Page 1 of His By Contract

CHAPTER 1

Georgia balanced the silver tray of champagne flutes with practiced ease, weaving through the sea of designer gowns and custom tuxedos. The crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across the marble floor of the grand ballroom, a stark contrast to the fluorescent lights of her tiny workshop where she’d spent the morning hunched over a sewing machine. Even now, she could feel the phantom ache in her shoulders from those hours of meticulous work.

A woman in a red dress breezed past, the fabric brushing Georgia’s arm. She recognized her own handiwork in the careful alterations of the hem—a job that had barely covered last month’s rent. The silk moved exactly as she’d intended, flowing with perfect grace that brought a bittersweet pride.

“Champagne?” She offered the tray to a cluster of socialites, their necks dripping with diamonds that could have paid her mother’s medical bills ten times over. The weight of those unpaid invoices pressed against her thoughts as heavily as the tray on her palm.

“Oh, look at this one.” A blonde in azure silk plucked a glass from the tray. “I swear I’ve seen her somewhere.”

“You’re Georgia Phillips, aren’t you?” The redhead beside her tilted her head. “Didn’t you design that gorgeous piece for the Morrison wedding?”

Georgia’s fingers tightened around the tray. “Yes, that was one of my designs.” The memory of that creation, her finest work, flickered through her mind, along with the crushing realization of how far she’d fallen since then.

“And now you’re serving drinks?” The blonde’s perfectly painted lips curved into a smirk. “How… resourceful.”

The crystal glasses clinked together as Georgia steadied her hands. Six months ago, she’d been attending these events as a guest, showcasing her designs to potential clients. Now she was on the other side of the champagne tray, watching her dreams slip away one unpaid bill at a time. The humiliation burned hotter than the blisters forming on her feet from hours of standing.

Georgia squared her shoulders, channeling her mother’s quiet dignity. The same dignity that had gotten them through countless lean years, through her father’s abandonment, through every setback life had thrown their way. She’d climb her way back up. She had to. Her mother’s face, worn but determined, flashed in her mind—a talisman against despair.

Georgia kept her expression neutral as she moved away from the gossiping women, though her cheeks burned. The practiced smile she’d perfected over weeks of service work felt brittle on her lips.

The weight of the fresh tray, this time filled with Cabernet, was heavy as she navigated through the crowd. The rich aroma ofthe wine reminded her of better days, celebrations of her early successes that now seemed like distant dreams.

A flash of white caught her attention. Celeste Montgomery stood near the center of the room, holding court like the queen she believed herself to be. Her ivory designer gown hugged every curve, the fabric probably worth more than Georgia’s entire wardrobe. A circle of admirers surrounded her, hanging on her every word. The mere sight of her sent a cold ripple of anxiety through Georgia’s chest.

Georgia’s stomach clenched. She’d met Celeste once, at a fashion week event where the woman had dismissed Georgia’s entire collection with a single raised eyebrow. That look had cost Georgia three potential buyers. The memory of that casual cruelty still stung, like salt in a wound that refused to heal.

She angled away, intent on serving the opposite side of the room, but a gentleman flagged her down. He stood right beside Celeste’s group. Her heart sank as she realized there was no escape from this collision course.

Georgia’s feet dragged with each step, as if wading through thick syrup. The crystal glasses caught the light, throwing sparkles across the floor. Just a few more minutes, then her shift would end. She concentrated on her breathing, trying to quiet the nervous flutter in her chest.

“Watch it!”

The warning came too late. Another server knocked into Georgia’s elbow. The tray tilted. Time slowed as the wineglasses toppled, their contents arcing through the air in a crimson wave. Horror washed through her as she watched disaster unfold in slow motion.

Celeste’s scream pierced the ballroom. Red wine bloomed across the pristine ivory fabric of her gown, spreading like blood across snow.

The music stopped. Conversations died. Every head turned toward them. The sudden silence pressed against Georgia’s eardrums like water.

Georgia stood frozen, the empty tray trembling in her hands. Her heart slammed against her ribs as Celeste’s gaze locked onto her face. The world narrowed to just those merciless eyes, promising retribution.

“You.” Celeste’s voice dripped venom. Recognition flickered across her features. “Georgia Phillips.”

Georgia’s fingers tightened around the empty tray as Celeste’s manicured hand traced the spreading stain. The wine seeped deeper into the fabric, transforming the immaculate ivory into a bleeding disaster. Each second of silence crushed against Georgia’s chest like a vise. She could almost hear the ticking of her career’s final moments.

Celeste’s perfectly lined lips pressed together as she examined the damage. Her circle of admirers held their breath, their jewelry glinting under the chandeliers as they leaned closer.

“This gown,” Celeste’s voice carried across the marble floor, soft yet cutting, “is a custom Valentino.”

Georgia’s throat closed. The price of that dress flashed through her mind, more than she’d made in the past year, more than enough to destroy her completely if demanded as compensation.

Celeste lifted her head, her eyes sweeping over Georgia as if she were less than the dirt beneath her Louboutins. A slight tiltof her chin, a quarter turn of her shoulders: every movement screamed old money, bred-in-bone superiority. Georgia recognized the choreography of public humiliation beginning to unfold.

“I remember you.” Celeste’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “The little designer who thinks she can play in our sandbox.”

Heat crawled up Georgia’s neck. Around them, whispers rippled through the crowd. Phones appeared in manicured hands, recording her humiliation for posterity. Each camera flash felt like another nail in her professional coffin.

“I’m—” Georgia’s voice cracked. The apology died on her tongue, tasting of ash and futility.

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