CHAPTER 23
Title: The First Stitch Out
POV: Florida Smith
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She left before sunrise.
No chauffeur. No staff. No note.
Just a slim duffel bag, a clean trench coat, and her sketchbook tucked tightly beneath her arm.
The city was still yawning when she stepped into the early train to Lancaster. Fog clung to the windows. Her breath misted in the cold.
And every second, her heart pounded like it might give her away.
> What if Bryant finds out?
> What if this breaks the contract?
> What if someone recognizes her?
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She pressed her back against the train seat and stared at her reflection in the window.
No one would look twice at her. Not like this. No makeup, no pearls, no heels.
Just a girl with tired eyes and a dream stitched under her skin.
And yet… for the first time in months, she felt something dangerous.
Free.
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Lancaster bloomed like a different world.
Glass buildings, luxury boutiques, and people who dressed like walking editorials. She kept her head low as she walked two blocks from the station, turning twice to make sure she wasn't followed.
Her palms were damp by the time she reached the tall gray building that housed Noir Texture Studio.
The door opened with a soft hiss.
The reception was velvet and marble.
She signed in as FLD. No last name. No title.
> "Right this way," the woman said, smiling with lipstick too perfect to be real. "They've been waiting for you."
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Upstairs, the walls were lined with design sketches, mannequins half-dressed in things that hadn't yet hit the world. A different reality. One she used to dream about behind laundry baskets and kitchen doors.
A panel of three executives greeted her. They wore all-black and had no smiles.
> "FLD," one of them said, flipping through her portfolio. "You have no academic record. No formal experience. And yet…"
He held up one of her sketches — the structured evening gown with embroidery up the spine.
> "This is genius."
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She didn't breathe.
She didn't blink.
> "Tell us," the woman in the center said, "where does your inspiration come from?"
Florida looked at her.
And smiled.
> "Pain. Mostly."
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The room went silent for a moment.
Then the man chuckled, sharp and surprised.
> "Honest. We like that."
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The interview was fast but cutting.
They tested her instincts. Showed her unfinished fabrics. Asked how she'd use them.
She answered without stuttering once.
By the time she walked out, the lead executive had only said:
> "If you're free for a six-month trial, we'll make it official. You'll hear from us soon."
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Outside, the world was louder. Faster. She moved through it with her coat tighter and her chest fuller.
Back on the train, she didn't open her sketchbook.
She just stared out the window, replaying every second. Every word.
> This wasn't just a break in the contract.
> This was her first stitch out.
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When she stepped through the gates of the King's estate that night, the house was quiet.
No alarms.
No raised voices.
No one was waiting to ask where she'd been.
But she wasn't foolish enough to think that meant she was safe.
Not yet.
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She climbed the stairs slowly, shoes in her hand, coat in her grip.
Her heart was still racing.
But it wasn't fear anymore.
It was power.
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End of Chapter 23
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