The restaurant buzzed with the quiet, polished murmur of the elite—low laughter, clinking glasses, soft jazz. It was the kind of place where fortunes were sealed with a nod, where the air smelled like truffle oil and old money.
Gie was finishing the last of her wine when a shift in the atmosphere made her look up.
It was subtle at first, just a ripple of awareness spreading through the room, a hush that followed in its wake. And then—the reason stepped through the grand entrance.
The devil himself.
Alexander Millers.
And he didn't walk in alone.
Two women clung to his arms—one a statuesque blonde in a red dress that fit her like a second skin, the other a sultry brunette with crimson lips that screamed danger. They draped themselves over him like they belonged there. Like they knew they belonged there.
Behind them followed a group of men in sharp suits and practiced smirks—businessmen, clearly. The kind whose business was whispered about over cigars and billion-dollar deals. The adult industry was a gold mine, and Alexander owned every vein worth bleeding.
Gie barely registered the entourage.
Her eyes locked onto him.
He looked exactly as she imagined—handsome, expensive, untouchable.
Dark blonde hair swept back, not a strand out of place. A tailored suit sculpted to his body in that effortless way only the very wealthy could manage. His features were sharp, aristocratic. But it was the eyes that made her stomach twist—cold and unreadable. Like tempered steel.
Her fingers tightened around her fork as she caught herself doing something she rarely did.
Imagining.
Not the man. The piece.
How would the ring she designed look on him?
Would it suit his fingers—those long, elegant hands now resting carelessly in his lap? Would the garnet catch the dim lighting, gleaming like a secret? Would the weight of it feel natural, like it had always belonged there?
Her mind began working rapidly, adjusting the details. Maybe the band should be thicker. The edges, more aggressive. Maybe the engravings should be deeper, sharper—designed for a man who didn't question his worth.
"Uh, Gie?"
Alina's voice cut through the mental haze.
She blinked.
Alina was watching her, biting her lip, amusement twinkling in her eyes. "Just so you know... he definitely noticed you staring."
Gie's stomach dropped. "What?"
"Yup. Full-on eye contact."
Her breath hitched. Against her better judgment, she glanced back.
And found him looking right at her.
His eyes were locked onto hers—sharp, steady, and unreadable. There was no curiosity. No amusement.
Just that cool, assessing stare.
Disgust?
Gie's brow furrowed slightly.
The moment stretched too long.
Then, with a flick of his gaze, he dismissed her entirely, turning his attention to the waiter who'd arrived to seat his party.
Alina muffled a laugh behind her wine glass.
"Oh my God," she whispered. "You looked like you were staring at his crotch."
Gie tore her gaze away, exhaling sharply. "I was not."
Alina grinned. "Babe, you were laser-focused on his lap."
"I was looking at his hand," Gie muttered, taking a much-needed sip of wine. "It was resting in his lap. My brain was just... designing."
Alina waggled her brows. "Mmhmm. Sure. Designing."
Gie groaned. "The damage is done. Just shut up and eat your pasta."
Alina kept smirking, but let it go, twirling her fork through her plate with quiet satisfaction.
No big deal. No harm done.
And yet, as Gie tried to refocus on her food, she remained acutely aware of the weight of a certain pair of gray eyes, somewhere across the room.
Disgust, huh?
She almost laughed.
As if a man like Alexander Millers had any moral high ground to look down on anyone.
After a string of sleepless nights, she had done it.
Her masterpiece was complete.
The package had been delivered.
Payment received.
Transaction complete.
It should've been like any other commission—a piece designed, crafted, and sent off into the world. Another nameless luxury adorning the fingers, necks, or wrists of those who could afford the best.
But as Gie stared at the confirmation email from Alexander's assistant, a strange, lingering satisfaction curled in her chest.
She could almost see it.
The ring on his hand. His fingers flexing against the cool metal. The garnet catching light like a slow-burning fire.
A piece worthy of him.
The thought unsettled her. She shook it off, turned back to her sketchbook. There was always another project, another vision to chase.
Until a magazine changed everything.
It was Alina who tossed it onto the workbench a few days later, a wicked smirk on her lips.
"Don't say I never bring you gifts," she teased, plopping into the chair across from Gie, legs crossed, watching for the reaction.
Gie barely glanced at it. "If it's another listicle about 'Top Ten Jewelers to Watch,' I swear—"
"Better," Alina sing-songed.
Something in her voice made Gie pause.
Frowning, she glanced down at the magazine.
And froze.
A high-gloss luxury business cover, the kind that only featured men who wielded power like a weapon.
And in the center—
Alexander Millers.
Relaxed. Commanding. Seated in an expensive leather chair, legs spread just enough to remind the world who was in charge. The dark suit clung to him like sin. One hand rested on his thigh.
And on that hand—
The ring.
Her ring.
It sat on his index finger, the garnet burning like a slow ember, catching the light in exactly the way she'd imagined. The platinum band gleamed, the engraving deep and unapologetically bold.
It looked better than she could've ever pictured.
Her stomach twisted—not with nerves, but something dangerously close to satisfaction.
"You good over there?" Alina asked, clearly enjoying herself.
Gie swallowed. Her voice was quiet. "It suits him."
Alina snorted. "Understatement of the year. That ring looks like it belongs to him."
Gie exhaled, dragging a hand through her curls. "It was made for him."
Alina's smirk widened. "I swear, Gie, you only get wet for your jewelry."
Gie shot her a glare. "Shut up."
"No, seriously. Look at you. You're practically glowing because a rich playboy put on something you made."
"I'm appreciating my work. Not the man wearing it," Gie snapped—but even she didn't sound convinced.
Alina arched a brow. "Right, right. Just art. Not the fact that it's on the Alexander Millers, looking like it was forged by the gods just for his damn hand. Like his fingers were just waiting for you to slide something on them—"
"Alina," Gie groaned, burying her face in her hands. "You are insufferable."
Alina laughed. "I live to torment."
Gie tried to shake it off. Refocus.
But the image was already burned into her mind, vivid and impossible to unsee.