บท 11: An Unexpected Trip
I turned as red as a tomato.
As Sylus finished applying the corrections, he paused, eyes narrowing in thought as he studied the delicate fabric gathered around the neckline. His gaze flickered back to me, that familiar playful glint now more mischievous, almost daring.
"Freya," he drawled, his voice smooth and teasing, "why don't you take a shot at this next part?"
I blinked, surprised. "Me? You want me to stitch this?"
He nodded slowly, leaning back against the table, crossing his muscular arms over his bare chest with an infuriating smirk. "Yeah, why not? It's a lost technique, something you're familiar with, at least in theory."
My pulse quickened. The technique he meant had to be the Byzantine loop stitch, a rare, intricate method that even seasoned designers struggled with. It required the thread to loop continuously without breaking—both fragile and breathtakingly beautiful.
I shook my head. "You know I'm hopeless when it comes to unconventional techniques. I can talk about them, sure, but you—" I motioned toward him, flustered. "You're the one who actually pulls them off."
Sylus's smirk deepened. Uncrossing his arms, he stepped closer, the heat from his body brushing against mine. He towered over me, his presence commanding, overwhelming.
"Hopeless?" His voice dropped, teasingly dark. "Freya, I don't buy that. Not for a second." His lips curled into a sly grin as he lowered his voice even more, making my heart race. "Come on, Ms. Sinclair. Try it. I'll be right here... ready to correct any mistake you make."
I swallowed hard, my eyes darting up to meet his. Was he serious, or was this another game? "Mr. Thorn..."
"Freya," he interrupted, a teasing edge in his tone, "don't you think it's about time you called me by my name?"
"I couldn't possibly," I protested, though I had called him Sylus in my head more times than I cared to admit.
"I insist," he murmured, leaning in closer, his breath warm against my skin. "Say it."
"Y-yes, Si—Sylus." My voice wavered as heat rushed to my cheeks.
His grin widened, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "My name has never sounded as good as it does coming from you, Ms. Sinclair." He winked, sending my heart into a frenzy.
Sylus reached for my hands, his touch warm and possessive as he placed them on the fine needle laid out on the table. "Here," he whispered, his breath ghosting over my cheek as he guided my fingers around the needle, "just like this."
His hands lingered over mine, steadying them as he leaned in, so close I could feel his breath brushing my skin. "Don't worry," he whispered, his voice low, intimate. "I'll guide you."
A shiver coursed through me, the warmth of his body and the intoxicating closeness making it hard to focus. But his hands were firm, controlling, as he guided me toward the fabric. His fingers moved expertly over mine, the thread now in position over the delicate silk.
"The key is the tension," he murmured in my ear, the softness of his tone sending shivers down my spine. "You need to be gentle. Let the needle glide... not too tight."
I could barely concentrate, his closeness clouding my thoughts. I should've been focusing on the technique, but all I could feel was the heat of his breath against my neck and the steady, commanding way his hands controlled mine. It was dizzying—dangerously distracting.
Sylus's grip tightened, his fingers brushing against mine in a way that sent sparks down my spine. "See? Just like that," he whispered. "Now, loop the thread back slowly. Don't break the line."
I did as he instructed, my hands trembling slightly as I made the first stitch. To my amazement, the thread slid perfectly, forming the Byzantine loop—delicate, flawless. It was working.
"There you go," Sylus murmured, his lips close to my ear. "You've got this, Freya."
For a moment, confidence surged through me. I managed two more loops before the thread snagged, the line faltering. I froze, panic rising in my chest as I stared down at the fabric.
"I—I messed up," I whispered, dread creeping in.
Sylus leaned in again, his tone reassuring yet with an undercurrent of amusement. "That's nothing I can't fix."
His fingers brushed against mine as he took the needle, his touch firm and precise. With a few swift movements, he undid the mistake effortlessly, his hands a blur of skill. And just like that, he continued, the stitch flawless, as though nothing had ever gone wrong.
His confidence was intoxicating, but it wasn't just that. The way he guided me, the way his hands lingered—it left me wanting more, wanting him to guide me in ways far beyond just stitching.
"And that," he said, his voice a teasing drawl, his eyes locking onto mine, "is how it's done, Ms. Sinclair."
I felt my cheeks burn again, my heart racing as I quickly looked away. "I don't know how you make it look so easy."
"Years of practice," he replied, that infuriating grin never leaving his face. "But you're better than you give yourself credit for. One day, you'll master it."
I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, his phone rang, breaking the moment.
Sylus's expression darkened as he answered, the playful smirk replaced with something far more serious. His jaw clenched, his carefree demeanor slipping away.
When he hung up, his voice was tight. "Freya, we need to leave. Now. Pack my kit. We've got an emergency trip to make."
I blinked, stunned by the sudden change. "What happened?"
He was already moving, his long strides carrying him swiftly toward the door. "A bride," he muttered, his voice hard, "her dress is ruined. She's walking down the aisle in thirty minutes. We have to fix it."
I hurried after him, my pulse racing. "Wait, how bad is it?"
His jaw tightened. "Bad enough that she's crying into a tub of ice cream."
We hurried into the car, the tension in him clear as he sped through the streets. I glanced over at him, the set of his jaw hard as he gripped the steering wheel. The pressure of a ruined wedding dress, just hours before the bride was supposed to walk down the aisle, would be enough to make anyone panic. But this was Sylus. He didn't just design dresses. He created masterpieces.
I didn't speak, sensing that any words I offered wouldn't make a dent in his current mood. Instead, I focused on the task ahead. When we arrived at the venue, a luxurious hotel bustling with guests and wedding staff, I wrapped a scarf around my head to conceal my face. Ever since the night of the gala, headlines featuring my face had started circulating, I'd been getting from strangers and paparazzi, and I wasn't in the mood for any of that today.
As we entered the bridal suite, the sight that greeted us was just as Sylus had described. The bride was crouched in a corner, tears streaming down her face, clutching a half-eaten tub of ice cream. Her makeup was smeared, her eyes puffy from crying, and her dress—well, the dress was in a terrible state.
The hem was torn, the delicate lace around the bodice was unraveling, and the intricate stitching along the back had come undone. It looked like someone had taken a pair of scissors to the gown.
The bride jumped on Sylus, her tone desperate. "Sylus, please! You have to save my wedding!" Her voice cracked, though she barely glanced at me, still oblivious to who I was. I kept my scarf wrapped tightly around my face, trying to stay out of the chaos.
"What happened?" Sylus asked, his voice sharper than usual as we rushed toward her.
The bride looked up, her lower lip trembling. "It was perfect when I saw it yesterday. I swear, I didn't touch it. But this morning, when my bridesmaids helped me put it on, we saw it was already ripped." Her voice broke, and fresh tears welled in her eyes. "I don't know what happened. I just—this is my wedding day! I've been dreaming of this moment, and now look at it!"
I could see Sylus's jaw working as he examined the damage, his eyes narrowing as he traced the edges of the tears. His frustration turned into something more—a simmering rage, tightly controlled but you could see it in the way his shoulders tensed.
"That's impossible," Sylus said coldly. "The fabric I used for this dress is practically indestructible under normal circumstances. There's no way it could have ripped on its own."
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