The invite-only GIRLS launch review wasn't a party.
It was a statement.
Held in an industrial-chic loft space in Tribeca, the preview was intimate, stylish, and meticulously curated. No press. No influencers. Just the key players: buyers, editors, designers, stylists, and a few select muses.
It wasn't about making noise.
It was about making sure the right people heard it.
Tiana Kings arrived not with her usual entourage, but with one man—her driver.
Dylan Haven.
He stood at the door in tailored black slacks and a pressed charcoal dress shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled just once at the forearm. He looked like a security detail—but the kind that didn't need a gun to assert control.
Tiana, on the other hand, was thunder incarnate.
She wore a fitted black velvet suit from her own unreleased line—plunging neckline, structured shoulders, cinched waist. No jewelry. No distractions. Just skin, fabric, and defiance. Her heels echoed like war drums against the polished concrete floors.
Everyone turned when she entered.
She was used to that.
What she wasn't used to was walking in with a man who didn't flinch under it.
Dylan scanned the room once and tucked his hands behind his back, expression unreadable. The guests—fashion elites draped in tailored luxury—glanced at him briefly, unsure who he was or why he was there.
Tiana didn't offer explanations.
"Follow me," she said, voice low.
Dylan followed.
The loft was styled like a living runway. Mannequins stood beneath soft, halo lighting, each dressed in a piece from GIRLS. Music played in the background—haunting, minimal, underscored with a heartbeat bass.
Emily stood by the center display, speaking with a buyer from London. When she spotted Tiana and Dylan, her brows lifted slightly, but she didn't say a word.
Instead, she just smiled.
Tiana walked slowly down the main corridor, stopping at each look. Dylan stayed behind her, eyes following not just the garments—but her.
"This one's called 'Backbone,'" she said at the first piece, a razor-cut cream suit with invisible corsetry beneath the blazer. "No buttons. Just structure."
"Looks heavy," Dylan said.
"It is," she replied. "It's supposed to be. Power should carry weight."
He nodded once.
At the next look, a flowing mesh cape over a leather harness dress, he frowned slightly. "Is someone actually going to wear this?"
Tiana turned to him. "You think it's too much?"
"I think it's... honest," he said. "Unapologetic."
Her lips lifted faintly. "That's the entire point."
They moved through more displays, her explaining textures and inspiration, him listening quietly. At one point, he reached out and touched the hem of a draped silver blouse.
"You did all this?" he asked.
Tiana's brows arched. "Did you think I just posed for the pictures?"
"No," he said. "I just didn't realize how much of you was in it."
That stopped her.
Not because of the words—but the way he said them. Not impressed. Not surprised.
Just... aware.
Her heart gave a traitorous flick in her chest.
She turned away. "Come on. I want to show you something."
They stepped into a side corridor, quieter, removed from the buzz. Tiana led him to a mannequin dressed in a blood-red gown—one of the closing pieces. It was pure silk, bias-cut to glide over curves like smoke, but with a sharp, structured collar that gave it tension. The back was completely open, revealing a spine traced with stitched silver thread in the fabric.
"This one's called After Her," she said.
Dylan looked at it. Then at her.
"You named it that because...?"
She exhaled. "Because every woman has a 'her' inside. The one she became after the breakup. After the betrayal. After the shame. The version of herself she had to stitch back together when no one was watching."
He didn't speak right away.
Then: "You've been her?"
Tiana turned slowly toward him. "Haven't you?"
The air between them shifted.
Gone was the ambient music. Gone were the murmurs of industry elites.
All that remained was the pulse beneath their ribs.
"Yes," he said.
She held his gaze. "You think I'm cold."
"I think you're hurt," he said.
She gave a small smile. "That makes two of us."
He stepped closer, just a breath away now. "You brought me here for a reason."
"Maybe I wanted you to see what I've built."
"You've shown me that already."
"Then maybe I wanted you to understand what I've survived."
A long pause.
Dylan's jaw worked, but he said nothing.
And then—
"I watched you once," she confessed. "In the car. You were just staring out the window, like you weren't part of the world. Like nothing could touch you. And I thought... what would it take to undo a man like that?"
Dylan's voice was quiet. "And?"
"I still don't know," she admitted.
He studied her for a long time.
Then, with a slow tilt of his head: "Maybe you don't need to undo me."
Silence.
Then she said, almost too softly: "But what if I want to?"
Before he could answer, Emily's voice called from across the floor. "T! The Milan rep's asking for you."
Tiana turned away like flipping a switch. She straightened her shoulders. The diva returned.
"I have to go."
But Dylan grabbed her wrist—not tightly, just enough to stop her.
"Hey."
She turned.
"You are beautiful," he said. "But not for the reasons you think."
Her breath caught.
And for once, she didn't know what to say.
**********
The preview continued, the crowd buzzing, praise filtering in from every corner. Tiana moved through the guests with practiced grace, answering questions, charming buyers, posing for photos.
But something inside her had shifted.
Not cracked.
Just... tilted.
Dylan waited by the wall now, near the catering bar. Watching, but never in the way. Always composed. Always detached.
And still—he saw her.
When she caught him looking, he didn't glance away.
He held her gaze.
Like a challenge.
Like a promise.