Page 96 of Triplet Trouble For My Billionaire Boss

The idea feels completely surreal.

I groan softly, running my hands through my hair as I pace toward the window. The moonlight filters through the curtains, silvery and soft, but it does nothing to soothe my rising panic. A gala. A formal gala. What am I going to wear?

I picture the elegant, sophisticated crowd that will no doubt attend—a sea of perfectly tailored suits and breathtaking gowns. My pulse quickens. I don’t even own a dress that could remotely qualify as “formal.” The best thing in my wardrobe is a knee-length floral sundress I bought two years ago, and that’s not exactly gala material.

Evelyn’s words echo in my mind, offering a bit of comfort, but not enough. She’d assured me after dinner that any staff Cole invited to the gala were always provided for, meaning he’d be covering the cost of a dress.

But even with that reassurance, my worries don’t go away. Anywhere fancy enough to have gowns like that will require fittings, tailoring—time I don’t have. How am I supposed to pull this off in two weeks?

Why the hell didn’t he tell me sooner?

Did he forget? Or did he only invite me after last night?

But Evelyn had made it seem like it wasn’t out of the ordinary for staff who were not working the event to attend.

My gaze drifts to the corner of the room where my sketchpad sits on the desk, untouched for weeks. The sight of it stirs something deep inside me, a tiny flicker of creativity coming to life.

Could I make something myself?

The thought lodges itself firmly in my mind, refusing to let go. It would be a massive undertaking, but at least I’d have control over the design, the fit. I wouldn’t have to deal with the pressure of finding something in a store that felt right. I could create something entirely my own.

The idea starts to snowball, gaining momentum as I pace the room. My mind races with possibilities, ideas for fabrics and cuts, details I could include to make the dress feel special.

I glance at the closet, where my sewing supplies have been neatly tucked away since they were brought over from my apartment. An idea begins to take shape, pushing aside the panic that had gripped me earlier.

Ican do this. I’ve done it before. It wouldn’t be easy, but it’s not like I’m starting from scratch. I’ve got designs I could pull from, or I could sketch something new.

My hands twitch with the urge to get started, to channel this nervous energy into something productive. I cross the room and grab the sketchpad, flipping it open to a blank page. The pencil feels familiar and comforting in my hand, and for the first time in weeks, I sit down and start sketching.

The only sound in the room is the scratching of my pencil as it moves across the page. Lines and curves take shape, forming the beginnings of a gown that’s equal parts elegant and understated. I lose myself in the process, the time slipping by unnoticed as my ideas come to life on paper.

It’s only later, when the pencil stills in my hand and I glance at the clock, that I realize Cole never came to my room.

A strange mixture of relief and disappointment washes over me as I set the sketchpad down and climb into bed. It’s not like I expected him to, but I was still hopeful.

And also filled with dread. Though he assured me that what I felt this morning likely won’t happen every time, the fear of going through it again, feeling that low and ashamed, is not something I want to repeat any time soon.

I force myself to switch back to the dress. My mind is still buzzing with ideas, but with a solid plan, I feel like I can breathe.

The gala might be daunting, but maybe—just maybe—I’ll survive this after all.

***

The morning air is still lingering in my lungs as I step through the garage door and into the house, closing the door softly behind me. The house is quiet, the kind of peace that comes after the rush of the morning routine. Dropping Robbie off at school had gone smoothly, though his excitement about the pool party when I told him about it had him practically bouncing out of the car.

I head for the stairs, intent on grabbing my supply list from my room before heading out to shop for fabrics. The idea of designing and sewing my own dress has given me a much-needed burst of energy, and I’m determined to find the perfect materials to bring my vision to life before I have to pick up Robbie.

But as I climb the staircase, my thoughts start to drift, unbidden, back to last night. Specifically, to the empty space in my bed where Cole had spent the night before.

I try not to think about it. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t owe me anything. But the thought gnaws at me all the same. Why hadn’t he come back to my room?

Did he regret what happened between us? Maybe he didn’t enjoy himself as much as I thought he did.

My stomach twists as the doubts creep in, each one more insidious than the last. Was I too inexperienced forhim? Too shy? Too... boring? Maybe he thinks I’m too much trouble after yesterday morning.

I shake my head sharply, forcing myself to focus on my task.

“Stop overthinking,” I mutter under my breath as I reach the top of the stairs. “You have other things to worry about.”

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