Page 19 of His By Contract

Georgia watched her latest creation float across the ballroom, the emerald silk catching light with each movement. The dress adorned the wife of a tech mogul who’d canceled three appointments with her last year. Now the woman twirled, showing off Georgia’s craftsmanship to an admiring circle.

Across the room, Celeste Montgomery’s lips pressed into a thin line as she observed another socialite gushing over her GeorgiaAdler gown. The same women who’d once backed away from Georgia now fought for spots on her waiting list.

“The detail work is extraordinary,” someone whispered nearby. “Such innovation in the construction.”

“Yes, but did you hear how she got her start?” Another voice dripped with false sympathy. “Adrian Adler had to rescue her little business.”

Georgia’s fingers tightened around her champagne glass. Her designs dominated red carpets, set trends that rippled through the industry. Yet these people spoke of her success as if it were a gift bestowed by her husband rather than earned through her talent.

“Mrs. Adler’s fall collection was stunning,” a woman said, her tone suggesting surprise that someone like Georgia could achieve such heights.

The praise felt hollow, tainted by their assumptions. They’d wear her clothes while looking through her, admire her work while dismissing her presence. To them, she remained an oddity, a charity case who’d married above her station.

But their disdain couldn’t diminish her impact. Her designs transformed women, made them feel powerful, beautiful, confident. Each stitch was a statement, each collection a reminder that talent didn’t require their permission to shine.

Let them whisper. Let them judge. Their daughters still begged for Georgia Adler originals. Their friends still scrambled for appointments. They could deny her entry to their inner circle, but they couldn’t deny her influence on their world.

Georgia paced her studio, surrounded by the empire she’d built—or thought she had. The latest collection’s success should have filled her with pride, but each triumph felt hollow, tainted by the invisible strings that led back to Adrian.

“I want full control of the business decisions,” she said, standing in his home office. “My designs, my brand, my choice.”

Adrian’s fingers drummed against his desk, his silence more crushing than any argument. He watched her with that infuriating calm, as if her demand was nothing more than a child’s tantrum.

“The company bears my name. The success comes from my work, my talent.”

“Does it?” His voice cut through her protests. “The fabric suppliers who once ignored you? The retail spaces that suddenly opened their doors? The clients who now fight for appointments?” He stood, moving around the desk. “You can have control, Georgia. Within the structure I’ve created. That was our arrangement.”

The truth hit her like a physical blow. This wasn’t about business decisions or creative control. This was about ownership—of the company, of her success, of her.

“You’re not just my husband on paper anymore, are you?” Her voice shook. “You’re making sure everyone knows who really owns Georgia Adler.”

“I never pretended otherwise.” His calm felt like ice against her skin. “The company, the success, the name—it’s all built on my foundation. You can play at independence all you want, but we both know the truth.”

She turned away, unable to bear his satisfied expression. Every interaction between them now felt like a battle, every conversation a test of wills. But she’d already lost the war, he’d made sure of that from the beginning.

Adrian hadn’t needed to take anything from her. He’d never given her true ownership in the first place.

His footsteps echoed behind her, and she knew he was waiting, watching, anticipating her next move in this game she’d never had a chance of winning.

CHAPTER 6

Georgia traced the rim of her champagne flute, watching the bubbles rise through the golden liquid. The ballroom sparkled with diamonds and designer gowns, every surface reflecting wealth and status. Near the bar, a senator’s wife laughed too loud at a joke that wasn’t funny. Two CEOs shook hands, their smiles sharp as knives.

Her skin prickled. Someone watched her.

She turned, scanning the crowd, and caught sight of Richard Vaughn. He stood three conversations away, discussing market trends with a hedge fund manager. His attention never directly landed on her, yet she felt its weight.

Adrian commanded attention at the center of the room, his voice carrying over the chamber music as he detailed his latest acquisition to an impressed audience. Georgia drifted toward the windows, seeking space to breathe.

Vaughn appeared in a cluster of banking executives nearby, his gray eyes sliding past her shoulder. Her muscles tensed at his fluid motion, like a dance step executed with cold purpose.

A waiter offered fresh champagne. Georgia declined, her glass still full. When she looked up, Vaughn had moved again. Now he stood by the dessert table, his back to her as he selected a chocolate-dipped strawberry.

The evening stretched like pulled taffy. Georgia circulated, making small talk about her latest collection. But beneath every conversation lurked the awareness of Vaughn’s orbital presence. He never approached, never acknowledged her directly. Just existed in her space, a shadow at the corner of her eye.

Adrian’s laugh boomed across the room. He held court near the string quartet, his confidence filling the space. Georgia watched him work the crowd, saw how others gravitated toward his power.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Of being studied. Vaughn had positioned himself near the entrance now, deep in conversation with a judge. His attention brushed past her like a cobweb, subtle enough to make her question if she imagined it, present enough to make her skin crawl.

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