In Denial

The fluorescent lights of West Holdings always seemed a little too bright on Monday mornings. For Ava, the clinical hum of the office was a familiar comfort. At twenty-nine, she had perfected the art of the “office ghost.” She arrived early, left late, and kept her head down in the cubicle forest of the design department, tucked far away from the mahogany-clad executive suites on the top floor.

Ava adjusted the hem of her skirt—a self-drafted piece made from a heavy, deep-teal fabric with an exaggerated architectural pleat. It wasn’t “corporate,” but it was her. Underneath her desk, she wore chunky platform boots that made her feel solid, even when her nerves felt like water.

“Ava? Tell me you have it.”

The voice was high, melodic, and slightly breathless. Ava didn’t need to look up to know it was Remi.

Remi leaned against the partition of Ava’s desk, looking every bit the fashion industry’s darling. She was five-foot-two, willow-thin, with blonde hair that fell in perfect, effortless waves. Today, she was wearing a cream silk slip dress that probably cost more than Ava’s monthly rent. To the rest of the world, Remi was the rising star of the design team. To Ava, Remi was the person who couldn’t sketch a straight line to save her life.

“It’s here,” Ava said quietly, sliding a sleek black folder across the desk.

Remi opened it, her manicured nails clicking against the cardstock. Inside were three meticulously detailed sketches for the upcoming ‘Ultramodern’ line. They were clean, elegant, and—most importantly—safe. Ava had stripped away the bold patterns and daring cutouts she usually loved, leaving behind silhouettes that were beautiful but predictable.

“These are good,” Remi murmured, flipping through them. “A bit… conservative? You know Malcolm is breathing down my neck about the new direction.”

Ava felt a familiar pang in her chest at the mention of the CEO’s name. Malcolm West. She had seen him in person exactly four times in three years, usually from across a crowded lobby. He was the kind of man who seemed to command the oxygen in a room. Broad-shouldered, with a jawline that looked like it had been carved from granite and eyes that never seemed to blink. He was also notoriously specific about the women he was seen with: always petite, always redheaded, and always dressed in the height of minimalist chic.

Ava, with her soft curves, wild dark curls, and penchant for “crazy” DIY fashion, wasn’t even on his map.

“I thought safe was what you wanted for the board presentation,” Ava said, keeping her voice neutral. “You said last week that the board is scared of anything too ‘experimental’ for the plus-size transition.”

Remi sighed, closing the folder. “The board is scared, yes. But Malcolm is bored. And a bored Malcolm is a dangerous Malcolm. He’s been pacing the halls like a tiger. He wants something that ‘pops,’ but I can’t exactly tell him I don’t know what that means, can I?”

Remi looked at Ava with a practiced pout. “You’re the only one who gets it, Ava. I’d be lost without you. You know I’m just not great with the technical side of the renderings.”

It was a lie they both lived by. Remi wasn’t just bad at the technical side; she lacked the vision entirely. But she had the confidence Ava lacked. Remi could stand in front of a room of billionaires and sell them a paper bag if she had to. Ava, on the other hand, felt like her tongue turned to lead the moment more than two people looked at her at once.

“Just take the credit, Remi. It’s fine,” Ava said, turning back to her computer screen.

“You’re a lifesaver. Truly,” Remi said, already tucking the folder under her arm. “I’ll mention you helped with the… uh… formatting. If it comes up.”

It never came up.

The rest of the morning was a blur of spreadsheets and fabric sourcing. By 2:00 PM, the office was buzzing with the news that the design review was going poorly. Rumors traveled fast at West Holdings. Apparently, Malcolm had already walked out of two meetings, claiming the designs were “soulless.”

Ava tried to ignore the gossip. She focused on her secret project—a jacket she was sewing for herself. It was a structured blazer with oversized lapels made from a vibrant, mustard-yellow kente print she’d found at a small market. It was loud, beautiful, and completely contrary to everything she’d just handed to Remi.

By 4:00 PM, Ava’s stomach was growling. She realized she’d skipped lunch again. She stood up, smoothing out her teal skirt, and decided to head to the small cafeteria in the basement for a quick snack.

She took the service stairs down, wanting to avoid the main lobby. After grabbing a lukewarm coffee and a bag of pretzels, she headed toward the bank of elevators.

The doors of Elevator 4 were just about to close. Without thinking, Ava darted forward, sticking her hand between the sensors. The doors groaned and slid back open.

Ava stepped inside, breathless. “Thanks, sorry, I—”

The words died in her throat.

Standing in the corner of the elevator, staring at a tablet with a look of pure, unadulterated fury, was Malcolm West.

He was taller than she imagined. Much taller. He was wearing a navy blue suit that fit his massive frame with surgical precision. The scent of him—something like cedarwood, expensive leather, and cold rain—hit her instantly.

He didn’t look up at first. “Which floor?” he asked, his voice a deep, vibrating rumble that she felt in her toes.

“Lobby,” she managed to squeak out. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

He reached out and pressed the button. His fingers were long and blunt-tipped, the hands of a man who looked like he could crush stone or hold something very fragile with equal ease.

Silence descended. The elevator began its slow ascent.

Ava stared at the floor, suddenly very aware of her teal skirt and her platform boots. She felt massive. She felt messy. She felt like an intruder in his space.

Then, Malcolm spoke. It wasn’t a question; it was a growl. “Is that a pleat or a structural failure?”

Ava blinked, her head snapping up. He was looking at her skirt. Not with disgust, but with a strange, intense focus. He had shifted his gaze from his tablet to her, and for the first time, Ava felt the full weight of his attention. His eyes were a piercing, stormy grey.

“It’s a structural pleat,” Ava said, her defensiveness momentarily overriding her fear. “It’s designed to hold the shape of the A-line without needing a petticoat or heavy interfacing.”

Malcolm shifted his weight, his eyes traveling from the hem of her skirt up to her waist, then lingering on the curve of her hips before finally meeting her eyes. Ava forgot how to breathe.

“Who made it?” he asked.

“I did,” she whispered.

He looked back at the skirt. “The lines are better than anything I’ve seen on a mood board all day.”

Ava’s heart stopped. “I... I work in design. Well, I’m an assistant. In the back.”

“Clearly,” Malcolm said, his voice dropping an octave. “Because if you were in the front, I wouldn’t be looking at sketches of beige sacks.”

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open.

Ava stood there, frozen. Malcolm didn’t move immediately. He stepped toward the door, then paused, looking back over his shoulder at her. His gaze was slow, deliberate, and entirely too hot for a Monday afternoon.

“Don’t change the skirt,” he said.

He stepped out into the lobby, his long strides carrying him away before Ava could even find her voice. She stayed in the elevator until the doors closed again, her knees shaking so hard she had to lean against the mirrored wall for support.

Her reflection stared back at her—flushed, curvy, and definitely not a petite redhead.