Chapter Text
POV: Claire Beauchamp
I wasn’t just driving; I was on a mission. Los Angeles blurred past me in a smear of concrete and palm trees as I threaded through traffic. If the speeding tickets I’m certain I racked up in the last ten minutes arrived all at once, I’d probably have to sell a kidney, but I didn’t care. I was late. And Claire Beauchamp did not arrive late to her destination.
I pulled into the valet at Fraser & Associates with a screech of brakes that made the attendant’s eyes pop. I stepped out of the car as if I were dismounting a war chariot. Modesty aside, I looked flawless.
I had spent the last two hours turning my face into a masterpiece of precise contouring and my skin into something resembling expensive porcelain. My hair—a cascade of chestnut waves that defied the laws of physics and humidity—didn't have a single strand out of place. The navy silk dress hugged my curves with an authority that said: I belong here. I wasn’t just a candidate; I was a damn vision.
— Breathe, Beauchamp. You’re the prize here. — I checked my reflection in the smoked glass of the entrance. The lipstick was perfect. The gaze, sharp.
I crossed through the automatic doors, and the air conditioning greeted me like a comforting kiss. The lobby was a cathedral of marble and arrogance. Women with endless legs paraded through as if the floor were a permanent runway, but for once, I didn’t feel out of place. I felt like I belonged, though I couldn’t say why. I had the look, I had the portfolio, and I had the controlled desperation of someone who knew this was her last big play.
Ned Gowan, my agent, had been emphatic: “Jamie Fraser doesn’t just want a pretty face, Claire. He wants someone who commands the room.”
— I’m going to command the whole building — I muttered to myself, tightening my grip on my leather bag to hide the anxiety.
I was ten meters from the elevator. Ten meters away from changing my story. My heels clicked against the marble like a countdown to success. The world was exactly where I wanted it: in the palm of my hand.
Splash.
The impact was an intrusion. The cold liquid hit my chest with the precision of a mercy kill. The thermal shock stole my breath for a microsecond, while the sweet, pungent aroma of a vintage champagne invaded my senses.
I didn’t need to look down to know the disaster was total. I felt the silk cling to my skin, instantly becoming transparent and outlining my lace bra with humiliating clarity. My makeup was now at risk of being smeared by my own sheer rage.
The fury that surged up my throat was volcanic. The planning, the reckless driving, the aesthetic perfection... all trashed because of a pair of luxury shoes that didn't know where they were going.
— You have got to be kidding me! — The sentence came out through gritted teeth, laced with enough venom to take down an army.
I didn’t look at his face immediately. My eyes focused first on the impeccable charcoal-grey suit and the hand holding what remained of a crystal flute. It was a large hand, with prominent veins and a watch that likely cost more than my car.
— I’m so sorry, I was distracted by a message and... — His voice was deep, with an accent I pegged as Scottish, which, on any other occasion, would have made me melt. But today? Today I wanted blood.
I looked up slowly, almost in disbelief. He was tall. Irritatingly tall. His auburn hair was perfectly messy, and his blue eyes held a spark of surprise that quickly shifted into a contained amusement that made me want to slap him.
— "Distracted"? — I snapped, stepping into his personal space, ignoring the scent of woody cologne and power emanating from him. — Do you have any idea what you just did? It took me hours to get ready for the most important meeting of my life, and you, with your bored-playboy negligence, just destroyed everything in a second!
— Miss, accidents happen... — he tried to say, maintaining an insulting level of calm.
— Accidents my foot! — I pointed to my soaked chest, my voice rising. — This is basic incompetence. You and your bubble of privilege think you can just walk over people and fix everything with a smile and a "sorry"?
I was shaking with rage. Ned would probably have a heart attack if he saw this performance, but I couldn't stop. I had come to be noticed, and if I was going down, I was taking this petulant redhead with me.
— You are a complete idiot — I hissed, staring fixedly into those blue eyes that looked like they couldn't believe someone was talking to him like that. — I hope that sip of champagne was worth it, because it just cost me my future.
POV: Jamie Fraser
The lobby of Fraser & Associates was bathed in that polished morning hum. I was walking toward the elevators, checking a final message about the delay of one of the new talents I was supposed to evaluate shortly. I was distracted, I’ll admit. The weight of the agency and Laoghaire’s constant expectations regarding our future seemed to steal my attention from the present.
The impact was sudden. I felt the crystal glass tilt, and before I could react, the golden liquid was already mapping out a disaster on the impeccable fabric of the woman in front of me.
— Mo chreach... — the Gaelic murmur escaped before I could stop it. — I am so sorry, Miss. I was completely distracted. Please, forgive me.
I expected a startle, perhaps a timid lament. What I got was a volcano.
— You have got to be kidding me! — Her voice cut through the air like a blade.
I stood there, frozen. Before me was a woman who looked like she’d stepped out of a Botticelli dream—if Botticelli painted furious goddesses. She was flawless; the hair, the makeup, the posture... or at least she had been, until my champagne turned the bodice of her dress into something transparent and ruined.
She stepped forward. I was much taller, but the way she squared up to me made it feel like we were on the same level; she was swallowing me whole with her words.
— Do you have any idea what you’ve done? I have the meeting of my life in minutes and now I look like a drunken extra! You are a complete idiot!
My security detail tensed, but I raised a hand, signaling for calm. I wasn't angry. In truth, I was deeply embarrassed. She was right. I had been careless, and by the fire in her eyes, I had just destroyed something she valued immensely.
— You are absolutely right, Miss — I replied, keeping my voice steady, the tone of someone who wanted to fix the problem. — I was a careless idiot. I offer my sincerest apologies. I know words don’t clean silk, so please, let me make this right.
She scoffed, incredulous, trying to cover her chest with her small clutch.
— Make it right? What, are you going to give me a hair dryer and a miracle?
— No — I gave a small smile, admiring her grit. No one spoke to me like this in this building, and there was something refreshing about her raw honesty. — But there’s a haute couture boutique in the annex. If you give me ten minutes, I can guarantee you’ll walk into your meeting in a dress even better than that one.
I signaled one of my assistants with a quick gesture and stepped slightly away from her.
— Let them know upstairs that my meeting will be delayed by thirty minutes. Tell Ned and the committee to wait. I have an urgent matter to attend to down here.
I turned my attention back to her.
— It’s the least I can do, Miss...?
— Beauchamp — she hissed, but I saw pragmatism warring with pride in her eyes. She checked her watch, then the humiliating stain. — I don’t really have a choice, do I?
— I’m afraid not. But I promise to be quick.
The walk between the lobby and the Le Verre boutique lasted only a few minutes, but for me, it was the most intense introduction to the concept of "unfiltered sincerity" I’d ever had. Claire walked a step ahead, her stiletto heels pounding the pavement as if she were marching to war. She wasn't just complaining; she was analyzing the situation out loud, as if I were merely an assistant and not the man who owned half the block.
Those minutes with her were, without a doubt, the loudest of my week. Claire Beauchamp narrated the social apocalypse I had caused with the precision of a sports commentator. She spoke with an autonomy I found hilarious; I couldn't remember the last time I’d laughed so easily.
— ... and the worst part isn't even the champagne, you know? — She gestured, without turning around. — The worst part is the smell! I’m going to walk into that room smelling like an heiress who had a relapse at ten in the morning. They’re going to think I’m a functional alcoholic! "Oh, look at Ms. Beauchamp, she has a lovely face, shame she drinks for breakfast." That’s what they’ll think!
I tried to keep a straight face, but a short laugh escaped my nose. I had never met anyone who processed panic through such... descriptive monologues. Her manner was articulate, picturesque; it was impossible not to be charmed.
— I give you my word that no one at the agency will make such a judgment, Ms. Beauchamp — I said, opening the door to Le Verre. — And if they do, I’ll personally see to it that they change their minds.
She entered the shop like a hurricane of blue silk and indignation. When the saleswoman approached with that clinical gaze, Claire was just... Claire.
— Good morning — she told the woman, with a smile that was half charm and half desperation. — This gentleman, who is an impeccable cavalier but clearly has no sense of personal space, christened my dress with champagne. I need something urgent for a meeting. Something that says I’m a brilliant professional and that I definitely did not drink before ten o'clock.
I coughed, hiding a smile. I, who commanded the fashion market in LA, had just been demoted to a "giant with no sense of space."
— Attend to the lady with maximum priority — I instructed the saleswoman, who turned pale upon recognizing me. — Put everything on my personal account.
Claire turned to me, her eyes now shimmering with a mix of hesitation and stubbornness.
— I don’t like being a burden... But since it was your fault and I am minutes away from a nervous breakdown, I will accept your reparations. Just, please, don’t look at me with that face, like you’re watching a comedy movie.
— It’s not a comedy, Ms. Beauchamp — I replied, leaning against the counter and crossing my arms, fascinated by the way she filled the room. — It’s just the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in a very long time.
POV: Claire Beauchamp
"Mr. Enigmatic Smirk"—as I dubbed him mentally—stood in the waiting area as if he had all the time in the world. He was absurdly calm, which irritated me and, at the same time, gave me a sense of security I hated to admit.
— What do you think of this one, Miss? — the saleswoman offered a sandy beige model.
— Too pale — I murmured, running my fingers over the fabrics. I didn't want to pick the most expensive one just out of spite; I wanted the dress that would get me the job. But, as fate would have it, the ideal model seemed to be an emerald-green silk that cost more than my car.
I looked at him through the mirror. He was watching me with silent amusement, as if deciphering a riddle.
— You aren't going to protest? — I asked, holding the hanger. — This one must have a prohibitive price tag.
— Green brings out your skin — he replied, with that deep voice that seemed to vibrate in my chest. — And I’d rather pay for an entire wardrobe than continue being the villain of your story.
I felt my face heat up.
— Fair enough — I muttered, blushing. — I’ll try it on. Don’t you dare leave. If you run off and leave me with the bill, I swear I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth.
I stepped into the fitting room and the panic returned. My heart hammered against my ribs. He was too kind, too handsome, and he had an accent that made my legs feel like jelly. I tugged at the zipper of the blue dress, but the silk, now dry and sticky from the sugar in the champagne, jammed halfway down my back.
— No... please, not now — I groaned, yanking the fastener.
Snap.
The sound of snapping metal and tearing fabric echoed in the cubicle. The zipper didn't just jam; it exploded. I was trapped, the dress gapped open to my waist and my arms contorted as if I were trying to perform an exorcism on myself.
— Damn it! What a hellish day! — I shouted, forgetting he was only inches away.
— Ms. Beauchamp? Is everything alright? — his voice sounded right behind the curtain, laced with genuine concern.
— Everything is a disaster! — I replied, struggling with the cloth. — The zipper broke, I’m trapped in this silk deathtrap, and the saleswoman vanished! I’m going to miss the meeting and... I don't even know what else to say!
I heard a low laugh, a rich and comforting sound.
— Don’t panic. Do you want me to call for help?
— There’s no one here! — I was sweating. I tried to twist my body to reach the damage, but my feet got tangled in the hem of the dress. In a move of pure bad luck, I lost my balance. My hand reached for support on the only solid thing I could find: the heavy velvet curtain.
Except the curtain wasn't a wall. I went flying out of the fitting room.
The impact of my knees on the luxury carpet was followed by the sound of my own startled scream. The blue dress, completely open now, slipped off my shoulders as if it had a life of its own, pooling around my ankles.
There I was. In the middle of probably the most expensive boutique in Los Angeles, in black lace lingerie, disheveled, and on my knees before the cause of my misfortune. The silence that followed was so dense I could hear the blood thumping in my temples.
Jamie froze. The glass of water he was holding nearly slipped from his fingers. His blue eyes widened, traveling over the curve of my shoulders and the line of my waist before he, in a reflex of pure gallantry, averted his gaze to the chandelier on the ceiling. His ears turned redder than his hair.
— Merciful heavens... — he whispered, his voice suddenly husky.
— DON'T LOOK! — I screamed, my voice cracking in a mix of hysterical laughter and absolute panic, trying to pull the dress back up. — Turn around, you ginger lamp post! Right now, or I swear I’ll sue you for visual harassment!
I wanted to die. I wanted the marble floor to open up and swallow me. Jamie spun around so fast he nearly tripped over the counter, his hand covering his eyes.
— I saw nothing! — he lied blatantly, and I could hear the smile—and the shock—in his voice. — Or almost nothing. Please, Ms. Beauchamp... cover yourself before the saleswoman returns and calls the police on both of us.
I was paralyzed. My knees stung from the impact, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the humiliation of being there, on the floor, in my underwear, with my dress ruined around my feet like a puddle of blue silk. The embarrassment of the boutique seemed to scream.
— Please, tell me you’re blind — I muttered as I scrambled up from the floor.
Jamie remained with his back turned, his hands flat on the glass counter, his broad shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths.
— Ms. Beauchamp? — his voice sounded even huskier than before, echoing through the empty space. — Can I turn around yet, or are you still...?
— Don’t you dare! — I yelled, tripping over my own legs as I stood. — If you rotate a single inch, I swear I’ll shove this stiletto into your eye!
I heard a low, vibrant laugh that made me want to die and then come back to life just to die all over again.
— Fine, fine — he said, with a calmness that deeply irritated me. — But did you hurt yourself? That fall sounded... considerable. Do you need help in there?
— I don’t need help! I need a black hole to transport me to another dimension! — I finally managed to clutch the dress against my chest and, with a leap worthy of a desperate ninja, I threw myself into the adjacent fitting room, pulling the curtain shut so hard the clatter of the metal rings sounded like a crash.
I leaned my back against the cold wall, breathing as if I’d run a marathon. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel the pulse in my neck. I was dying of shame.
— Damn it, Claire. Congratulations. You didn’t just curse the man out, you gave him a private show — I hissed at my reflection. My face was so red my lipstick looked pale by comparison.
I grabbed the emerald-green dress. My hands were shaking so much it took me twice as long to put it on. When I finally zipped it up—with total caution this time—and looked in the mirror, the shock was immediate. The green emphasized the blue of my eyes and gave my skin a distinct glow. I looked powerful. A pity that, on the inside, I felt like a train wreck.
I stepped out of the fitting room, trying to reclaim what remained of my dignity. Jamie was exactly where I’d left him, but now he was looking out at the street through the window. When he heard my footsteps, he turned slowly.
His gaze changed instantly. The amusement in his blue eyes gave way to something deeper, a flash of admiration he couldn’t hide.
— The green... — he began, his voice trailing off for a second. — It was an exceptional choice.
— Let’s just get this over with — I cut him off, brushing past him like a hurricane, trying to ignore the fact that my body was still reacting to his presence. — I have a career to save and you have an expensive suit to parade around.
POV: Jamie Fraser
We walked back to Fraser & Associates in an electric silence. Claire marched as if she were headed to a trial, but the way she gripped her bag gave away her nerves. I wanted to say something, wanted to comfort her, but I knew if I opened my mouth, she’d likely hit me. And honestly? I wouldn't blame her.
We took the private elevator. She stared fixedly at the LED panel, avoiding my reflection in the mirror at all costs.
When the doors opened on the executive floor, the atmosphere was one of silent luxury. Ned Gowan was standing by the oak reception desk, checking his watch every five seconds. When he saw us stepping out of the elevator together, the watch nearly fell from his hand.
— Claire? — Ned choked out, his eyes bulging behind his glasses. — What... why are you with Mr. Fraser? And why are you wearing green?
Claire froze. Her jaw dropped slightly.
— Mr. who? — she whispered, her voice suddenly weak.
— Jamie Fraser, Claire! — Ned exclaimed, stepping forward with hurried strides, his voice heavy with a terrified reverence. — The owner of the agency.
I saw the exact moment the penny dropped. The blood drained from her face, leaving her so pale that the emerald dress seemed to glow even brighter. She turned toward me slowly, as if she were facing an executioner.
— You... — she started, her finger pointing at my chest, her voice trembling. — You are Jamie Fraser? The Jamie Fraser?
— At your service — I replied, giving a half-smile and a slight tilt of my head. — Though, judging by your expression, I think you’d prefer if I were just the "champagne idiot."
Claire looked like she was on the verge of a collapse. She looked at Ned, then back at me, and I’m certain the image of her falling in her lingerie played in her head like a horror movie. She was in shock, she was nervous, but then, in a move that left me speechless, she took a deep breath and extended her hand toward me.
Her hand was visibly shaking, but her gaze... ah, her gaze still had that fire that had captivated me in the lobby.
— Mr. Fraser — she said, forcing a level of formality that was borderline heroic given the circumstances. — I am Claire Beauchamp. It is... a pleasure to formally meet you.
I looked at her hand and then into her eyes. She was audacious. Ruined, embarrassed, but audacious. I folded my hand over hers, feeling the chill of her skin against my warmth. I didn’t let go immediately.
— The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Beauchamp — I said, lowering my voice so only she could hear. — I rarely receive introductions quite so... memorable. — I smiled.
I released her hand and gestured toward the conference room with a broad sweep.
— Please, come in. Ned, I believe Ms. Beauchamp and I have much to discuss regarding her "vision" for this agency.
Claire walked into the room with her back straight, but I knew that, on the inside, she was screaming. I sat at the head of the table, watching her as she settled in. The meeting that would change our lives had just begun, and I had never been more interested in a portfolio in my life.