Too Late For Her Affection

Ethan Miller, a young, uniquely talented fashion student, tirelessly juggled a demanding barista job with the immense responsibility of supporting his ailing mother, all while secretly sketching couture designs, dreaming of a runway far removed from his cramped Queens apartment and mounting medical bills.

His arduous life took a breathtaking turn when Victoria Devereaux, the formidable CEO of a global fashion empire, seemingly plucked him from obscurity, offering a coveted paid internship that promised entry into the exclusive, glittering world he yearned for.

However, this dazzling opportunity quickly unraveled into a waking nightmare; Ethan soon discovered he was merely a malleable "pet project," ruthlessly exploited in Victoria's twisted power games with her manipulative ex, Marcus Thorne, culminating in public humiliation, the destruction of his treasured family memento, and his chilling imprisonment in a dark storage unit.

How could the woman who showered him with lavish attention and proclaimed him a prodigy so heartlessly discard him, dismissing his talent and dignity in front of the very elite she introduced him to, all while choosing the calculated lies of her toxic ex over his desperate pleas?

Fully comprehending his crushing insignificance as a disposable "toy," Ethan, broken but fiercely determined, ultimately chose self-preservation over lingering hope, making the agonizing decision to board a one-way flight to Paris and painstakingly rebuild a life where his dreams, and his heart, could truly belong to him alone.

The medication for Mom' s breathing wasn' t cheap.

Not with the insurance I got from my part-time barista job.

Every spare dollar, every spare minute, went to her.

It meant less fabric for my designs, fewer hours for my actual coursework at the community college.

My dream of being a fashion designer felt distant, almost impossible, looking at the bills piled on our small kitchen table in our cramped Queens apartment.

I was Ethan Miller, and this was my reality.

I sketched designs on napkins during my lunch breaks, my mind miles away in a world of silk and runways, not coffee spills and impatient customers.

My professor, Ms. Albright, told me I had talent, real talent.

She pushed me to enter the "New Vision" student showcase.

"It's a long shot, Ethan, but your work needs to be seen," she'd said.

The entry fee alone was a week's grocery money.

I sold my grandfather's old watch, the only valuable thing I owned.

It felt like selling a piece of my heart, but Mom needed her new prescription filled.

That was the sacrifice. Her health over my sentimentality.

The showcase was a blur of nerves and hopeful faces.

My collection was small, made from cheap materials I' d repurposed, but the designs were mine, born from sleepless nights.

Then she saw them.

Victoria Devereaux.

CEO of Devereaux Inc., a name that was practically a religion in the fashion world.

She walked right up to my modest display, her presence sucking all the air out of the room.

She was older, maybe late thirties, with an aura of power that was both terrifying and intoxicating.

She picked up a sketch, her eyes sharp.

"This is... innovative," she said, her voice surprisingly soft.

The next day, her assistant called.

Victoria Devereaux wanted to meet me.

In her office, which looked like a museum of modern art, she offered me an internship.

Not just any internship. A paid one, with a salary that made my head spin.

"I see something in you, Ethan," she said, a warm smile on her face that didn't quite reach her eyes.

But I was too overwhelmed to notice.

She started inviting me to dinners, to exclusive parties.

She bought me expensive sketchbooks, fabrics I' d only dreamed of touching.

She listened to my ideas, praised my ambition.

It felt like a dream. She was beautiful, powerful, and she believed in me.

I started to fall for her, hard.

She made me feel seen, valued.

The small apartment, the bills, Mom's worried face – it all started to fade into the background.

This was it, I thought. My life was finally starting.

I was too naive, too grateful to see the strings.

Then Marcus Thorne appeared.

He found me at a cafe Victoria frequented, a place I now felt comfortable in.

He was charming, dressed impeccably, around Victoria's age.

He slid into the seat opposite me, uninvited.

"Ethan Miller, I presume?" he said, his smile a little too wide.

"Victoria talks about you. Her new prodigy."

There was an edge to his voice.

"I'm Marcus Thorne," he continued, extending a hand I reluctantly shook. "An old friend of Victoria's. Very old."

He leaned in, his voice dropping.

"She has a type, you know. Young, talented, a little lost. Easy to mold."

My stomach tightened.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Marcus chuckled. "Don't you? Look, kid, I like you. You've got spirit. So here's some friendly advice."

He pulled out a checkbook.

"Victoria's world... it chews people up. Especially people like us. I can help you. A grant, let's call it. Enough to set you up, get you into a real design school, away from all this."

He wrote a figure that made me gasp.

"Just walk away from Victoria. For your own good," he finished, sliding the check across the table.

I stared at it, then at him. "She cares about me."

Marcus' s smile faded. "Does she? Or does she care about what you represent?"

A few weeks later, the test came. I didn' t know it was a test then.

Marcus had been around more, "reconnecting" with Victoria, he said.

She seemed... different when he was there. More on edge, but also strangely alive.

One evening, my phone buzzed. A text from Victoria.

Marcus. Minor car trouble across town. Silly man. Going to see if he needs help. X V

Almost simultaneously, another text. This one from a number I didn' t recognize, but the message made my blood run cold.

Ethan, this is your neighbor, Mrs. Rodriguez. There' s water pouring from under your apartment door! I think a pipe burst! You need to get here NOW!

My apartment. Mom. Her medication. My sketches.

I called Victoria immediately, my voice frantic.

"Victoria, my apartment, there's a flood, I need to..."

"Ethan?" Her voice was distracted. "Oh, darling, can it wait? I'm just on my way to help Marcus with a flat tire. He' s being dramatic, of course."

"But Victoria, it's an emergency! My mother..."

A pause. I could hear Marcus' s voice in the background, laughing.

"Look, Ethan, I'm sure it's not that bad. Call your superintendent. I' ll check in later, okay? Marcus is waiting."

She hung up.

Just like that.

I raced to my apartment, my heart pounding.

There was no flood. Mrs. Rodriguez looked confused when I banged on her door.

"Flood? No, dear. Everything is fine."

Then I saw him. Marcus Thorne, leaning against his perfectly fine sports car down the street, a smirk on his face.

He strolled over. "She chose, Ethan. See?"

He wasn't done.

"Those grand gestures?" Marcus said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "The pop-up show she funded for you? She did that for me, years ago, when I was starting out."

My mind reeled.

"That trip to Iceland to see the Northern Lights? Our special place. She always wanted to recreate it."

Each word was a blow. I was a ghost, a stand-in.

"She's just reliving her past with you, kid. Or trying to fix it."

The beautiful illusion shattered.

I felt sick. Used.

"I'll leave," I choked out, the words bitter in my mouth. "I'll take your money. I just want out."

Marcus' s eyes gleamed. "Wise decision."

He handed me the check again. This time, I took it.

My hands were shaking.

As I turned to walk away, defeated, Marcus called out.

"Oh, Ethan?"

I stopped, not looking back.

"You might want to get that coffee stain off your portfolio. Presentation is everything in this business, right?"

I looked down. A large, dark stain was spreading across the corner of my best sketchbook, the one Victoria had given me.

He must have spilled his coffee on it when he' d "accidentally" bumped my table as I left the cafe earlier, the one where he offered the buy-off.

It wasn' t an accident. It was a final, petty twist of the knife.

I didn' t say anything. I just walked away, the city lights blurring through my tears.

The money felt dirty in my pocket.

But as I walked, a new resolve hardened within me.

Paris.

Chloe Davis, my childhood friend, was there, studying music.

She' d always believed in me, before Victoria, before New York.

I would go to Paris. I would study design at a real conservatory, on my own terms.

I would become someone Victoria Devereaux couldn' t touch, and Marcus Thorne couldn' t break.

This wasn' t just an escape. It was a reclamation.

Ms. Albright was the first person I told.

"Paris? Ethan, that's wonderful!" she exclaimed, her face lighting up.

"I always knew New York was just a stepping stone for you, though perhaps not in this... dramatic fashion."

She squeezed my arm. "You have the talent. Go show them."

Her belief was a small, warm ember in the cold I felt.

I booked my flight.

The departure date was two weeks away.

It was also the date of Victoria's annual Devereaux Foundation Gala, her biggest night of the year.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

I had been designing a gown for her, a custom piece for the gala. It was meant to be a surprise, a gift.

A testament to... what? My foolishness?

I took the half-finished gown, the yards of midnight blue silk she' d personally sourced for me, and stuffed it into a charity bin down the street.

Let someone else wear my broken dreams.

The days leading up to my departure were a blur.

I packed my few belongings, arranged for Mom to stay with her sister upstate for a while.

The stress, the heartbreak, it all caught up.

A fever took hold, leaving me shivering and weak.

Probably psychosomatic, Ms. Albright had said gently. The body' s way of processing trauma.

I was lying in bed, drenched in a cold sweat, when my phone rang.

It was Victoria' s driver, Michael.

"Mr. Miller? Ms. Devereaux asked me to pick you up. She's at the pre-gala reception at The Plaza."

"I'm sick, Michael," I managed, my voice hoarse. "I can't make it."

"She was very insistent, sir. Said it was important."

I was still her employee, her... whatever I was.

Too weak to argue, I dragged myself out of bed.

At The Plaza, the air buzzed with money and champagne.

I felt out of place in my simple clothes, my face pale.

I was looking for Victoria when I overheard them.

A group of her socialite friends, dripping in jewels.

"Victoria seems quite taken with that young designer, Ethan, doesn't she?" one said, a sly smile on her lips.

"Oh, darling, it's just a phase," another replied, waving a dismissive hand. "A distraction. She always has a pet project. Remember the sculptor last year?"

"He's rather handsome, though. A nice little toy for her."

Their laughter grated on my raw nerves. A toy. A pet project.

Then I saw Victoria. She was across the room, radiant in a gold dress, Marcus Thorne at her side.

She spotted me and beckoned me over.

Her smile was dazzling, but it didn't reach her eyes. Not for me.

"Ethan, darling, you look dreadful," she said, her voice carrying a note of annoyance rather than concern. "I was expecting you hours ago."

"I told Michael I wasn't well."

"Nonsense. A little fresh air will do you good." She looped her arm through mine, pulling me closer.

"Besides," she purred, her eyes flicking towards Marcus, "I need my most talented protégé by my side tonight, don't I?"

A tool. That's what I was. A prop in her game with Marcus.

Marcus watched us, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

He raised his glass in a mock toast. "To Victoria's excellent taste."

The humiliation burned.

Victoria squeezed my arm. "You came just in time. They're about to announce the youth design grant recipient. I pulled a few strings for you."

She was still playing the benefactor, even now.

She turned to me, her eyes searching mine. "You've been so distant lately, Ethan. And what happened to your hand? It looks bruised."

She was referring to a scrape I' d gotten when I stumbled, feverish, earlier in the week.

Her concern felt superficial, a performance for Marcus, perhaps.

I looked from her to Marcus, and the truth hit me with sickening clarity.

I wasn't just a substitute for Marcus.

Tonight, I was a pawn.

A way for Victoria to prove to Marcus that she was desirable, that she could still command loyalty, even from a "pet project" like me.

My illness, my feelings, they meant nothing.