Chapter 223

The night was ink-black. Daniel Sterling stood at the villa's entrance, his fingers brushing the velvet box in his pocket. He watched Evelyn Sullivan's weary silhouette, swallowing back the confession on his tongue.

"Goodnight."

Evelyn pushed the door open. Moonlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the only light in the dark living room. She padded barefoot up the stairs, the wooden steps creaking softly beneath her.

Hot water washed away her exhaustion but not the hollow ache in her chest. Since rejecting Ethan Sullivan, all of Rongcheng seemed enchanted—they hadn’t crossed paths once.

Her desk at MY Fashion Group was buried under stacks of files. The vacancy left by Bianca Rose’s departure remained unfilled. The resumes Sophia Reynolds had brought gathered dust. Evelyn always lost focus by the third page.

On the eve of the design competition, the Ferguson mansion blazed with light. Evelyn arrived half an hour late, pushing open the door to Frank Ferguson’s startled gaze.

"Elia?"

A teacup rattled on its saucer. Frank’s eyes lingered on her bare fingers—where a designer’s ring should have been.

The meeting minutes still carried the warmth of the printer when handed to her. Evelyn skimmed the competition rules, then froze at the sharp clatter of a falling pen.

"Miss Sullivan objects to the anonymous judging?"

"Perfectly fair rules." She closed the folder, her silver bracelet slipping from her sleeve. "Just confirming the judges won’t be visible."

Frank’s gaze flicked to the rose tattoo on her collarbone. He knew that mark too well—three years ago at Paris Fashion Week, Elia’s breakthrough piece had borne the same emblem.

"Does your father know who you are?"

Cold perfume wafted as Evelyn stood. The hallway mirror reflected her impassive profile. "Pretend we never met tonight, Mr. Ferguson."

An engine’s roar startled nightingales from the trees. Fiona Ferguson stormed in on stilettos, her perfume clashing with the evening breeze.

"Dad! Was that Elia?"

Frank studied his daughter’s crumpled contestant pass, recalling rumors of the Sullivan family’s bankruptcy. The chandelier cast shifting shadows across his face. "Don’t expect any favors from the judges this year."