Layla Bennett had always trusted her instincts.
They were what helped her tell the difference between real silk and synthetic at a glance, or when to call out a client bluffing about "organic cashmere." Her instincts told her how to match plaids with leather, or why a bias-cut tartan skirt could work with combat boots. They'd never failed her.
And tonight, as the haunting melody from the conservatory hung in the air like fog over the Thames, her instincts screamed one thing:
Adam Sterling was lying.
Not in a malicious way. Not even skillfully. But with the quiet ache of someone burying the one thing that made him feel alive.
The next morning, Layla arrived at the Sterling Foundation headquarters thirty minutes early.
She didn't know why. Maybe to prove herself. Maybe to escape the swirling thoughts about last night's song. Or maybe to feel in control again after locking eyes with a man who could wreck her entire nervous system by raising a single, aristocratic eyebrow.
"Someone's keen," Yusuf said, appearing behind her with a grin and two iced coffees. "And punctual. I'm suspicious."
Layla accepted one of the drinks. "I like starting the day without being judged by women named after heritage estates."
He chuckled. "Ah, Sarah. You'll get used to her. Or not. Either way, she's terrified you'll mess up the marriage market balance."
"Why? Because I wore trousers to dinner?"
"Because you walked in like you belonged. Which you do."
Layla gave him a sideways look. "You're nice for a billionaire's best mate."
Yusuf mock-bowed. "Harringtons: privately educated, publicly disobedient."
That afternoon, Layla was assigned to oversee the Sterling Trust Annual Showcase, an event unveiling restored historical garments curated in partnership with British heritage museums. It was perfect—an actual fusion of her fashion dreams and Adam's mysterious legacy.
She dove into planning with precision, consulting with curators, adjusting floor plans, and even redesigning the uniform styling for hostesses. Her updates gave traditional silhouettes a sustainable, modern twist—upcycled cravat-inspired collars and reclaimed wool waistcoats.
Mid-meeting, while adjusting the spacing for an antique corset display, she felt someone watching her.
She turned.
Adam.
Hands behind his back, cool grey suit, no tie. He looked less like a CEO today, and more like… someone who had been wandering through a piano piece he hadn't finished.
"You're redesigning the uniforms," he said.
"They were tragic. Like… Victorian ghost cosplay tragic."
Adam raised an eyebrow, amused. "And what is your proposal?"
She turned the iPad around. "Structured waistcoats in recycled wool tweed. Velvet lapels. Cravat ribbons made from leftover curtain samples. Think Austen meets Soho."
Adam leaned in to examine it, his shoulder brushing hers. "It's excellent."
Layla froze. His approval came in rare, concentrated drops.
Then he added, "But it's not what they expected."
"Neither am I," she said before she could stop herself.
He didn't respond, but a flicker of something—admiration, maybe—crossed his expression.
"I want to show you something," he said suddenly.
He led her through a side door, down a quiet hall filled with oil paintings and the scent of cedar wax polish. At the end was a double door, guarded by a stained-glass window that fractured the sunlight.
Inside: the Sterling Family Music Room.
Gilded mouldings. A glossy grand piano. Shelves of old sheet music. Violin cases. Dust motes dancing in the light. It was breathtaking.
Adam moved to the piano and sat. Layla followed slowly, heart thudding.
"You knew the piece last night," he said, fingers resting on the keys.
"I didn't know it by name," she answered. "But I knew it. You played it yesterday, before the coffee incident."
A pause.
"Yes," he said at last. "I wrote it."
There it was.
Truth, quiet and raw.
"I compose," he continued. "Privately. Under the pseudonym A. Vale."
Layla's eyes widened. "You're A. Vale?! The Vale Variations are—" she stopped herself. "I thought A. Vale was some tortured music professor in Vienna."
Adam's lips twitched. "I do enjoy anonymity."
"Why hide it?"
He was quiet.
Then: "Because in this world, vulnerability is currency. And I can't afford to spend it."
Layla swallowed. She understood. Fashion was her armor. His was silence.
"You're incredibly talented," she said softly.
He met her gaze. And for a moment, it was just the two of them in the universe.
No sterling name. No corsets. No judgment.
Just music. Just breath. Just them.
A few nights later, Layla was called to attend a private gathering at the Sterling estate in Sussex. Apparently, a select few from the board were invited to preview the restoration exhibit over a private weekend retreat. Adam had requested her presence.
"I don't own enough countryside-chic for this," Layla groaned to Mira over the phone.
"Layer tweed. Add sarcasm. You'll survive."
The estate was absurdly picturesque. Grand and moody, wrapped in green hills and gardens older than democracy. Layla arrived in a trench coat she'd sewn from surplus wool, ankle boots, and a tartan scarf from her mum's attic. The housekeeper eyed her outfit, but she held her head high.
Yusuf greeted her at the door with champagne. "Welcome to Downton Absurdity."
The guest list included aristocrats, minor royalty, and a woman who claimed to have once waltzed with Prince Philip.
But none of that mattered once she found Adam in the library.
He was alone at the piano.
And playing.
Layla stepped in, silent.
He didn't stop.
He played something new. Darker. Full of tension. It clawed at the air like a storm trapped in silk.
When he finished, she whispered, "What's that one called?"
His voice was quiet. "Dissonance in Velvet."
"For the event?"
"For… you."
Silence stretched between them again. But this time, it buzzed with electricity.
Layla looked away, cheeks warm. "You're impossible, you know that?"
He moved closer. "So are you."
But not everyone at the retreat shared the mood.
That evening, during a formal dinner beneath candlelit chandeliers, Lady Evelyn Sterling arrived.
She swept into the hall with imperial grace, nodded coolly to her son—and stared straight at Layla.
Her gaze was clinical. Measuring. Beneath it, Layla felt like a fabric swatch being judged under harsh lighting.
When Adam introduced her, Lady Evelyn offered a smile that belonged in a museum of antique weapons.
"So you're the assistant," she said lightly. "Charming scarf."
Layla smiled sweetly. "Thanks. It was my mother's. She wore it the day she told her boss to go shove his aristocratic clipboard."
Yusuf coughed into his wine.
Lady Evelyn blinked once. Then her smile disappeared entirely.
Layla met her gaze head-on.
And knew, without question:
She was going to war with Adam's mother.