Married to Damiete Torres

"No! No! No!" Hazel reached for her phone lying in the drawer. Her hands trembled as she scrolled through her contacts until she found his number-Mr. Rodgers.

It rang until it dropped. No answer.

"Pick up, please." She wiped away the tears blurring her vision. On the second call, he answered.

"Good morning, sir-"

"Is there a problem, Miss Hazel?" Mr. Rodgers sounded irritated. "Didn't you get the email?"

"I did, sir. But the fashion line-you loved it."

"I did. But I'm no longer interested in funding your project. Good day." The call ended.

His words pierced her heart like a double-edged sword. The phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor. She had hoped to reason with him, but he had already made up his mind.

Hazel dropped to her knees, her body shaking with silent sobs. What was she going to do now? Her lease had expired. The landlord would throw her out any day.

"Mum!" a little girl with chestnut brown pigtails ran into the room. Hazel quickly wiped her tears, but Pearl had already seen them.

"Mum," her daughter called gently, "you're crying."

"Oh," Hazel said, forcing a smile. "Some dust got in my eyes while I was cleaning."

"Sorry, Mummy." Pearl hugged her. "When are we leaving?"

Hazel had completely forgotten about the fashion show she was supposed to attend.

"Come on," she stood up, brushing herself off. "Let's get going."

ROWEN'S FASHION HOUSE

The building buzzed with classical music that echoed through the night. Luxury cars pulled up at the entrance, where valets waited to collect the keys. Paparazzi lined the red carpet, their cameras flashing relentlessly.

Hazel stepped out of the taxi, straightened her dress, and began making her way through the crowd. She almost bumped into a couple who had paused to take pictures.

"I'm so sorr-" Her voice trailed off as soon as her eyes met his.

Anger and bitterness surged through her.

"Hello there," he said, smiling wide enough to show off his pearly whites. "Hazel, right?"

She clenched her fists by her side. This was the last man she wanted to see tonight.

Damiete Torres. The city's most eligible bachelor. Famous for his playboy lifestyle. A new woman on his arm every week.

Tall, short, dark, light, curvy, slim-he didn't discriminate.

"Excuse me." Her voice was tight and cold as she brushed past him into the building.

"How rude!" the woman with him hissed.

"Forget her," Damiete said, wrapping his arm around the lady's waist. He grabbed her behind, making her giggle.

Calm down, Hazel, she told herself. She forced a smile as she stepped into the room where Mr. Alexander, the stylists, and the models were gathered.

"Not too much makeup, mademoiselle," Mr. Alexander said in his thick French accent.

"Mr. Alexander!" Hazel called, walking toward him. "Traffic was hectic. I'm sorry I'm late."

He turned sharply. "What are you doing here?"

She looked around, wondering if someone else was behind her. No one.