10. Selma

ten

Selma

It'd been three days since the fiasco with Ashton in my office. In that time, he hadn't made an appearance. For the first two days, I'd prevented myself from wondering if he had come in and was just avoiding me, but today, my curiosity got the better of me.

Rose confirmed that he was a no-show. A prickly sense of unease coiled up my spine to rest in the pit of my stomach.

What is he doing? Why hasn't he come?

Was he really planning to make good on his threat? My heart raced with fear. Would he really take my child away from me? I didn't want to think about it.

I sighed, leaning back against my chair. Even the sight of my newly decorated office couldn't heighten my spirits. There was a lot I didn't want to think about. One of them was how to break the news to my mother.

She would scold the shit out of me for getting pregnant out of wedlock like she had, which was completely understandable because she didn't want me to suffer like she had. Still, at the same time, she would be beside herself with glee at the thought of becoming a grandmother.

She already fawned over me like a four-year-old needing constant attention. It would multiply a thousandfold once she learned I was pregnant.

I sighed again. Everything was going to shit. Maria, bless her heart, was helping me with publicity for my new line. According to her, the reception was better than she expected. I still didn't know what that meant. I did plan to get a PR team but doing that at such an early stage would be a terrible idea, seeing as I was pressed for funds.

However, I was skeptical that Alex and Iris's damage to my reputation could be resolved by merely hiring a few people to pretend to be excited about my new line.

There was also the issue of putting up with Ashton indefinitely. If three days ago taught me anything, it was that being close to him made my brain fuzzy and set my body on fire. He was trouble, and the further away from him I stayed, the better it was for me.

Except that he was my photographer for the next few months, and staying away from him was absurd. However, it wasn't impossible. I didn't have to see him other than during working hours. And when the child was born, there could be a stipulated timetable that didn't require physical contact.

For example, he could visit twice a week, and I could leave the baby with my mother, so we didn't have to see each other. Admittedly, this would be a ridiculous arrangement, but it might be the only one that made sense.

My work line rang, and I snapped back to reality, picking it up. "Speak."

"Miss Volkov, you wanted to know if Mr. McCall came in today," Rose said.

My stupid heart picked up a beat. "Yes, I did."

"I was just informed that he's headed to the studio."

Of course. Where else would he be headed? Certainly not my office.

"Please bring me the new prototypes. Thank you, Rose."

I blew out a breath just before wondering why the fuck I was suddenly jittery at the thought of seeing Ashton again. A little voice at the back of my head whispered that it might be because the last time he and I were together, we'd been one second away from ripping each other's clothes off and making the same mistake that had led us into this quandary in the first place.

What the hell was wrong with me? Why was I letting such an arrogant asshole get under my skin? Couldn't I see that was his plan? To rile me up? I had no doubt he viewed this as a battle, completely forgetting that there was only one outcome, only one winner. And that would be me.

I squared my shoulders and cracked my knuckles. I would make him see that, even if it was the last thing I did.

Getting to my feet, I grabbed my iPad and went to the studio. A few years ago, I had my studio specially designed and equipped for in-house photographs, and after my office and the dressmakers' room, it was my favorite place in the entire building.

When I got there, the door was slightly ajar. I slowed when I heard a distinct boom of male laughter. The sound spread a delicious shiver around my body, which quickly disappeared when a familiar female voice spoke. Curiosity ate at me. I neared the door so I could peep in, and my breath hitched when I saw Ashton laughing with Maria, who had her arm resting on his bicep. She, too, bent over in laughter.

It was an…oddly agitating sight. Why the fuck were they cackling with laughter like little headless chickens? And why did it vex me so much? It was obviously because Ashton had work to do, and he was here shamelessly flirting with Maria. Speaking of which, why the hell was she here?

Oh, right. She was here to help. I stepped back two paces, staring at the door, my mouth suddenly dry. No, seriously, what the hell was going on with me? Why on earth was Ashton laughing with Maria pissing me off?

It has to be the hormones. I nodded. It had to be.

"Miss Volkov," a voice said.

I jerked in shock, blinking. "Huh?" I turned around to see Rose and my interns behind me.

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

"Of course." I nodded, plastering a small smile. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Without waiting for a response, I opened the door fully. The laughing stopped the second I entered as both sets of eyes turned to me. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I smoothed my hands down my vintage, long-sleeved, red, velvet evening dress, one of my personal designs. There was only one like it in the entire world, and I was wearing it. Four years ago, I refused to sell it or even make another original for a British duchess.

"Selly, you look amazing", Maria cooed, walking to me in six-inch heels for a hug. I kissed her cheek, trying to sprinkle in a little enthusiasm, or she would see through me. "BTDubs, I'm stealing that dress the first opportunity I get."

"Thank you. I didn't know you were here."

She hooked her arm through mine, leading me toward Ashton. "Ash and I arrived together. We had lunch."

"Lunch," I repeated flatly.

They were having lunch? I almost snorted. Whatever .

"Mhmm," Maria nodded. "And because I can't go through what I went through a few days ago, I brought an actual model this time for the shoot. Do you have the prototype yet?"

I was just noticing the model for the first time sitting in a corner, typing away at her phone screen. I didn't recognize her, so she must not be so popular, but then again, I didn't know who Ashton was either. He was as popular as professional photographers got these days.

"Thank you," I said to her. "And I'm sorry about the other day. I was in a terrible place and took it out on you."

Before Maria could reply, a snort was released from somewhere in front of us. No, not somewhere. Someone. Someone who had not looked me in the eye since Maria and I began talking. Was he ignoring me? It was laughable, really, given that he was cozying up to my best friend.

Asshole.

"Alright," Maria released my arm to clap her hands. "Let's do this."

Even with the tension of Ashton's cold shoulder, I got to work, fitting the design on the model. My pattern maker carefully constructed this dress after careful deliberations with the sketch. My interns surrounded me as I worked, asking questions, and offering insights. I acknowledged them all, feeling the nostalgic thrill that always consumed me whenever I gave life to colors and patterns. I loved everything about what I did, and I always would.

My pattern maker created the sample with muslin material to enable me to capture the spirit of the final garment through the model's shape, draping, and fabric choice. I made some mental notes to send back to her about the kind of stitching I wanted on the front of the dress. Everything had to be perfect.

Once I had assembled the prototype on the model, it was time to shoot. I wanted to capture every moment of this journey, from the sketches to the final product. Documentation was a game changer, and not many designers knew that. My meticulousness was one of the things that distinguished me from all others.

Ashton unpacked his camera, fixed the backdrop, and cross-checked the artificial lighting. I stood behind him as he worked, my eyes trained on his suave movements. Honestly, if he wasn't such a dick, I would probably have had a thing for him. His shoulders were broad and hard, and they framed his plain white T-shirt perfectly, tucked into loose black slacks. I couldn't resist letting my gaze linger on his taut backside or thinking about how amazing they'd felt in my hands that night when I'd gripped them as he pummeled my vagina into a delicious tenderness.

But as it turned out, he was a dick, and I didn't have a thing for dicks.

The last one hadn't turned out so well.

I moved forward to get to the model standing in front of the backdrop while Ashton stepped away from the softbox modifier. We collided, and I stumbled, his arm abruptly snaking around my waist to steady my feet. I held my breath, his face dangerously close to mine. Those brown orbs stared down at me with an intensity that made my heart race. I didn't know how long we stayed in that position, staring at each other, but a cough from somewhere in the room made me jump away from him.

I cleared my throat. "I…uh…"

Ashton moved to the side so I could pass. I did, but not before catching the dark shadow that flashed through his gaze.

Beneath the surface, a tension simmered, a palpable undercurrent that lingered between us like an unspoken truth. Every glance exchange, every brush of skin against skin, fueled a fire that had no business burning as fiercely as it did, igniting a spark that refused to be extinguished.

My brain hated him, but my traitorous body responded to him like it hadn't been touched by a man before.

It didn't take us long to begin the arguments. We argued over the littlest things, such as lighting angles and prop placement. Every decision became a battleground, and every suggestion met with scorn and derision.

"Are you sure about that pose, Selma?" Ashton's voice cut through the silence, laced with a hint of challenge as he adjusted the camera lens.

I narrowed my eyes, feeling irritated. "Of course I'm sure. I didn't get to where I am by second-guessing myself."

He raised an eyebrow, an annoying smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Well, forgive me for wanting to ensure your vision is properly captured."

"Stop trying to be a know-it-all and do your fucking job."

He smacked his lips. "You know what they say. Takes one to know one."

Maria snorted next to me, earning a glare from me. She abruptly straightened her face.

As the day wore on, and another prototype was assembled, the strain between us became increasingly apparent. It cast a tense shadow over the studio's atmosphere. My interns took to whispering amongst themselves, and once or twice, I caught an exchange of looks between them as they observed the tumultuous dynamics between Ashton and me.

I wasn't new to gossip, having been the top recipient of the media's backlash three years ago. Still, I would not tolerate any sort of idle chit-chat in my company. I fixed them a death glare, and they quieted, all looking demure.

"You're both being childish, you know," Maria whispered as Ashton's camera clicks filled the silence.

I huffed, keeping my gaze on the model as she switched poses. "He's the childish one. Mocking me in front of my interns? How rude."

"You asked him to do his job, and that's exactly what he's doing. Ease up a little. You're being too hard on him."

I rolled my eyes. Of course, she would be on his side. Hadn't they been awfully snug a few hours ago?

Unlike what Maria said, I wasn't being hard on Ashton. At least, not particularly. I was Selma Volkov, and my work was nothing if not perfect. Ashton fucking McCall would not be the one to change that.

He instructed the model to turn her legs at a certain angle. After many trials, and she still wasn't getting it, he edged closer to help her. The second his hand connected with the bare skin of her flesh, anger gripped me. And why the fuck was the model smiling like he'd just cracked a joke?

He didn't have to touch her, did he? A part of me, the part that sounded like reason, knew this was a normal occurrence. Still, another part—and by God, I didn't understand it—was irritated.

Phew. It definitely has to be my hormones. There was no other plausible explanation. Pregnancy was a real bitch.

My feet moved of their own accord to where the model stood, causing Ashton to step back. Instead of the pose Ashton had been trying to create, I shifted her body to another position so that her body was facing the left with her hand on her right hip and her head was facing the right.

"There," I said. "That's better."

"Are you kidding me, Selma?" Ashton's voice sliced through the tense silence, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

I bristled, turning to face him, my nostrils flaring with uncontained fury. "Do you have a problem with my vision? Or are you just incapable of following simple instructions?"

His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tensing with restrained anger. "I'm perfectly capable, thank you very much. It's your lack of direction that's the problem here."

Someone gasped. My jaw set.

The words hung between us like a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at my feet. I met his gaze head on, my eyes flashing with a fire that matched his own. "Oh, so it's my fault? How fucking typical of you to deflect blame to someone else."

He took a step forward. "And how fucking typical it is of you to refuse to admit that you're wrong."

"Fuck you."

He leaned in so close to me that I could smell his breath, reducing his voice to a whisper. "How many times do I have to tell you that I already did that, and it was basic?"

That one stung. The atmosphere grew increasingly hostile, and everyone shrunk back to escape the tension surrounding us.

But even as we hurled insults like daggers, beneath the anger lay a simmering undercurrent of something else—something raw, primal, and undeniably electric. It crackled between us, binding us together in a tangled web of desire and loathing.

Ashton's gaze dropped to my lips, and my skin tingled, reminding me of how I'd pathetically succumbed to his touch a few days ago. My pussy throbbed almost painfully, and it was with all the strength I had in me that I mustered up to step back and walk away from him and out of the studio.

He might know how to make my body sing like a nightingale, but I hated him and always would.