Sweet Flash Marriage with the Restrained Tycoon (Isabelle and Damien) novel Chapter 45

"Work pass?" Damian asked in the fluent, local language, his deep-set eyes following Isabelle until she disappeared around the corner before turning back.

"No entry without a work pass, sir. Guests are only permitted in the main hall and the auditorium." The security guards were polite but firm, offering no exception.

Damian paused. "And this area is for..."

"Designers and models only. Backstage."

Damian asked, "A friend of mine is inside. Could he come out to escort me?"

"I'm sorry, sir. No one enters without a pass."

He nodded, thanked them, and walked away.

Access to the designer and model areas was strictly controlled; each pass was numbered with a photo ID. An ordinary person wouldn't get in.

He took out his phone.

Damian asked, "Where are you?"

Isabelle replied, "I'm in the restroom. Don't wait for me."

Damian lifted his gaze, a slight smirk playing on his lips. He hummed in acknowledgment before ending the call. She is something else.

Isabelle rushed to her seat just five minutes before the show started. The auditorium was nearly full by then. She sat down, slightly breathless, and gave Damian a nod.

Noticing the faint sheen on her forehead, Damian pulled a packet of tissues from his pocket, tore one out, and handed it to her.

"Thanks," Isabelle said.

He didn't respond. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his large arm draping over the back of her seat, his hand coming to rest possessively on her waist.

Isabelle turned her head to look at him. He's being so bold.

No wonder their seats were the most secluded among their group. This had been his plan all along.

His broad frame blocked the view from the others, effectively shielding her within the circle of his arm.

She leaned back, pressing his hand firmly against the chair.

Damian's lips quirked into a smile, and his hand gave her waist a firm, deliberate squeeze.

"Mmph!" A soft sound escaped Isabelle before she could stop it. She immediately covered it with a cough, afraid others might notice. A blush crept up her cheeks, and the sweat she'd just wiped away began to bead again.

"Mr. Cross, mind your manners," she whispered, tilting her head toward him in warning.

He just smiled faintly, said nothing, and kept his arm where it was.

And the "Diana" she mentioned was likely the famous designer of the same name. Damian chuckled inwardly. So I was the one who was slow on the uptake.

And now, with the company at a critical juncture, not having a renowned name could mean being squeezed out by competitors.

Isabelle watched Vivian walk, then her gaze fell on a model further down the runway.

In that instant, her eyes grew distant and unfocused. She pressed her lips tight, and her clear eyes looked faintly hazy.

Damian, meanwhile, was studying the spring collection piece the model wore: a white dress with a modest high neckline. A diagonal teal stripe ran from the shoulder to the waist, with matching teal piping on the cuffs and collar. The sleeves were cinched, featuring a subtle puff at the shoulder.

She finally looked away. "That's Muddlehead's design."

"I wonder if she's here today," Damian said, his eyes still on the show. He leaned in close to hear her, their proximity making them look like a couple sharing a secret.

Isabelle replied, "She should be. It's her first time being invited to Fashion Week. It's important to her."

A small smile touched Isabelle's lips, but her eyes inadvertently met those striking eyes across the aisle again. The gaze was gentle, yet cold. A wave of unease, a chill, crept up her spine.

"Mr. Cross, could you move your hand? I can't sit comfortably like this," Isabelle said, not wanting to be the target of that devouring stare any longer.

"No," he replied, stubborn, as if putting on a show for someone, with her as the unwilling prop.

The show lasted about an hour, a breathtaking display that left the audience in awe of the designs and craftsmanship.