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The grip was commanding, unyielding, the palm scorching hot against my bare skin. Marcelo leaned in slightly, bent his arm, and slid mine through the crook of his elbow—forcing me to take his arm. That cold family signet ring with the snake head scraped the sensitive skin of my inner wrist, sending a shiver through me.
"Chin up, Ruby." His voice rumbled low near my ear, Italian accent rich as aged rum, brooking no argument. "You're on my arm tonight. You belong here. Don't let me see you shrinking like some guilty little girl."
I sucked in a breath and lifted my chin.
"Of course, Mr. Moretti." I pushed the words through my teeth, steadying my breathing. "The only reason I'll be looking down tonight is to make sure my heels don't get caught in the carpet."
"Good. Sounds like you're adapting fast." The corner of his mouth curved up, and he strode into the crowd, pulling me with him.
The clusters of guests parted automatically when they saw Marcelo. Men offered wary, respectful glances. Women's eyes roamed his cold, handsome face before sliding to me with open scrutiny and judgment.
But I didn't flinch. I kept my chin up and my hand firm on his arm.
And his elbow was iron—the only anchor I had in this entire glittering battlefield.
We crossed the central platform and headed straight for a semi-private booth in the northwest corner, draped in dark green velvet. At the center of the display stood a short, stout old man with a wild gray beard, waving a magnifying glass and roaring at two high-end buyers in tailored suits.
"Get out! I told you—this is an eighteenth-century Lyon jacquard revival weave, not lining for your mass-market garbage! Don't let your money-grubbing mouths defile my wool!"
The two buyers fled like scalded dogs.
"Brandt." Marcelo stepped forward and greeted him in flawless French, his tone flat.
The furious old man whipped around, nearly slamming his magnifying glass onto the walnut table. When he recognized Marcelo, his rage froze, then melted into a loud, rough laugh.
"Dio mio! Marcelo! What dragged you out of your precious Manhattan?" Brandt stomped over and slapped Marcelo's shoulder hard. They exchanged the traditional cheek-kiss greeting. "I thought you only cared about counting money with those Wall Street pricks and forgot what real art looks like!"
"If it were just plain-weave cotton, I wouldn't have flown to Paris." Marcelo smiled calmly, then turned and gently guided me forward with a hand on my lower back.
His palm pressed into the small of my back, nudging me ahead.
"I came to bring someone who actually knows her craft." Marcelo's voice carried clearly to the handful of fabric dealers hovering nearby. "Let me introduce Ruby Caldwell, one of our group's most talented emerging designers."
Emerging designer?
My heart slammed against my ribs. My nails dug into the edge of my clutch.
According to the company org chart, I was a temp intern on a probationary contract—I didn't even have a permanent ID badge yet. And here he was, in front of a legendary silk master like Brandt, casually crowning me with the title "emerging designer."
Brandt pushed his tortoiseshell reading glasses up his nose. His cloudy but sharp eyes scanned me like a laser—my full chest, my non-slim waist, my wide hips. He looked at the deep emerald velvet dress. His beard twitched.
"Caldwell? Sounds purely American. Today's young designers only know how to slap digital prints on synthetic trash. Tell me, girl—do you actually know anything about fabric?"
"I'd say I can at least tell the difference in tensile strength between raw silk and degummed silk, Mr. Brandt." I swallowed the storm in my chest and straightened my spine.
"Oh? Big talk." Brandt snorted, turned, and yanked a bolt of fabric wrapped in black silk from the display rack behind him. He shook it open hard across the walnut table. "Look at this. Since Marcelo's singing your praises, tell me—what's this fabric made of? Get it wrong, and you're not leaving here with a single thread tonight."
A few Milan buyers stopped to watch, clearly hoping for a show.
I didn't look at Marcelo. I knew this was my fight.
I took a deep breath and stepped forward. The moment my index and middle fingers touched the fabric, my fingertips trembled.
The texture was incredibly complex—heavy, yet slippery as water. The surface had a muted, matte gold sheen, but under the gallery's angled spotlights, it threw off a dark bronze gleam.
I didn't rush to conclusions. I leaned down and sniffed lightly at the fabric's edge, then rubbed a corner gently between my thumb and forefinger three times. I pulled the weft thread taut and examined the nearly invisible pattern in the light.
"The warp is four-ply untwisted mulberry silk, extremely high-density—at least two hundred eighty threads per inch." I lifted my head and met the old man's scrutinizing gaze, my voice steady and clear. "But the weft... you blended in ultra-fine cashmere. Not ordinary goat cashmere—Angora highland lamb, first shearing. To preserve the metallic luster, you didn't use modern aluminum-plated filament. You revived the sixteenth-century Venetian 'gold thread inlay weave,' hand-threading wrapped gold-silver wire through the shuttle."
