Desi Fashion House
"Rubina's Pakistani couture designs are taking London Fashion Week by storm. When handsome investor Asad threatens to fund her rival unless she agrees to a partnership, their business negotiations become deeply personal."
Desi Fashion House
"You want me to do what?"
Rubina Abbasi stared at the man across her studio, certain she'd misheard. Asad Mahmood—venture capitalist, fashion industry savior, and arrogant kamina—had just made her the most insulting offer of her career.
"Partner with me," he repeated. "Fifty-fifty. Your designs, my funding."
"And if I refuse?"
His smile was infuriatingly calm. "Then I invest in Zeenat's line instead. She's been very... accommodating."
Zeenat. Her rival since fashion school. The woman who'd stolen her designs and now—potentially—her future.
"You're blackmailing me."
"I'm presenting options." Asad stood, buttoning his jacket. "You have until Friday."
She met him for dinner. Purely to negotiate.
The negotiation turned into drinks. Drinks turned into confessions. By midnight, Rubina knew she was in trouble.
"I saw your Graduate Fashion Week collection five years ago," Asad admitted. "I've been waiting for you to be ready."
"Ready for what?"
"To let someone help." He leaned forward. "You're brilliant, Rubina. And I want to be part of what you build."
"Why?"
"Because brilliance should be supported, not struggled through alone."
She stared at him—this arrogant, confusing, beautiful man—and made a decision.
"Forty percent. No creative interference."
"Done." He held up his wine. "To partnership."
The partnership worked too well.
Within three months, Rubina's show was the talk of Fashion Week. Asad was everywhere—handling press, solving problems, looking at her in ways that made her forget she was supposed to hate him.
"The fabric supplier issue is resolved," he said, walking into her studio unannounced. Again.
"You could knock."
"I could." He set down her coffee order—perfect, as always. "But then I might miss seeing you in your element."
"Asad..."
"I know. This is complicated. We're partners." He moved closer. "But I've been wanting to say this for weeks. I think about you constantly. As more than a business associate."
"We shouldn't—"
"Probably not."
She kissed him anyway.
They made it to the cutting table, scattering designs everywhere.
Asad unwrapped her like she was precious, every piece of clothing folded carefully aside. When she was bare, he stopped breathing.
"Mashallah," he whispered. "You're art."
"Flattery—"
"Facts." His mouth found her collarbone. "Every fact I state about you is beautiful."
He proved it with his hands, his mouth, his devoted attention. When he finally slid inside her, they both sighed with relief.
"Meri jaan," he breathed, moving within her. "I've wanted this. Wanted you."
"Then show me."
He did—thoroughly, devastatingly—until they were both spent and tangled on her studio floor.
"This changes things," Rubina said afterward.
"It clarifies things." He kissed her temple. "I want you. All of you. Business and pleasure."
"The fashion world will talk."
"Let them watch us build an empire." He turned her face to his. "Say yes. To everything."
She should negotiate. Instead: "Yes."
Rubina Abbasi's label became the biggest British Pakistani fashion export in history. Behind every collection was Asad—her partner in all things.
The wedding dress she wore was, naturally, her own design.