Ocean Between Us

Celine POV

Normally people check their weather apps to see if they need an umbrella or if the humidity is going to ruin their hair. I check mine because a sudden, unpredictable shift in the atmosphere can completely unravel the carefully constructed architecture of my life.

On this June morning, the sky over Biscayne Bay was a deceptive, bruising shade of violet-blue, the kind of tropical sky that promised a sweltering ninety-five degrees but hid a torrential downpour behind its teeth. I zoomed in on the weather map on my phone, tracking a cluster of dark pixels creeping toward the glass towers of the Design District. I had about forty minutes before the heavens opened. Forty minutes to get from my apartment to Sinclair Luxe without being caught out in the rain.

My choice of attire was always deliberate. Today, I wore a pale sage-green linen wrap dress, a piece I had designed and tailored myself. It was light, perfectly suited for the humid June weather, and sophisticated enough for the floors of Sinclair Luxe. But more importantly, it was easy to manage if the weather turned.

I locked my phone, smoothed down the linen skirt, and stepped out into the thick, soup-like air of Miami. The humidity clung to my skin like a second weight, but I ignored it, moving quickly to get to the office.

I was twenty-five years old, entirely alone in the world, and holding a secret that required absolute, unrelenting control.

Five years ago, my world had been violently re-centred. A charter plane crashing over the Atlantic took my parents in a single afternoon. They left behind no extended family; my father had severed all ties with his aristocratic, old-money relatives when he chose to marry my mother, a woman with no social standing, no background, and no paper trail. I grew up a nomad, moving around all over the world, following my father’s high-stakes consulting career. We were a closed ecosystem. Three people against the world.

When they died, the silence they left behind was deafening. But they had been meticulous. Their life insurance policies and savings accounts were structured so perfectly that I never had to worry about a tuition payment or a monthly rent bill. I was financially stable, yet utterly isolated. Nobody called to check on me. No aunts, no uncles, no cousins. I was a nobody inheriting a small fortune.

I poured all that grief and isolation into my work. First, at the Istituto della Moda Firenze in Florence, where I spent four gruelling years learning the geometry of fabric against the backdrop of the Tuscan sun earning my bachelor’s degree. Then I went for my master’s degree at L’École de Haute Esthétique in Paris. Two degrees, both finished with the bittersweet distinction of summa cum laude.

Now, a year later, I was four months into my role as a Junior Designer at Sinclair Luxe in Miami, Florida. And the real test of my survival was about to begin.

The headquarters of Sinclair Luxe was a monolithic structure of hyper-reflective glass and white concrete, towering over the Miami skyline like a monument to modern opulence. It was a powerhouse that bridged the gap between effortless coastal luxury and rigid European haute couture.

As I walked through the glass doors of the lobby, the air conditioning hit me like a wall of ice, a welcome relief from the suffocating external humidity.

“Good morning, Celine,” the receptionist, a young woman named Elena, called out, her eyes lingering on my dress with a mixture of awe and envy. “Lovely sketch collection you submitted yesterday. The entire department is talking about it.”

“Thank you, Elena. I wanted to make sure the fabric weights were appropriate for the resort line,” I replied, offering her a polite, practiced smile.

“Honestly, how do you do it?” she sighed, leaning over the desk. “You look like you just stepped out of a European editorial, and I’m already melted from the walk from my car. And the rumour is true, right? You handle the French and Italian accounts like a native?”

“I spent years studying in Florence and Paris, Elena,” I replied, keeping my tone casual.

I didn’t mention the other languages I could speak just as fluidly. On my resume, only English, French, and Italian were listed, backed up by my academic history. In my position, it was much safer to keep my full skill set close to the chest. Revealing too much only invited questions or eyes I did not want.

I offered another polite nod and moved toward the elevators and got in, heading up to the third floor. The elevator doors opened onto the design floor, a sprawling, open-concept space filled with the frantic energy of a few dozen creative minds. Mannequins draped in half-finished organza stood like silent sentinels between rows of drafting tables. Bolts of fabric, including brocade, georgette, and heavy satin, were stacked against the walls in a chaotic rainbow.

“Céline! Mon Dieu, you’re here at last!”

I turned to see Marie, the lead patternmaker for the upcoming Autumn/Winter ready-to-wear collection, sprinting toward me with a look of absolute panic on her face. Her French accent was incredibly thick, warped by stress.

“What’s wrong, Marie?” I asked, effortlessly switching our conversation into fluent French. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” (What’s going on?)

Marie let out a dramatic gasp of relief upon hearing her native tongue as she replied in French. “It is the production house in Milan. They sent the wrong batch of pressed wool for the tailored capes. It’s too stiff, it has no drape, and our primary fit model just called out with food poisoning. The Creative Director is coming down to inspect the line in thirty minutes. If he sees this disaster, he will burn the studio to the ground!”

The Creative Director. Julian Sinclair.

The name alone was enough to send a ripple of anxiety through the room. Julian was the twenty-nine-year-old prodigy heir to the Sinclair empire. His father, Arthur Sinclair, was the CEO and founder, and his mother, Vivienne Vance-Sinclair, was a legendary supermodel who still dictated the tastes of the global elite. But Julian wasn’t just a beneficiary of nepotism. Since he had stepped up as Managing and Creative Director two years ago, Sinclair Luxe’s profits had surged exponentially. He was a ruthless, brilliant tactician with an eye so sharp it could cut glass. He didn’t tolerate mistakes, and he absolutely did not bother with rookies.

To him, junior designers were interchangeable cogs in a multi-billion-dollar industry.

“Calm down, Marie,” I said, continuing in French, my voice steady and grounding. “We can fix this. First, give me the phone line for the Milanese supplier. I will speak to their production manager directly and request an emergency courier for the correct textile. Second, go to my desk. Fetch the silk-wool blend sample I developed last week, since it has similar structural weight but twice the fluidity. We can use it to mock up the drapes for the presentation.”

“And the model?” Marie wailed, her hands flying into the air. “The Director demands to see the garment on a living body, not a dress form!”

I took a deep breath, adjusting the pins in my hair. “Go get the sample fabric, Marie. I’ll act as the model.”

Twenty minutes later, the design studio was a theatre of high-stakes tension.

I stood on the raised dais in the centre of the room, acting as a human canvas. Marie and four assistants were frantically pinning the mock-up silk-wool fabric against my body, shaping it into an asymmetrical, structured cape that fell sharply over one shoulder. Because I stood at a striking five-foot-ten with an athletic, fluid build, I didn’t need to adjust my posture much to fit the industry standard.

Suddenly, the ambient noise of the studio died. The frantic chattering of designers, the snipping of shears, the humming of sewing machines, all of it vanished, replaced by a heavy, expectant silence.

The double doors of the studio slid open.

Julian Sinclair walked in, flanked by a trio of senior executives.

Seeing Julian in person was always an exercise in sensory overload. He was way too handsome, but it was a cold, sharp kind of beauty. Standing at six-foot-four, with broad shoulders clad in an immaculate, bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, he radiated absolute, unquestioned authority. His blonde hair was styled with military precision, and his piercing icy blue eyes scanned the room like a hawk searching for weakness.

He didn’t look at the people. He looked at the work.

“Alright, where is the ready-to-wear outerwear prototype?” Julian’s voice was a rich baritone, smooth and completely devoid of warmth.

The head of the department stepped forward, sweating through his shirt. “Mr. Sinclair, we had a minor logistics issue with the Milanese shipment, but...”

“I don’t pay for excuses, Richard. I pay for execution,” Julian cut him off, his voice dangerously quiet. “If the Italian house failed, you should have had a secondary supplier vetted three weeks ago. Show me what you have, or I am cancelling the entire line before lunch.”

Marie looked close to tears.

I knew this was going to be a problem. If I stayed silent, the department would suffer, and my own designs, which were tethered to this collection’s success, would be shelved.

“The Italian house has been handled, Mr. Sinclair,” I spoke up, breaking the unspoken rule that rookies do not speak unless spoken to. My voice rang out clear and steady across the silent room.

Julian’s eyes snapped to me. The sheer intensity of his gaze was suffocating, a physical weight that settled over me. He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at me, really looked at me, taking in my position on the dais, the fabric pinned to my frame, and the look of calm defiance in my eyes.

“And who are you?” he asked, stepping closer to the dais. His executives shifted uncomfortably.

“Celine Mercer. Junior Designer,” I said, holding his gaze. I didn’t blink. I had faced worse things than a demanding billionaire. “I just finalized a call with the manager in Milan. The error was on their logistics side. The correct pressed wool is currently with an express courier and will arrive at our Miami port by 4:00 PM today. In the meantime...” I gestured to the fabric draped over my shoulder. “...We have adapted the prototype using an in-house silk-wool blend to demonstrate the drape and kinetic movement of the piece.”

Julian stopped at the edge of the dais. He was close enough that I could smell his cologne, a sophisticated, intoxicating blend of cedarwood and amber.

The scent sent an involuntary shiver down my spine, but I locked it away.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against the fabric just inches from my collarbone. His hand was warm, and for a second, his knuckles grazed the skin of my neck. A small shudder went through me. His eyes narrowed, tracking the reaction, before returning to the cloth.

“The drape is superior to the original specification,” Julian murmured, his eyes analysing the way the fabric fell over my frame. “The silk content gives it a fluid luminosity. Who authorized this textile swap?”

“I did,” I replied. “It’s my custom blend. I designed it to mimic the movement of water without sacrificing structural integrity. It was a better option than the delivered materials.”

A heavy silence descended again. Julian stepped back, crossing his arms. He looked at me with a calculating curiosity. He was a man who was entirely desensitized to beautiful women and bootlickers.

“You handled the Milanese house yourself?” he asked suddenly.

“Yes,” I replied. “I clarified the situation in their native dialect.”

“And you managed to force a premier house to expedite a shipment on a bank holiday?”

“I simply reminded them of the penalty clauses in their exclusivity contract,” I said, a faint ghost of a smile touching my lips. “They were very accommodating.”

One of the senior executives smiled slightly, but a sharp look from Julian silenced him instantly. Julian didn’t smile. He just kept his eyes locked onto mine, as if trying to read my mind.

“Get the correct fabric by four,” Julian ordered the executive, then his tone had shifted from cold fury to something far more dangerous, an intense intrigue. “And Miss Mercer? You will personally present the finalized prototype in the executive boardroom tomorrow morning at nine. Wear the garment yourself. I want to see how it moves when you walk.”

“Of course, Mr. Sinclair,” I said, keeping my breath even.

He turned on his heel, his entourage scrambling to follow him. But just before he reached the doors, he paused, looking out the massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the studio.

Outside, the sky had finally broken. A violent, sudden Florida flash storm was slamming against the glass, sheets of water cascading down the exterior walls with a deafening roar.

“Looks like a bad storm,” Julian said, his voice carrying over the sound of the thunder. He cast one last, lingering look back at me over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Make sure you stay dry, Miss Mercer. I don’t want you calling in sick tomorrow morning when you have an important presentation to give.”

As the doors closed behind him, the studio erupted into a flurry of excited whispers and relieved gasps. Marie practically collapsed against a cutting table, thanking me in a torrent of French.

I remained frozen on the dais long after his entourage vanished. Outside, the tropical rain battered the building, a wild reminder of the forces I constantly had to outrun. But the phantom heat lingering on my neck where his knuckles had grazed my skin was far more terrifying than the storm. Julian Sinclair didn’t just approve of my design. He had pinned his focus directly on me, and a man with that much power wouldn’t stop looking until he uncovered exactly what I was trying to hide.