Ella Carter's world was unraveling like a poorly stitched seam, each tug pulling her deeper into a tangle she couldn't cut free from. The burner phone from Agent Cooper burned a hole in her bag, its weight a constant reminder of his ultimatum: spy on Nathaniel Black or face the consequences of a grainy video showing her killing a man in self-defense. The scarf's hidden note—Find the raven. Trust no one—in her mother's handwriting haunted her, a ghost from a past she thought she'd buried. And Nathaniel himself, with his storm-gray eyes and cryptic words, was a puzzle she couldn't solve but couldn't ignore.
It was Monday, two days after the warehouse attack, and Ella stood in the Croswell House design floor, surrounded by the familiar chaos of fabric swatches and humming machines. Her fingers moved mechanically, pinning a muslin mock-up to a dress form, but her mind was elsewhere—on the raven card's strange stitching, on Cooper's cold smile, on the blood she couldn't wash from her memory.
Julie Simms, her sharp-witted ally, hovered nearby, sorting thread spools with a suspicious glance. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Ella. Or maybe you're just hungover from your billionaire lunch date?"
Ella forced a laugh, her voice brittle. "No hangover. Just Fiona's deadlines breathing down my neck."
Julie's eyes narrowed, unconvinced. "You're dodging. Spill—what's got you so jumpy?"
"Nothing," Ella said too quickly, her pencil snapping in her grip. She cursed under her breath, sweeping the broken pieces into a drawer. "Just stressed."
Julie leaned closer, lowering her voice. "This is about Mr. Mysterious, isn't it? Nathaniel Black. You've been weird since that lunch."
Ella's pulse spiked. She hadn't told Julie about the warehouse, the attack, or Cooper's threat. She couldn't—not with We know what you did still echoing from that anonymous text. "It's nothing," she repeated, softer this time. "Just work."
Julie didn't buy it but backed off, tossing her a spool of crimson thread. "Fine. But if you're planning to elope with a billionaire, I want an invite."
Ella managed a weak smile, her stomach churning. She needed to focus—on her designs, on keeping her job, on staying sane. But Cooper's deadline loomed: forty-eight hours to deliver something on Nathaniel. And the scarf's note, tucked safely in her apartment, whispered questions she couldn't answer. Why the raven? Why her mother? And why did it feel like she was being pulled into a game she hadn't chosen?
Midmorning, Fiona Mills stormed through the design floor, her stilettos a war drum. "Carter!" she snapped, stopping at Ella's station. "Your jacket from the review—Black wants to see it again. His office. Now."
Ella's heart stuttered. "His… office?"
Fiona's eyes gleamed with something like amusement. "Top floor. Don't keep him waiting. And fix your hair—you look like you slept in a fabric bin."
Ella smoothed her ponytail, her mind racing. Nathaniel Black, summoning her to his private office? After the warehouse, after Cooper's deal, it felt like walking into a lion's den with a steak tied to her back.
She took the elevator to the top floor, the sleek steel box amplifying her nerves. The doors opened to a minimalist hall: glass walls, polished wood, a single receptionist who waved her through without a word. Nathaniel's office was a study in power—floor-to-ceiling windows framing Manhattan's skyline, a desk of dark oak, and shelves lined with books and artifacts that screamed wealth and secrecy. A faint scent of leather and cedar hung in the air.
Nathaniel stood by the window, his back to her, his silhouette sharp against the city's glow. "Ella," he said without turning, his voice low and deliberate. "Close the door."
She did, her boots soft on the polished floor. "You wanted to see my jacket?"
He turned, his gray eyes catching hers with that unnerving intensity. "Among other things." He gestured to a chair. "Sit."
She sat, clutching her portfolio like a shield. He didn't sit, instead pacing slowly, his hands in his pockets. "Your design," he began, "it's not just bold. It's honest. Raw. Most people in this industry hide behind polish, but you don't."
Ella swallowed, unsure if this was praise or a trap. "I design what I feel. No filter."
He stopped pacing, leaning against his desk, closer now. "That's dangerous in a world built on facades. But it's why I asked you here."
Her fingers tightened on her portfolio. "Why am I here, Nathaniel?"
He studied her, as if weighing her worth. "I'm investing in Croswell House. Heavily. I need someone with vision—someone who sees beyond the runway. I think that's you."
Her breath caught. An opportunity like this could change everything—her career, her future. But the timing, after the warehouse, after Cooper, felt too perfect. "Why me?" she asked, echoing her question to Cooper. "I'm a nobody. A junior designer."
"You're not a nobody," he said, his voice firm. "You're someone who fights for what she wants. I saw it at the gala, in your work, in how you carry yourself."
She flushed, remembering the spilled champagne, her clumsy recovery. "You saw me make a mess."
"I saw you hold your own." His lips twitched, almost a smile. "And I see potential. I'm offering you a chance to lead a capsule collection—your vision, my resources."
Ella's mind spun. A collection? Her own line, backed by Nathaniel Black? It was a dream—one she'd sketched in the margins of her notebooks since she was sixteen. But the scarf's note—Trust no one—flashed in her mind, and Cooper's burner phone felt heavier in her bag.
"What's the catch?" she asked, her voice steady despite her racing heart.
Nathaniel's eyes darkened, a flicker of something—caution? Respect? "No catch. Just a question of loyalty. This industry chews up talent and spits out husks. I need someone I can trust."
Trust. The word hung between them, sharp as a blade. Ella's thoughts raced to the warehouse, to the man she'd killed, to Nathaniel's insistence on silence. Was this his way of binding her closer? Or was he genuinely offering her a lifeline?
Before she could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his jaw tightening, and excused himself to take the call outside. Alone, Ella's eyes darted around the office. The desk held a laptop, a few files, a sleek pen. A small sculpture of a raven sat on a shelf, its obsidian eyes glinting. Her fingers itched to snoop—Cooper's demand echoing—but the risk was too high.
Nathaniel returned, his expression unreadable. "We'll continue this later. I have a meeting."
She stood, her portfolio still clutched tight. "Thank you. For the opportunity."
"Don't thank me yet," he said, his voice low. "Prove you're worth it."
As she left, his gaze lingered, heavy with unspoken meaning. The elevator ride down felt like a descent into deeper waters, the pressure building.
Back on the design floor, Ella buried herself in work, but her focus frayed. Cooper's burner phone buzzed in her bag, a reminder of her ticking clock. She needed something on Nathaniel—anything—to keep Cooper at bay. But every step closer to him felt like a step toward danger.
At lunch, she slipped into a quiet corner of the break room, pulling out her laptop. Cooper's text—Check the gala's accounts—nagged at her. She didn't have access to Croswell's financials, but she could dig into public records, news articles, anything that might hint at what he meant.
She found a press release about the gala: a charity event raising millions for urban youth programs. Nathaniel's name was listed as a major donor, his company, Black Enterprises, funneling funds through a foundation called Raven's Wing. The name sent a chill down her spine. Raven. Like the card. Like her mother's note.
She dug deeper, her fingers flying across the keyboard. A blog post caught her eye—a conspiracy theorist's rant about Black Enterprises' "shady" investments. It mentioned shell companies, offshore accounts, and whispers of ties to organized crime. Nothing concrete, but enough to make her stomach twist. Was this what Cooper wanted? Proof Nathaniel wasn't just a businessman?
Her phone buzzed—the burner.
Unknown Number: You're stalling. Find something real. Tonight.
Ella's heart pounded. She needed to move faster, but every step felt like a betrayal—of Nathaniel, of herself. She closed her laptop, her mind racing. The gala's accounts. Raven's Wing. The note. They were pieces of a puzzle, but the picture was still blurry.
That evening, Ella stayed late at Croswell House, the design floor eerily quiet. She'd volunteered to organize fabric samples, a mindless task to keep her hands busy while her mind worked. The scarf was tucked in her bag, its note a burning secret. Find the raven. Trust no one. Her mother had known something—something tied to Nathaniel, to the danger now circling her.
As she sorted silks and linens, a shadow moved in the hallway. Her breath caught. "Julie?" she called, her voice echoing.
No answer.
She stepped toward the door, her boots silent on the carpet. The hallway was dark, the overhead lights off for the night. A faint rustle came from the storage room down the hall. Her pulse quickened, the memory of the warehouse attack flashing vivid—blood, bone, the crunch of impact.
She grabbed a pair of fabric shears from her desk, their weight steadying her trembling hands. Fight smart, not just hard. Her mother's voice again, sharp as ever. She crept toward the storage room, the shears raised.
The door was ajar. Inside, a figure rifled through a box of archived sketches. Not Julie. Not a janitor. A man, his back to her, his movements quick and precise.
"Hey!" Ella snapped, her voice cutting through the silence.
He spun, his face half-shadowed, eyes wide. He lunged—not at her, but for the door. Instinct took over. She grabbed his sleeve, yanking him back, the shears glinting in her hand.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice low and fierce.
He twisted free, shoving her against a shelf. Boxes toppled, fabric spilling like waves. She swung the shears, grazing his arm, and he hissed, bolting for the exit. She gave chase, her boots pounding, but he was fast, disappearing into the stairwell.
Panting, Ella stopped, her heart hammering. She checked the storage room. The box he'd been rummaging through held old gala designs—sketches from years past, including her mother's work. Margaret Carter had been a seamstress at Croswell before her death, her designs legendary in their quiet elegance.
Ella's breath hitched. She rifled through the box, finding a folder marked "Raven's Wing Gala." Inside were invoices, donor lists, and a single photograph: her mother, smiling, standing beside a younger Nathaniel Black.
The revelation hit like a thunderclap. Nathaniel had known her mother. Not just in passing—they'd worked together, their names tied to the same event. The gala. The raven. Her mother's note wasn't random—it was personal.
Ella sank to the floor, the photograph trembling in her hands. Nathaniel's offer, his interest in her, wasn't coincidence. He'd known who she was from the start. But why hide it? What did he want with her now?
Her burner phone buzzed, shattering the silence.
Unknown Number: You're digging in the right places. Keep going. Raven's Wing is the key.
Ella's blood ran cold. Cooper—or someone else—was watching her every move. The storage room, the photograph, the note—it was all connected. But to what?
She tucked the photograph into her bag, her mind racing. Nathaniel wasn't just a billionaire. Her mother wasn't just a seamstress. And Ella wasn't just a designer caught in their game.
She was a thread they'd underestimated, and she was done being pulled.
Across town, Nathaniel stood in a dimly lit penthouse, staring at a city that never slept. A woman approached, her heels silent on the hardwood. "She's close," she said, her voice cool. "Too close."
Nathaniel's jaw tightened. "She's not ready."
"She doesn't have a choice," the woman replied. "Neither do you."
He turned, his eyes glinting like steel. "Then we make sure she chooses us."
The pattern is emerging. The peril is real.