The weekend retreat had shifted tempo.
What began as an elegant countryside preview of museum exhibits had turned into a subtle battlefield, every interaction laced with class politics and unspoken rules. And Layla Bennett—armed only with a sharp tongue, vintage ankle boots, and the ability to recite 17th-century tailoring techniques—was in the thick of it.
The enemy?
Lady Evelyn Sterling, dressed in satin the color of cold steel and armed with centuries of disdain.
The morning after their first encounter, Layla stood in the estate's solarium, balancing a teacup and pretending she wasn't being observed like a rare butterfly that had somehow wandered into a taxidermy exhibit.
She wore her custom charcoal-blue coat dress with leather trim and brass buttons—military meets modern Victorian. It made her feel protected. Powerful. And just uncomfortable enough to remind her she was deep in enemy territory.
Lady Evelyn floated into the room.
"Miss Bennett," she greeted, her tone buttered with civility. "I thought I might join you. I do so enjoy the company of ambitious young women."
Layla smiled politely. "It's mutual. Especially when they're disapproving and impeccably dressed."
Evelyn's gaze didn't waver. "Adam tells me you're involved in the event's garment restoration. A shame you weren't trained formally."
"I suppose self-taught isn't fashionable in some circles," Layla replied, sipping her tea, "but I've always preferred learning by doing. Especially when the stakes are real."
"A quaint sentiment," Evelyn murmured. "Let us hope your execution matches your enthusiasm."
Layla nearly smiled. This wasn't a conversation—it was a fencing match.
Later that afternoon, while finalizing display placements in the Sterling estate's west wing, Layla bumped into Adam. Literally.
He rounded the corner, distracted by his phone, and collided shoulder-first into her.
"Careful," she said, steadying herself. "You almost crushed a waistcoat from 1892."
His lips twitched. "Which, I'm guessing, would be a war crime in your world."
"You'd be right." She paused, noticing the faint lines beneath his eyes. "You didn't sleep."
"Neither did you."
There was a beat.
Then he added, "My mother asked me to distance myself from you."
Layla blinked.
"That's subtle."
"She's not known for subtlety."
Layla crossed her arms. "So? Are you going to?"
Adam looked at her, gaze steady. "No."
Simple. Firm. A vow in one syllable.
She opened her mouth—then shut it.
"Why me?" she asked finally.
"You're the only person here who isn't pretending."
That shouldn't have made her heart do that weird somersault.
That evening, the private dinner was replaced by a formal recital in the estate's music hall.
A string quartet from London played selections from Elgar and Vaughan Williams while guests sipped elderflower spritzers and discussed legacy, land, and Oxford rowing teams.
Layla stood in the back in a midnight velvet dress she had stitched by hand, its neckline edged with antique lace. Her earrings were borrowed. Her confidence wasn't.
She watched Adam sit alone at the piano. The quartet hushed. All eyes turned to him.
He began to play.
It wasn't a classic.
It was original.
His.
The melody was mournful and intimate—notes falling like rain on stone. Each phrase seemed to whisper a confession. Regret. Desire. Distance. Want.
Layla's breath caught. It was heartbreak and restraint disguised as harmony.
When it ended, polite applause followed.
But Adam only looked at her.
After the recital, Lady Evelyn found Layla near the courtyard.
"This is not a fairy tale, Miss Bennett," she said without preamble. "Whatever fantasy you've imagined for yourself—it will not end with my son."
Layla turned slowly. "Actually, I was just admiring the hedge sculptures. But go on."
"You don't belong here."
Layla took a breath. "You're right. I don't belong to this world. But that doesn't mean I don't belong in it."
Evelyn's expression sharpened. "Do you know what happened the last time Adam fell in love with someone beneath his station?"
Layla frowned. "No."
"She left. Heartbroken. Shamed. And her reputation ruined by whispers."
There it was. The family wound. Not just control. Fear.
Layla's voice softened. "Then maybe the problem wasn't who she was—but how your world treated her."
Evelyn didn't respond. But for a moment, something flickered in her eyes.
That night, Layla sat in the guest room, legs tucked beneath her, staring at a sketchpad.
Not of fashion.
But Adam.
At the piano. Back lit by candlelight. Hands poised over keys like a spell was about to be cast.
She tore the page out. Folded it. Tucked it into her coat pocket.
Then grabbed her phone and dialed Mira.
"You still up?" she asked.
"You're in a mansion full of tea trays and violinists. Of course I'm up. Tell me everything."
Layla sighed. "I think I'm falling for someone whose world will never accept me."
Mira yawned. "Then show them what happens when you redesign the world."
The next morning, as Layla descended the grand staircase for brunch, Yusuf intercepted her with a grin.
"You're trending."
"Sorry?"
"Your outfit from last night? Someone from The Observer posted a photo. They called you 'The Ghost of British Fashion's Future'."
Layla blinked. "Wait, what?"
"Check your feed. You're being called a revivalist visionary. All thanks to a velvet dress, antique lace, and guts."
Her phone buzzed with notifications.
And suddenly, she wasn't just Adam's charity assistant anymore.
She was Layla Bennett. Designer. Disruptor. And a storm in silk.