Elias vale

You hated him.

Every meeting, every pitch, every damn design board—he was there. Elias Vale, the golden boy of Carver & Knox. The best designer in the company. Talented, smug, sharp-tongued, and beautiful in a way that made you want to claw your own sketches apart just to avoid comparison.

He always wore black—leather, lace, tailored suits with sharp lines and glinting silver. His long, wavy white hair was almost always tied back loosely, strands falling into his pale face like he’d walked out of a gothic painting. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, it was the kind that dug under your skin and stayed there, irritating. Mocking.

And yet.

You were second. Close—so close. Close enough that the execs had started calling your name in the same breath as his. Close enough that his eyes always sought you out in meetings. Close enough that your rivalry had become legendary in the office.

“You’re not going to beat me with pleats, sweetheart,” he had whispered once, walking past your workstation, eyes scanning your fabric swatches. “Unless the goal is to bore the judges into submission.”

You had smiled without looking up. “Better bored than blinded by your excessive use of patent leather. What are you designing, Elias, a dominatrix dollhouse?”

He had chuckled then—low and amused—and you’d felt it somewhere between your ribs.

—

The company announced a new competition.

Two designers. One collection. Only one would get the international campaign. It was an honor—career-making. And of course, they chose you and him.

When your names were read together, you didn’t look at him. You didn’t have to. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the smirk curling on his lips like he had already won.

You spent the next three months in hell.

You worked late, sometimes so late the janitors left before you. He stayed too. Always across the hall. You caught glimpses of him through the glass—glasses perched low on his nose, pen in his mouth, sketching with manic precision. Sometimes you found little traces he left behind—scraps of fabric, coffee cups, a faint scent of bergamot and ink that lingered in the air.

You fought constantly. Over themes, color palettes, silhouettes.

“You can’t pair velvet with organza in that cut,” you snapped one evening, half-crazed with caffeine and exhaustion.

Elias turned to you slowly, his glasses sliding down his nose, lips quirking. “Can’t I?” he drawled, stepping closer, holding the sketch between two fingers like a challenge. “Or do you just wish you thought of it first?”

You wanted to slap him. You wanted to kiss him. You hated him.

But then came the day you found him asleep on the floor of the fabric room, curled up with his sketchbook clutched to his chest, pale hair a mess, boots still on. You should’ve laughed. You should’ve left. Instead, you covered him with your coat and walked out without a word.

He never said anything about it, but the next morning, there was a fresh cup of coffee on your desk. Black, no sugar, just the way you liked it. No note.

Just him, across the hall, sketching with his headphones in, like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

—

The night before the final presentation, the tension boiled over.

You were arguing again. About a last-minute fabric switch. Elias was furious. “You’re sabotaging this,” he said, jaw tight, voice low. “You’d rather destroy the whole damn collection than let me win.”

You stepped forward, fire in your chest. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who rearranged my lookbook twice to fit his ‘vision.’”

He grabbed your wrist before you could storm out. His grip was firm, but not rough. His eyes were stormy—blue-gray, like clouds before a thunderstorm.

“Why do you fight me like this?” he asked, voice cracking, quiet for once. “Is it because you hate me, or because you can’t stop thinking about me?”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t know what possessed you then—exhaustion, frustration, or the months of unbearable tension between you—but you surged forward and kissed him.

It was desperate, messy, teeth and heat and months of pent-up rage unraveling like thread in a seam. His hands cupped your face, pulling you closer like he’d wanted this just as badly. Like he’d been waiting for you to break first.

When you finally pulled away, he didn’t let go.

“Don’t tell me this changes nothing,” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek. “I couldn’t bear it.”

You didn’t.

—

The next day, the presentation went flawlessly. The collection was hailed as revolutionary—a bold, stunning fusion of your styles, impossible to ignore.

The campaign went to both of you.

At the press conference, a reporter asked what it was like, working so closely with someone you’d always been at odds with.

Elias leaned into the mic and smirked.“It’s like fire and gasoline,” he said, eyes flicking to you. “Terrible idea. Beautiful result.”

You flushed. He winked.

And later, in the quiet of your shared office, he pulled you close again and murmured, “Tell me again how much you hate me.”

You kissed him instead.

You still fought. You still tried to outshine him. But every rivalry from then on came with kisses behind dressing room curtains, whispered critiques that turned into confessions, and hands that found each other beneath tables during meetings.

He was still the best designer in the company.

But you were the only one he let see his unbuttoned cuffs, his undone sketches, his half-formed dreams.

And that made you feel like the true winner after all.