Rebirth: Love me Again - Chapter 307

Chapter 307: An Unexpected Invitation
[EVE]

Hyun swallowed hard, his expression flickering between astonishment and hesitation. “You . . . you’re letting me borrow Miss Hart’s dresses?”

Dean merely nodded. “It’s better than nothing, right? And don’t worry—it’ll stay a secret between us. If this got out, both of our names would be dragged into a mess neither of us want.”

I frowned, something about this making me uneasy. “But . . . is this really okay?” I hesitated, glancing at Hyun. “These aren’t your designs, Hyun. If we use them, wouldn’t that be the same as taking credit for someone else’s work? And—” my voice dropped slightly, “won’t the critics recognize Miss Evangeline Hart’s signature design?”

Dean leaned against the couch, unfazed. “They would. That’s why we’ll make modifications. Change a few details. It’s faster than starting from scratch. And besides—” he smirked slightly, “with my reputation, and my mother’s, no one will dare question it once I step onto that runway.”

“That’s insane,” Fern muttered, rubbing his temples. “Dean, this is a huge risk. If someone finds out and leaks this—your image, your mother, Hyun’s reputation, everything could be ruined.”

Dean didn’t even blink. He simply raised a hand, silencing his manager with an air of finality.

“With my family name,” he said smoothly, “no one would dare leak it.” There was a touch of arrogance in his tone, but the worst part was—he was probably right.

“And besides, we should take risks while we’re young, right?” He grinned, a playful glint in his ash-gray eyes before he winked at me.

I should have been offended by his flirtatious remark. Any other time, from any other man, I might have rolled my eyes or brushed it off. But with him . . . it didn’t feel like flirting.

It felt effortless, teasing—like he was testing the waters, seeing how I’d react. There was no heavy intention behind his words, just an easy charm that made it hard to tell whether he was simply being friendly or if there was something more beneath the surface.

Fern exhaled sharply, clearly losing patience. “The better idea is for them to compensate you for your time, cancel the show, and accept responsibility for this disaster.” He turned to Georgina and Hyun, expression grim. “Frankly, this is their fault.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I’ve already made my decision.” With that, he casually sank into the couch, his eyes locking onto me again. “Now, make the call. Time is of the essence.”

Fern stared at him in sheer disbelief. “This isn’t like you,” he muttered, shaking his head. “You never take risks like this. Not with your name. Not with your mother’s.”

“And this isn’t like you to question my decisions,” Dean countered smoothly. “Now go.”

Fern hesitated for a moment longer before sighing in resignation. With one last exasperated glance at Dean, he stepped aside to make the call.

Meanwhile, Hyun was still frozen in place, his expression unreadable. I wasn’t sure if he was in shock, awe, or sheer disbelief. Honestly, I couldn’t blame him—I wasn’t sure if I believed what was happening either.

Dean tilted his head slightly. “What? You don’t want my mother’s designs?” His lips curled up just a fraction, as if amused by our silence.

“No, it’s just . . .” I trailed off, glancing at Hyun.

Hyun blinked, finally snapping out of his daze. His expression shifted—gone was the overwhelmed, stunned artist, replaced by a serious, thoughtful designer. “As much as I respect and admire Miss Hart’s work,” he said carefully, “I can’t claim her designs as my own. But . . .” His brows furrowed in thought. “If it’s truly alright with her, I can make the necessary adjustments to ensure that they reflect my own style. I swear, I won’t sell them.”

Dean shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Do whatever you want with them. Honestly, they’re just gathering dust in the storehouse. She probably wouldn’t even notice that we used them.”

Hyun inhaled sharply, then stepped forward and bowed deeply. “Then . . . you have my sincerest gratitude. This will save us so much time—and it means we can still make the show.”

“Good.”

Dean sat up straighter, his gaze never once leaving me.

“Miss Eve, right?”

I stiffened slightly. “Ah, yes?”

I had felt his gaze on me this whole time, intense and unreadable. And while it wasn’t uncomfortable, it left me unsettled. There was no malice, no smugness, just . . . curiosity. Like he was trying to place me.

Dean smiled—slowly, easily. The kind of smile that had probably charmed hundreds of women.

“Are you free tonight?” he asked, his tone lighter than before. “Maybe you could show me the best place around for dinner?”

The room fell silent.

Then—

A collective gasp.

I didn’t need to look around to know exactly what they were all thinking.

So that’s why he’s helping us? Did he took an interest in me at first sight?

I had read about his reputation before—Dean Frizkiel, notorious playboy, heartbreaker of the fashion world. But somehow . . . he didn’t look the part. At least, not in this moment.

Still, I owed him for saving our show.

And besides, I was single anyway, and this would probably get my mind off Cole and the problems inside my household.

“Alright,” I said, keeping my voice even.

Dean’s smile widened ever so slightly, something almost pleased flashing in his stormy gray eyes. “Great. I’ll pick you up here around seven?”

“Sure.”

Another gasp.

I ignored them.

But as Dean leaned back, still watching me with that unreadable gaze, I had a sinking feeling that I had just agreed to something much bigger than a simple dinner.

After a short meeting, Dean and Fern left the office, heading back to their hotel.

I did the same, making my way home to prepare for dinner with him.

The dresses wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow morning, which meant I had a rare window of time—one evening where I didn’t have to scramble for solutions or put out fires. No last-minute calls, no back-to-back meetings, no endless stress.

Just a simple dinner.

Maybe it was exactly what I needed—one night to unwind before diving back into the chaos. Because tomorrow, the real work would begin again, and I had no doubt it would be relentless.

At least I would be busy and wouldn’t be able to think about Cole . . . I hope.