Darcy
“It needs a heart.” I state, my voice quiet in the awestruck silence of the workshop. I tap the empty center of the sketch. “A centerpiece. Without it, the design is just a beautiful frame.”
My father leans closer, his expression a mixture of pride and deep concern. “A diamond? A large one, judging by the scale.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Not a diamond. It needs color. Depth. It needs the Star of Elysia.”
The name hangs in the dusty air. My mother gasps softly. My grandfather, who had been looking at my sketch as if it were a holy relic, straightens up, his eyes wide.
“Little star, you can’t be serious,” he says, his voice raspy. “The Star of Elysia is a myth. A legend.”
“It’s a marketing story, Darcy,” my father adds, his practical nature taking over. “A flawless, deep blue sapphire of that size, with a perfect six-rayed star? It’s what the Duvall Group uses to sell their lesser gems. It’s not a real, single stone.”
“It is real,” I insist, my certainty unnerving them. I know it’s real because in my other life, Isabella wore it around her neck on the cover of every magazine. “It was discovered three years ago in their Sri Lankan mine. It’s one hundred and fourteen carats, cornflower blue with a hint of violet. And it sits in a vault in Shane Duvall’s office.”
They stare at me. Not with disbelief, but with a dawning horror.
“How could you possibly know that?” my father asks, his voice barely a whisper.
I can’t tell them. “I’ve done my research.”
“Even if it is real,” my grandfather says, sinking onto his stool, “Shane Duvall would never part with it. It’s the crown jewel of his entire empire. He would sooner sell his own soul.”
“Then I’ll have to make him an offer he can’t refuse,” I say. I pick up the Lumina Prize entry form from the workbench, along with my sketch. The ten thousand dollars from my grandfather’s safe feels like a lead weight in my pocket.
“What are you doing?” my mother asks, her voice trembling.
“I’m entering the competition,” I reply, my hand steady as I slide the sketch into a protective portfolio. “And I’m going to get a meeting with Shane Duvall.”
Two days later, I’m sitting in a leather chair that probably costs more than my family’s entire workshop. The waiting area for Shane Duvall’s office is less a room and more a statement. It’s all glass, steel, and stark white walls, overlooking the city from the seventieth floor. There is no art, except for a single, massive, uncut black diamond displayed on a pedestal like a captured god.
I got the meeting. My submission to the Lumina Prize committee included a sealed, private addendum addressed to Duvall himself. It contained my design for the ‘Star of Elysia’ and a single sentence: *This necklace cannot be made without its heart.*
It was a gamble. A brazen, almost insane move. His assistant called me less than an hour later.
The door to the inner office opens. A woman with a severe haircut and an even more severe expression looks at me. “Mr. Duvall will see you now.”
My heart gives a single, hard thump against my ribs. I smooth my simple black dress and walk into the lion’s den.
His office is even more intimidating than the waiting room. One entire wall is a window showcasing the sprawling city below. The desk is a slab of polished obsidian, completely bare except for a sleek monitor and my portfolio, which lies open to my sketch.
And then there is him.
Shane Duvall stands by the window, his back to me. He is tall, dressed in a charcoal suit so perfectly tailored it seems to have been sculpted onto his frame. When he turns, the full force of his presence hits me like a physical blow. The photo in the magazine did him no justice. His face is all sharp angles and stark beauty, his eyes a dark, penetrating gray that miss nothing.
“Miss Holloway,” he says. His voice is deep, calm, and utterly devoid of warmth. “You have an incredible amount of nerve.”
He doesn’t invite me to sit. He walks over to his desk and taps a long finger on my sketch.
“This design. It’s ambitious.”
“It’s a winning design,” I counter, my voice steady. I will not be intimidated.
“A winning design requires a finished product. A product you cannot create.” His gaze lifts from the paper to my face, and I feel like a specimen under a microscope. “The Star of Elysia is not on the market. It will never be on the market.”
“Everything has a price, Mr. Duvall.”
A flicker of something, maybe amusement, crosses his face. “Does it? Tell me, what price would you put on a stone that is, as you said, the heart of my brand?”
“I’m not here to buy it,” I say, taking a step closer to the desk. “I’m here to propose a partnership. A loan. Let me use the stone for the Lumina Prize. When I win, the value of your legendary sapphire will skyrocket. The publicity alone will be worth millions.”
He circles the desk, moving with a silent, predatory grace. He stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell the clean, sharp scent of his cologne. It’s subtle, expensive, and cold.
“You seem very certain you will win.”
“I am.”
“Confidence is common. Genius is not,” he murmurs, his eyes boring into mine. “You speak of the sapphire in your notes as if you know it intimately. You mention cutting a new facet to better display the asterism, a microscopic inclusion near the girdle that you claim refracts light in a unique way. Information that is not public. How?”
This is the moment. The test.
“I make it my business to know the soul of a gemstone before I design for it,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I studied geological surveys of the mine. I analyzed spectral data from the initial assessments. I built a three-dimensional model based on the rough stone’s dimensions. The inclusion is there. And it’s not a flaw. It’s the key to making the star within the stone burn even brighter.”
He is silent for a long time. His expression is unreadable, but I see a new light in his eyes. A flicker of intense, focused interest.
He turns away, walking back to the window. “The Vance family practically owned you. Your engagement to their son was the talk of the city. Now you walk away from that and appear in my office, asking for my most valuable asset to compete against a designer they are backing. Explain.”
So he knows about Julian and Isabella entering. Of course he does.
“My relationship with the Vance family is over,” I say, my voice clipped. “My work is my own. This competition is not about them. It’s about restoring my family’s name.”
“And destroying your former fiancé in the process is just a bonus?” he asks, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.
“I’m not sentimental about collateral damage, Mr. Duvall.”
The smile fades. He turns back to me, his face all business. “I will not loan you the stone.”
My heart sinks. It was all for nothing.
“And I will not sell it to you,” he continues, his voice leaving no room for argument. “However, your proposal has… merit.”
He lets the word hang in the air. Hope, sharp and painful, pierces through my disappointment.
“I am willing to provide the Star of Elysia for your design. Under one condition.”
“What condition?” I ask, my throat dry.
“This stone is a priceless, irreplaceable asset. I will not have its potential squandered by a workshop that, forgive my frankness, is on the verge of bankruptcy and still uses gas-flame torches.” He picks up a pen from a holder I hadn’t even noticed on his desk. “You will create this piece. But you will do it under my exclusive oversight.”
I stare at him, processing his words.
“What does ‘oversight’ mean?”
“It means you will have access to the Duvall design studio. Our master artisans will be available for consultation. Our technology will be at your disposal.” He sets the pen down. “It means the sapphire does not leave my possession. It will be worked on here, under my supervision. From the first cut to the final polish, I will be involved. The Star of Elysia will remain a Duvall asset until the moment it is presented to the judges.”
It’s a gilded cage. He’s not just giving me the stone; he’s taking control of its creation. He’s binding me to him, to this tower, to his world.
But he is also offering me the world. Resources my grandfather could only dream of. A chance not just to save our workshop, but to catapult it into the future.
I think of Julian’s sneering face. *You have nothing without me.*
I look at the powerful, discerning man in front of me. He is offering me the one thing I need to prove Julian wrong.
“My artistic vision remains mine,” I state, not as a question, but as a term. “Oversight does not mean interference.”
Shane Duvall’s severe expression finally breaks into a genuine, if fleeting, smile. It transforms his face, making him dangerously handsome.
“I have no interest in interfering with genius, Miss Holloway,” he says. “Only in ensuring it is perfectly executed.”
He extends a hand across the vast obsidian desk. “Do we have a deal?”
I meet his grip. His hand is warm, his hold firm and confident. A current, like electricity, passes between us.
“We have a deal, Mr. Duvall.”
I’ve just traded one powerful man for another. But this time, I’m not a prize to be won.
I’m a partner.
