Page 17 of His By Contract

Georgia turned back to the conversation at hand, forcing herself to smile and nod. But she understood now: this wasn’t just about her past or her sudden rise into Adrian’s world. She wasn’t just a trophy or a contract. She was a weakness. And Richard Vaughn had just announced to everyone that he intended to exploit it.

The weight of the evening pressed against Georgia’s chest, each breath a battle against the suffocating atmosphere. Around her, conversations flowed like poisoned honey: sweet on the surface, deadly underneath. These people didn’t just wear wealth like clothing; they wielded it like weapons.

A CEO signed away a company’s fate with a nod. A senator’s wife destroyed a reputation with a laugh. This wasn’t the world she knew, where talent and determination carved paths forward. This was a realm of shadows and strings, where people like Adrian pulled and everyone else danced.

Her fingers clenched around her champagne glass. Five years she’d spent building her business. Countless nights hunched over a sewing machine, fingers bleeding from needle pricks, eyes burning from strain. She’d earned every client, every recommendation, every small victory.

Now she stood here, reduced to an ornament. A living trophy for Adrian to display, proof of his latest acquisition. The thought curdled in her stomach.

Adrian’s hand found the small of her back as he guided her through another introduction. His touch was light, almost casual, but she felt the iron beneath it. He ruled without force or threats, his shadow alone demanded surrender. The room bent around him like light around a black hole, and she was caught in his gravity.

He wore power like he wore his suit: tailored, perfect, effortless. His every move flowed with practiced grace, each syllable crafted to cut deep beneath the surface. And through it all, that infuriating calm. As if her presence here was inevitable, her compliance assured.

Georgia watched him charm another group of executives, his confidence radiating outward. She hated how aware she was of him, how her skin tingled where he’d touched her, how her body anticipated his next move.

The champagne in her glass caught the light, sparkling like diamonds. Like chains.

Her jaw set. No.

She wouldn’t be another perfectly positioned piece in his game.

Georgia slipped from Adrian’s orbit, each step a deliberate choice. His fingers brushed air where her waist had been moments before. She felt his attention track her movement through the crowd, but he made no move to follow.

A flash of familiar silver hair caught her eye. Margaret Howe, the boutique owner who’d featured her first collection. The woman’s face tightened as Georgia approached, gaze darting toward Adrian’s silhouette across the room.

“Your spring collection showed such promise.” Margaret’s words carried the weight of opportunities lost.

“I have new designs.” Georgia’s voice grew stronger. “The same attention to detail, but with bolder structure. Elements that would complement your clientele.”

Interest flickered in Margaret’s eyes. They discussed fabric choices, construction techniques, the evolution of Georgia’s style. The conversation flowed easier with each passing moment.

More faces from her past emerged. Jacob, the wedding client who’d dropped her, listened intently as she described her vision for modern bridal wear. A magazine editor who’d once praised her work requested samples for an upcoming feature.

With each interaction, Georgia felt pieces of herself clicking back into place. Her hands sketched shapes in the air as she spoke, passion bleeding through professional polish. These people knew her work, remembered her dedication. The whispers about Adrian’s wife faded beneath discussions of hemlines and seasonal trends.

Business cards appeared. Promises of meetings, showroom visits, collaboration opportunities. Georgia tucked each one away like treasure, proof that her talent still held value beyond her marriage contract.

She was building something here, beneath the crystal chandeliers and watching eyes. Not an escape. She knew better than that. But a foundation, laid brick by careful brick, that was purely her own.

Georgia felt Adrian’s gaze like ice against her skin. Even across the crowded ballroom, his attention never wavered. Let him watch. Let him see that she wasn’t some porcelain doll to be placed on a shelf.

The business cards in her clutch felt like solid, real promises of a future beyond these gilded walls. She’d built her reputation from nothing once before. She could do it again, even under his rules.

Her spine straightened as she moved through the crowd. These people thought they knew her story—the poor designer who caught a billionaire’s eye. They expected her to dissolve into Adrian’s world, to become another perfectly polished trophy wife.

Her fingers itched for a pencil, for the familiar scratch of sketching new designs. That hunger for creation hadn’t diedwhen she signed his contract. It burned brighter now, fed by defiance.

A waiter offered champagne. Georgia declined with a smile that was all her own, not the practiced curve she gave while at Adrian’s side. She wasn’t going to play the part they expected.

The fire in her blood sang with each connection remade, each small victory claimed. Adrian might own her time, dictate her movements, and expect her submission, but he didn’t own her spirit. He never would.

She caught his reflection in a mirror, his expression unreadable as stone. Let him wonder. Let him try to figure out how to cage something that was never meant to be contained.

She’d wear his clothes, attend his parties, stand by his side. But beneath it all, she remained Georgia Phillips, the girl who’d learned to make beauty from scraps, who’d survived on determination and thread. No contract could change that truth.

The elevator doors closed with a soft hiss, sealing Georgia inside the glass and steel capsule with Adrian. Her victory at the gala—those business cards tucked safely in her clutch, the connections reestablished—suddenly felt hollow as the elevator climbed toward the penthouse. Each floor ticked by on the digital display, counting down to an inevitable confrontation.

Georgia stood at the opposite corner, spine rigid, fingers tight around her purse. The air felt too thick to breathe properly. She’d stepped away from him deliberately, spoken with people he hadn’t approved, rebuilt connections he’d never sanctioned. The defiance had been calculated, intentional.

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