive as she’d felt before her very first kiss. As when she drank cheap wine on a park bench with her mates in the early summer morning. As when she’d packed her bags for college, her heart thudding with hope and dread. She never thought she’d feel that way ever again.

In truth, she hadn’t allowed herself to. Not after everything. Because heights were always followed by a fall, and Lisa knew she didn’t have the helmet, nor the parachute, to survive another one. And if she fell this time, it would be fatal. Not just broken bones and a broken heart. She would crumble. Wholly.

She couldn’t let that happen again.

But going to work now, opening her eyes wider to the cold, but bright spring sun, her soul trembled. In spite of all the promises of never again. Despite all the pain that had permeated every cell of her body for so long, in this moment, she felt ready for something new.

She was ready to try to be a little happier again.

All weekend, Carla had been trying to pinpoint the exact moment she stopped thinking straight. Since her last divorce, she’d sworn off relationships for good. She’d chosen work, chosen herself above everything and everyone.

Yes, there had been some occasional flings. But they meant as much to her as last year’s Chanel collection: nice at the time, quickly outdated and easily forgotten. Her relationships, if they could be called that, never went beyond physical pleasure, the occasional ego boost, and a bit of attention when she felt bored. There was never even a whisper of real emotion, and that suited Carla just fine. She didn’t need a tabloid headline about another divorce.

She was unapproachable, irresistible, inaccessible. She kept everyone at arm’s length except for her extremely small family, consisting of Ryan, Michelle, and Roy. Ryan (who, despite working with her and receiving the same unyielding treatment as the rest of the staff) was her favourite nephew. Michelle, Ryan’s mum, now lived in Ireland, but they had still managed to preserve their sisterly bond. Their relationship was one of the last islands of warmth, love, and family after all the loss and turmoil. Roy was like a father to Carla. Even though he still lived in her hometown and they rarely saw each other, he always managed to be there for her when she needed him most.

But beyond that? Carla hadn’t let anyone new in for a long time. She wasn’t ready for the pain again, or the hollow ache that came after. She wasn’t interested in investing in illusions, illusions that feelings might offer.

So after Friday’s conversation with Lisa, she couldn’t stop replaying every moment in her mind until it made her stomach churn. She felt sick. With guilt, with confusion, with regret. How had she let things slip so far? How had she, Carla Connor, let her façade crack like that?

She told herself it was nothing. Just lust. Just a lapse in control. It was physical, hormonal, almost. Just a stupid, fleeting mistake. She told herself she was simply in need of attention. That she hadn’t slept with anyone in months. That she’d been working late every night, and her nerves were frayed and-

And Lisa Swain, with her maddening smile, her bottomless eyes, her infuriating strength, had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

That was all. Wasn’t it?

But what was even worse - Lisa was her assistant. Carla Connor never crossed the line with her subordinates. That was a hard rule, etched into the very foundation of her career.

Yes, there were the occasional flirtations with models, visiting editors, or photographers, people passing through, people she didn’t manage day-to-day. But never with those who worked directly under her. Never with someone she saw in morning meetings, someone she gave orders to, someone whose career she had the power to make or break. That kind of entanglement was dangerous. Unprofessional. And Carla Connor prided herself on never letting her personal impulses interfere with her authority.

And she hated herself for letting it now. Over the years, Carla had carefully built a reputation as a fair (Strict? Yes. Harsh? Yes. But always fair) boss. Someone who could be rough, but who showed up when it mattered. Who backed her team when they needed her. Who enforced the rules about harassment and respect in the workplace with absolute clarity. She was the boss who took her team’s physical and mental well-being seriously, even if she didn’t always show it with softness.

And then she’d gone and done exactly what men in power were so often accused of. She’d used her authority. Blurred a line that should have never been touched. And that realisation sent her spiralling into a pit of self-loathing she couldn’t claw her way out of.

So, in an attempt to atone (however quietly) for her mistake, Carla decided that on Monday, she would re-establish firm and professional distance between Lisa and herself. No blurred lines, no risk and no chances.

When Lisa arrived at the office, Carla was already there, much to her surprise. She didn't even raise her head in greeting, as usual, and steadily carried on with whatever she was doing. Over the past month and a half, Lisa had learnt not to take her attitude personally and had grown used to her coldness. But for some reason, today those brick walls around the brunette felt utterly unbreakable, and a creeping sense of unease began to rise in Lisa’s throat.

For the next two hours, Carla didn’t leave her office, and through the glass doors, Lisa could only occasionally hear her low voice breaking the silence during the calls. She handed out all the assignments to Sarah today, which made Lisa shift awkwardly in her chair and stare at her screen, not wanting Sarah to catch the look of disappointment on her face.

Something was off. And you didn’t need to be a genius to work that one out. The sense of freedom that had carried Lisa through the morning had turned into a gnawing feeling of inevitability. The inevitability that wrapped around your chest and refused to let go. The inevitability of something Lisa was definitely not prepared to face.

Sometime around lunch, Carla finally summoned Lisa into her office. But her voice was so cold Lisa half-expected to turn to ice on the spot the moment she caught the look in her boss’s eyes.

She barely had a moment to clock what was happening. No time to take in her surroundings, no hint of what was coming, no chance to brace herself. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating like there were twenty people packed in rather than just Carla alone. Lisa found it hard to breathe.

Without so much as glancing up, Carla cut in, “I need the Chanel Autumn/Winter ’93 blazers. All five of them.”

Her voice landed like a punch to the ribs. And all at once, Lisa was back in that awful headspace remembering how, after Becky had died, she’d scribbled promise after promise onto scraps of paper: swearing never to feel anything again. Then she’d torn them all up. She’d read online somewhere that it might help with the chaos in her chest. Did it help? Lisa honestly couldn’t say.

“Sorry, what did you say?” For a second, Lisa thought she’d misheard. She still didn’t know all the ins and outs of the fashion world, but she remembered very clearly that they’d agreed two weeks ago not to use those blazers. That collection was rare, and it was practically impossible to source unless you’d booked a rental six months in advance.

Carla finally looked up, but her voice still sounded flat. “They’re for tomorrow’s shoot. The originals. No reissues, no knock-offs. Make it happen.”

Lisa frowned; she was confused. “That’s… a bit of a tall order. I mean, we discussed only two weeks ago that it’s practi-”

“I know what we discussed two weeks ago, Lisa. I said: make it happen.”

“I genuinely don’t know how you expect me to pull this off by tomorrow morning.” Carla looked ready to snap again, but Lisa got in first, her voice barely above a whisper now. “Carla… have I done something wrong?”

Carla’s eyes flickered. Just for the briefest second, Lisa thought that Carla would let her in again. That the walls were gone.

“No.”

Lisa wished she’d say something more, just offer even the smallest clue as to what the hell was going on, stop hiding behind the mask. But no such luck. So she tried again.

“Because… Friday. I thought…” Lisa hesitated. She trailed off. Hoping. Pleading. Needing Carla to meet her halfway. To acknowledge it, to acknowledge that there was something between them, and it’s still there, even behind these walls. But Carla didn’t even blink; her gaze hardened.

“Nothing happened on Friday, Lisa. You imagined it.” She stared straight into Lisa’s eyes, as if willing her to believe that whatever had happened on Friday had been a mistake. Just a stupid mistake for both of them. Just one more dirty little secret Carla would hide away from prying eyes and magazine covers.

Carla spoke again without breaking eye contact. “I suggest you crack on, because if you don’t get those blazers for tomorrow’s shoot, it’ll throw everything off.” She slowly rubbed the bare skin just inside the slit of her blouse. “And I can’t afford to work with people I can’t rely on.”

Lisa drew in a breath, cheeks burning. She gave a single nod and left the room.

In the past thirty minutes, Lisa had run the full gamut of emotions from utter devastation to blinding rage. She paced the office corridor in an attempt to settle her frayed nerves, but with each lap, her hands curled into fists tighter and tighter.

She wanted to grab Carla by the scruff of her blouse and yell right in her face, What the hell is wrong with you? How could it be that only on Friday she'd been called into Carla’s office, poured a glass of wine, openly flirted with and now, today, she was being pushed out?

Surely, Carla hadn’t said the words outright, but Lisa wasn’t daft. The moment Carla handed her that impossible task, it was obvious that Lisa had no chance of keeping her job. She was being set up to fail. Lisa wanted to scream. She wanted to scream so loudly that the glass throughout the entire building would come crashing down. The injustice of it was tearing her apart from the inside.

She knew she was good at her job. Even Ryan had let it slip once over lunch that Carla thought she was her best assistant. The memory still made her stomach flip. The very fact that the blonde had managed to achieve that status in less than two months of working at the magazine made her feel rather self-satisfied. And the mere thought of Carla being able to say it out loud, even if only in front of Ryan, made Lisa feel like she could float.

And now? Now she was marching up and down the corridor while the rest of the team tucked into their lunch. Lisa, meanwhile, felt like she might keel over at any moment. The air had turned thin, vanishing from her lungs as though she were floating in space without a suit.

Just five more seconds of this, and it would all be over.

Her whole body was shaking; she couldn’t focus. The walls felt like they were closing in, tightening around her like a vice.

Since Becky’s death, Lisa’s mental health had taken a hit. Panic attacks had become a near-constant presence, filling the space her wife used to occupy. Recently, they had become much less frequent, but apparently, the stress of the last two months had been overwhelming by this point.

Usually by the end of a panic attack, Lisa couldn't remember anything that had happened, but this time, one thought echoed in her head: I quit.

Lisa hated giving up. Lisa Swain didn’t lose. But in this game, there was no winning. Not when the person across from you was Carla Connor.

Carla Connor, whom Lisa tragically had feelings for. There was no denying it anymore.

Carla Connor, who would never feel the same. Because snow queens weren’t built for feelings. It’s simply not written into their factory settings.

So there was nothing left for Lisa but to retreat.

Lisa quietly lowered her head onto her folded arms and let out a shaky breath, trying to let the last traces of the panic attack slip away. Her limbs still felt like lead, her chest tight, but the worst of it had passed. Then, suddenly, her phone buzzed against the desk, snapping her out of the swirling fog in her head.

She lifted it slowly, already dreading what she’d see.

Abi.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

They were meant to have lunch. She’d promised. But between the ridiculous blazer assignment, the spiralling panic and her decision to quit, Lisa had completely forgotten.

“Abi, hi,” she answered, breathless, still trying to mask the rawness in her voice. “I’m so, so sorry! I know I missed our lunch, I just…” She trailed off, not quite able to lie but nowhere near ready to tell the truth.

“What’s happened?” Abi wasn’t buying it. She knew Lisa far too well for that. “Is this something to do with the one and only?”

Lisa just sighed, unable to protest. There was no point pretending. “Yeah. Abi, I honestly don’t know what to do anymore.” She could feel it now: the fragile little happy bubble she’d been floating in that morning had fully burst. “I think I’m going to quit before she has the chance to sack me.”

Abi’s frustration crackled down the line. “Right. Lis.” She sounded like she was already mentally rolling up her sleeves. She knew her friend, and if she was in this state, then the situation was probably quite complicated, but Abi was ready to find a solution no matter what. “Tell me everything, and we’ll sort it.”

So Lisa did. She told Abi about the blazers, about the impossible deadline, about how the entire thing felt like a trap. And how (because she knew she was going to fail), she’d rather hand in her resignation and go out on her own terms than be forced out humiliated. Take the letter to HR, pack her things tonight, and leave quietly. Never coming back to the office, never seeing Carla again.

It had always been like this, ever since she was a little girl; Lisa didn't know how to accept defeat. And if she was suddenly thrust into a situation where she just didn't stand a chance, just had nothing to bet on and nothing to fight for, she backed down. She walked away from the climbing bar in PE that she couldn’t reach, while the boys twice her height made it look easy. Walked away from the mess after her parents were called to school for punching a boy in the nose who said sexist things. Walked away when her parents wouldn’t accept her for who she was.

And every time, it stung. Every time, it left a mark, a scar. So Lisa learnt not to lose. She learnt to stand her ground, to never back down, to fight until there was nothing left. Sometimes it costs too much, but Lisa didn't know how to do it any other way.

Sometimes, however, life had other plans. It had a habit of pushing her to the brink anyway. And when it did, when the trap was too tight, Lisa chose to leave. She made the decision to walk away, but to walk away so that there would be no trace of her left behind. She’d tear herself out of a place like pulling off a plaster because dragging it out only made it worse.

So now she had only one option. She’d write the letter, pack her things, and walk away.

Abi’s agitated voice jolted her back from the spiral. “God, Carla’s lost her mind,” she muttered, stating the obvious, but Lisa had already resigned herself to it, so the words barely landed. “The closest place I know that might possibly have those blazers is that boutique in Birmingham, you know the one, but they’ve got a six-month waiting list for rentals. And even then, the owner’s fussy as hell and sometimes just flat-out says no…”

Lisa didn’t respond straight away. She stayed silent, breathing quietly, eyes fixed on the floor. Her thoughts were a chaotic mess of fury, regret, and heartache. She wasn’t even sure what the point of this conversation was anymore. Carla herself had told her that the waiting list for those blazers couldn’t be shifted. Not even for Revière. Not even for her own bloody magazine. Carla had been the one to insist that the photographer and design team change the entire concept of the shoot because of it.

And now, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, a heavenly epiphany descended on the brunette, and she decided that her assistant was omnipotent. That she could somehow get her hands on one of Chanel’s rarest collections with just twelve hours’ notice.

For a moment, Lisa had genuinely hoped Carla had simply lost the plot. Maybe she’d knocked back too much wine, crumbled under the pressure, started losing her grip on reality. Because that would make more sense than this. But, unfortunately, reality was catching up with her at breakneck speed, barrelling towards her like a freight train, not confirming her hopes but instead driving her slowly round the bend.

It wasn’t Carla losing her mind. It was Lisa who was losing hers.

“...Maybe try calling this shop in Birmingham,” Abi continued to stand her ground. “It's called The Velvet Vintage. If I'm not mistaken, the owner's name is Beth Tinker. I'll try to get the number from someone I know.”

Suddenly, after an eternity of silence, Lisa interrupted her friend.

“Wait, what did you say?”

“I said I’ll look up the number of this shop and we’ll try calling. I don’t know what will come of it, maybe nothing-” Abi began to ramble nervously, realising the chances of the shop going along with it were practically nil.

“No, no,” Lisa led her friend into increasing confusion. “What’s the shop owner’s name?”

“Beth Tinker.”

“No way,” the blonde slowly rubbed the bridge of her nose with her index finger. “That’s my former police subordinate’s mum. Craig Tinker.”

“Oh,” Abi exhaled quietly, suddenly gaining faith in her own initially hopeless plan. “Are you still in touch with him? You do realise-”

“Yes, yes, Abi, I realise that this is my only hope if I want to continue working here,” Lisa snapped, fully realising it was completely unfair to the only person trying to help her. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She exhaled noisily, closing her eyes to quieten the voice screaming inside her.

“I’ll try to call Craig. But honestly...” Lisa trailed off. “I’m not sure I still want to work with Carla after this anymore.”

Abi responded understandingly, as she always did. She had always been ready to support whatever decision Lisa made, and their friendship, so unexpectedly born during the absolute darkness that had consumed Lisa two years ago, had been one of fate’s rarest gifts.

Despite her unconditional support, Abi still insisted on calling Craig and then hung up the phone.

Now Lisa had been staring at the number in her phone for a solid ten minutes and still couldn’t summon the strength to dial. She couldn’t take the step and try her luck, because maybe today, luck might finally be on her side.

The long three beeps made Lisa squirm in her chair, her fingers anxiously rubbing at the collar of her freshly ironed white shirt.

“Swaaaaaaaaaaaaaaain Roooooooooooney,” Craig piped up, whistling happily. Tinker had once been the junior officer directly reporting to Lisa, a young, bright lad who always managed to help out in the most stalemate situations. And for that, he was loved by many: for his kind heart, generosity, and courage. Though Lisa rarely told him, she was very proud of his successes and knew that one day he’d definitely become a great detective.

“I haven't heard from you for nearly two months,” Craig pretended to be offended, though there was no trace of it in his voice. “What did you decide then? About that interview with the fashion magazine, remember? The one with the odd title... Did you go to it?”

Lisa swallowed nervously. The last time they had spoken was right before she went to that life-changing (oh, how corny) interview. And now she had no idea how to explain this absurd situation to her former colleague. She wasn’t used to asking for help. Her parents had raised her with the unbreakable rule that she shouldn’t rely on anyone. That she should never show weakness, never ask for help. Years of living with Becky had helped her unlearn some of that, but sometimes her mother’s voice still crawled coldly over her skin, hissing, no one wants you weak.

“That’s the thing, I did,” the blonde muttered, nervously brushing the back of her neck with her fingernails, leaving angry red streaks. “Look, Tinker, I’m not going to beat around the bush, I really need your help.”

Craig smiled silently, understanding. He had always admired Lisa, strong, unapproachable, unwavering. She was hard in her principles, yet always ready to help others, thanks to the soft heart she kept so well hidden. But she never leaned on anyone. She hated delegating. She couldn’t let go of control. So to hear her this agitated, to hear her asking for help, he knew it had to be serious.

“Spit it out,” Craig said warmly. “I promise I’ll do my best.”

Lisa explained everything in detail: Carla’s impossible demand, the unexpectedness of it, the utter unreasonableness. She told him about the blazers, the timeline, and the threat of being fired.

“I know I’m asking a lot,” Lisa sighed, anxiety rising again in her throat, “but your mum’s shop is my last hope.” She braced herself for rejection; her request was absurd, after all.

“I’ll call her now. I can’t guarantee anything,” Craig replied, his tone focused but still gentle. “I’ll do my best, but this might be a stretch, even for her. If I can arrange something, I’ll send you all the info you need.”

Lisa finally exhaled, her lungs remembering how to breathe. “Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“I can imagine, Detective Sergeant Swain,” Craig said with a grin in his voice. “If it wasn’t important, you never would’ve called. I’ll do what I can.”

With that, the call ended. Lisa was left alone in the office, drilling holes into the wall with her stare. Time dragged so slowly that it felt like morning had already come, and with it, the need to start packing her things for her inevitable dismissal.

Suddenly, her phone vibrated on the table. Most of the staff had already left for the exclusive fashion show, leaving Lisa nearly alone in the office. Carla had only needed one assistant there, and of course, Sarah had gone with her.

For thirty long seconds, Lisa just stared at the screen, unable to bring herself to pick it up. Her fate was being decided in real time. She ran her eyes nervously over the dark screen, as if she could will it to light up. Finally, she took a steadying breath and opened the message Craig had sent.

All sorted. The blazers will be delivered within four hours, but you need to clarify some details. Call him + 44 1200 676822 (Kirk).

P.S. You can do anything, DS Swain. I’ll never stop admiring you! HMU anytime!

A genuine smile tugged at Lisa’s lips, the first she’d managed all day. There were still logistics to sort, but the impossible task Carla had thrown at her now seemed achievable. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve such kindness, but Craig’s words warmed her chest like sunlight. Even after four years out of the force, he still looked up to her. And knowing PS Tinker, she was certain he’d achieved a great deal - he’d always been capable and full of heart. (And of course, the fact he still saw her as a role model gave her ego a much-needed boost.)

But there was no time to bask in sentiment. Now she had to act. Organise the logistics, coordinate the details, and make damn sure she didn’t waste the miracle Craig had handed her.

Lisa inhaled deeply and pressed “Call.”

The last stretch of daylight filtered through the blinds, casting long amber streaks across the floor. Carla sat behind her desk, her attention locked on the double-page spread of the upcoming issue. She clicked her pen once, twice, scribbled something in the margin, then tossed it aside and grabbed another red marker from the tray. The pages in front of her were already covered in notes, red-inked suggestions bleeding through the high-gloss paper like wounds. At least, that’s what they felt like today. Because, despite her better judgment, Carla couldn’t stop thinking about her assistant.

She looked (as always) exquisite. Hair pinned up, and her blouse perfectly crisp. But beneath the polish, there was something else. A weariness that clung to her like smoke. Her eyes seemed duller than usual, and the crease between her brows hadn’t relaxed all day.

And it was only Monday.

The editor-in-chief’s mind was spiralling. No matter how hard she tried to drown her thoughts in meetings, photo shoots, layouts, and phone calls, her focus kept slipping. Always back to Lisa. To her bottomless green eyes. That mop of snow-blonde hair, like it had been spun from the finest silk. Her long fingers. Her sharp shoulders. The faint throb of a pulse at her neck.

Sometimes, when her subconscious took the reins, Carla imagined pressing her lips to that pulse. Leaving a faint red mark over her artery. She imagined Lisa’s strong hands gripping her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the desk where she now sat, buried in proofs and page layouts. In stolen moments behind her closed eyes, she could feel those hands roaming across her skin, leaving nothing untouched. The way Lisa would cup her breasts, firm, sure, pulling a quiet moan from the back of Carla’s throat. The way her fingers would trace a path up the inside of her thigh, torturously slow, never quite touching where Carla needed her most.

It was in moments like these that Carla shuddered.

Ached.

But soon enough, reality hit her like a bucket of ice water.

This could never happen. And she’d made that decision herself.

Lisa knocked twice on the doorframe before stepping inside, a neat stack of lookbooks and annotated briefs clutched in her hands. She hadn’t seen Carla since the morning, not really just glimpses through glass and half-heard sentences.

“I’ve finished going through the material for the Milan spread,” Lisa said, her voice calm and level despite the brittle tension clinging to her ribs. She placed the stack carefully on the edge of Carla’s desk. “These are the final suggestions from the editorial team. I’ve flagged the ones I think we should prioritise.”

Carla didn’t look up. She kept scribbling notes on a layout, flipping the page before saying, almost absently, “And the blazers?”

Lisa blinked and exhaled calmly mid-sentence. “What about them?”

Carla finally raised her eyes. “Did you fall down and smack your little head on the pavement?” For a split second, the office seemed both too cramped and too vast. Carla winced inwardly at the sound of her own words because - oh my god - the only person with a little head here was her. She was unnecessarily harsh. The jab had come from nowhere, unprovoked, fuelled only by her own cowardice. But only by attacking, only by showing her teeth, did she regain control.

It had always been that way. Since childhood. Even though Carla had done her best to eradicate the habits her family had cultivated, some of the habits never died. Even now, despite her status, her wealth, her fame, some reflexes stayed with her. Because no matter how much gloss she put on the surface, she was still that girl beneath it all. Small and frightened. Still, that child who always ran away first. Because she'd learnt early on that staying meant being hurt.

That little girl with big eyes who tried to rescue a shivering pup from a thunderstorm, only to be bitten. The same girl who reached out to her mother during one of the bad days was met with a slap across the face. Who learnt not to cry, not to need, not to hope.

Who had never once (not once) felt like she was enough.

Carla had long since grown up. Survived so much heartbreak that sometimes, absurdly, it almost seemed funny. But when she felt threatened, it was the little Carla who took over. And no matter how much she tried to stop it, she couldn’t.

“I asked for five original Fall/Winter ‘93 Chanels,” she said, drilling a hole in the younger woman, pretending she was an inanimate object. “Unless you’ve forgotten, that shoot starts at eight tomorrow.”

Lisa inhaled slowly. “They’re already in the studio.”

The pen in Carla’s hand froze mid-sentence.

“I had them delivered this afternoon,” Lisa went on, her voice calm. “They’ve been steamed and prepped. You can confirm it with Ryan and the shoot team.”

For the first time that day, Carla looked directly at her.

A beat passed. Then another. She didn’t say a word.

Her mouth parted slightly, as if she were about to reply, then closed again. Her fingers curled around the pen once, then gently set it down. She wanted to scream. To shout. To kiss the blonde. To devour her right here. She was bloody brilliant, and the casual way she delivered about completing the ridiculously impossible task made Carla feel like she was unravelling from the inside out.

Carla almost fell apart. Almost thanked her. Nearly apologised.

Carla felt boiling hot and freezing cold at the same time, but her face exhibited nothing at all.

Lisa didn’t move and didn’t look away. Her heart hammered in her chest, but her voice didn’t tremble.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” she said, holding Carla’s gaze.

Carla’s eyes darkened, but no words came.

Just that goddamn silence.

Lisa waited for a second longer than she should have, hoping - stupidly aching - for something (anything). But Carla just reached for another layout and looked down.

Dismissed.

The silence pressed in, thick and airless. Lisa felt it wrap around her ribs and squeeze. She’d done it, gotten those blazers, but somehow, she’d still lost. Carla had overpowered her. Conquered her. Defeated her.

She turned to go, fingers curling into her palm as if gripping something that might steady her, distract her from an ache spreading among her ribs. At the door, she paused but didn’t look back.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Carla,” she said. And it wasn’t cruel, it wasn’t even sharp or accusatory. It was surprisingly soft (achingly soft). “I don’t know who hurt you so badly that you’ve decided to use people like toys, but-”

“You’re going too far.” Carla’s tone was a warning. Her eyes were fixed on Lisa’s back like it was physically impossible to look anywhere else.

“And you’re going to sack me, aren’t you?” Lisa turned now, not even bothering to hide the bitter chuckle. Her tone changed now to irritated. She knew it was reckless, especially after everything she’d just done to save this job but she no longer cared.

The way Carla toyed with her like she was her own little baby doll. A plaything Carla would pick up, amuse herself with, then put back when she got bored. In the pull of all the toys which the brunette had, she was never going to be the one Carla kept.

And Lisa felt it. And it triggered something deeper. Something she’d spent years trying to bury.

It was just like those times at school, when the popular girls wanted to titillate the lads they fancied and used her as bait. Because they knew. They all knew. Knew she was gay, knew she desperately wanted to belong, knew she’d let them do it. Let them use her. And even after all these years, it still stung. Still left a mark she couldn’t scrub out.

But she’d be damned if she let anyone (anyone) play with her like that again.

“If you want to sack me, you will,” she was calm. “You’ll do it without a proper reason, and we both know it.”

Carla watched her closely now, looking at her expectantly. She didn’t interrupt. She wanted Lisa to keep going. Wanted her to do her best. Because somewhere deep down, she believed this venom was the only thing she truly deserved.

“And frankly, I don’t care what made you so aloof,” Lisa added, voice unwavering. “But I won’t let you treat me like dirt. No one gets to do that. Not anymore.”

Pause.

And then laughter. Laughter that broke the sepulchral silence.

The brunette laughed so spillingly. The kind of laugh that felt too real to fake, but too bitter to be joyful.

“You must think you’re so bloody brave,” she said, leaning forward slightly as if about to confide something sacred. “Coming in here and saying all that.” Her eyes glittered devilishly. “You’ve no idea the things my employees have said to me, blondie. And not just them. You should hear what my ex-husbands, who swore they’d loved me, have thrown at me over the years.”

That last line slipped out before she could stop it.

And the moment it did, Carla regretted it.

She wished she could snatch the words back, wrap herself up in armour, protect herself. But instead, she forced a smile and pretended it hadn’t happened.

But it was far too late. Blonde heard it. Saw her.

The letters folded into words without giving Lisa even a chance to think twice. “I don’t understand how anyone can love you.”

Silence.

Charged silence.

I don't know how I can be loved either.

For the first time in years, Carla felt she might cry right here, right in this office.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, God, I didn’t mean that-” Lisa was starting to stammer out syllables, trying to salvage the situation somehow.

“No. That’s exactly what you meant, Swain.” Carla cut her off, not even giving her a chance. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got layouts to finish. Close the door on your way out.” Carla returned with a smile to the sheets of paper spread out on the table and instantly began writing something.

Lisa said nothing. She swallowed the ache, the guilt gathering in her throat and walked out, the door clicking shut behind her with the quiet sound. But for Carla, it was deafening.

She didn’t move.

Her hands laid still on the page, but her eyes didn’t see the words anymore. She just sat there, frozen, jaw tight and breath shallow.

Carla knew it was her responsibility. She could see it now, how her behaviour must have looked from the outside, how easily someone like Lisa (someone so caring, bright and kind) could interpret it exactly the way she had. And the truth was, Carla couldn’t even blame her because she had acted cold, and cruel, and detached.

She hadn’t meant to. But she didn’t know how to act any other way in this situation.

And after all the divorces, all the failed relationships, all the mess she’d left in her wake, Carla couldn’t deny it anymore. Lisa had been right.

Those words had cut because they were true.

She was impossible to love.

That was the truth, wasn’t it?

But God, did it hurt.