Page 11 of Devil Wears Nada
“True,” he conceded. “And I suppose displaying your work on my perfect form is a service to humanity. They should experience true beauty at least once in their dreary lives.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Your humility continues to astound me.”
“Humility is for lesser beings,” he declared, but he was smiling now—that real smile I’d been seeing more frequently, the one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners and my heart do strange things.
“Come on, Your Highness,” I said, grabbing my keys. “Your chariot awaits.”
Chapter 6
The event was held at a converted warehouse downtown, transformed for the night into a glittering showcase of LA’s fashion elite. As we entered, I felt a momentary pang of inadequacy. My small custom business was nothing compared to the major labels represented here.
“Stop that,” Van murmured in my ear as we handed over our invitations. “Your work is superior to these mass-market charlatans. True artistry over commercial drivel.”
“How did you know what I was thinking?” I asked, surprised.
He gave me a look that was almost fond. “Your face is remarkably expressive. Also, I can sense insecurity—it’s related to vanity, after all.”
“Convenient,” I muttered, but his words had bolstered my confidence.
We moved through the crowd, accepting champagne from circulating waiters. I noticed immediately that Van was drawing attention—heads turning, conversations pausing, eyes following. It wasn’t just his supernatural beauty; it was the way he wore my designs, like they were an extension of his magnificent self.
“Lucas Beaumont!” Mrs. Hemsworth appeared before us, resplendent in the midnight blue gown I’d created for her. “And the divine Van! I’m so pleased you both came.”
“Mrs. Hemsworth,” I greeted her with a kiss on each cheek. “You look stunning.”
“Thanks to you, darling. This gown has already received dozens of compliments.” She turned to Van with undisguised admiration. “And you, my dear, are a vision. That shirt—the way it changes colors when you move—it’s magical.”
“Like its designer,” Van said smoothly, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. “And its wearer, of course.”
Mrs. Hemsworth actually giggled, a sound I’d never heard from the formidable society matron. “You simply must meet everyone. Come, both of you.”
And just like that, we were swept into the center of the event. Mrs. Hemsworth introduced us to everyone who mattered—buyers from luxury department stores, editors from fashion magazines, wealthy potential clients. To my surprise, Van was masterful at these interactions. He flattered without seeming insincere, offered critiques that somehow left people thanking him, and consistently directed the conversation back to my work.
“Lucas doesn’t believe in compromise,” I overheard him telling the fashion director of a major magazine. “While others chase trends, he creates garments that honor the true essence of the wearer. It’s a rare gift.”
By the time we’d made a full circuit of the room, I had three potential new clients and an invitation to show pieces at an upcoming editorial shoot.
“You’re remarkably good at this,” I said quietly as we found a moment alone near the bar.
Van sipped his champagne with elegant nonchalance. “Navigating infernal court politics makes this look like child’s play. Besides, watching humans preen and posture is my literal domain.”
“Well, thank you,” I said sincerely. “You’re helping my business more than I expected.”
Something vulnerable flashed across his face before his usual smirk returned. “Consider it rent payment for occupying your space and shattering your glassware.”
Before I could respond, a tall, impeccably dressed man approached us. He had the sharp, hungry look of someone who knew exactly how much power he wielded.
“Lucas Beaumont,” he said, extending a manicured hand. “I’ve been hearing your name all evening. I’m Julian Vega.”
I froze momentarily. Julian Vega owned Moda Vega, one of the most exclusive boutiques in Beverly Hills. Getting pieces into his store was a dream for designers at my level.
“Mr. Vega,” I managed, shaking his hand. “It’s an honor.”
“And who is your stunning friend?” Julian’s eyes moved to Van with naked appreciation.
“This is Van,” I said, suddenly feeling territorial. “My… colleague.”
“Charmed,” Van purred, but I noticed he didn’t offer his hand as he had to everyone else. “Your suit is Brioni, last season. Excellent craftsmanship, though perhaps a touch conservative for someone in your position.”
