Stealing the Heart of Mr. Steele novel Chapter 110

Chapter 110 

Chapter 110 

[Cordelia] 

Atlas‘ eyes are a clear, ice blue when he is frightened. And in this moment, he looks terrified. 

We sit here, looking at one another, searching each other’s eyes for the answers to the questions: 

Can we make it work? 

Is this worth saving? 

Is there enough room in my heart to forgive him? 

Can I believe in us enough to try and make this work? 

Neither of us says anything. We just watch each other, both of us afraid to make the first move. 

“Atlas, 1…” 

“We’ve arrived, Mr. Steele,” the driver announces, pulling into a parking spot at Steele Industries. 

“Come,” he opens the door, his eyes lit with childlike inner joy. “I need to show you this.” 

Atlas pulls me along through the empty office building, through security, and into the elevator. When we get off on the production floor I see it is around 9 pm, about 3 hours past when most of our sewing staff would have been sent home for the day. 

When we enter the floor, several seamstresses are working fervently on their industrial sewing machines, their hands moving rapidly as they re–attach trim and zippers. About half of the garments have been fixed and were waiting and ready to be packaged in the morning. 

Atlas bends down to ask one of the seamstresses how much longer they were planning to stay. “Tres horas,” she replied as she continued to work. 

I gasp. “That’ll be midnight.” 

I 

“Three more hours in 

“These ten women feel like they owe us this,” Atlas insists. “They accepted an unsanctioned bonus to make the changes to your garments, and when they discovered the truth begged to make it up to you by doing this work,” He sits down next to one of them at an empty station. “Don’t worry, I’ll compensate them for this time. I’m not cruel.” 

Atlas lifts the foot of the machine and aligns the neckline of one of the jackets with the needle. With the trim in hand, he begins sewing. He’s not quite as fast as the ladies, but he is pretty close, and his stitching accuracy just as true. 

“When did you learn how to sew?” I ask as I marvel at his craftsmanship. 

“My grandfather taught me,” he smirked. “He was an old garmento in the fashion district during his youth. Your family, your great–grandfather, hired him when he was 13. His family was starving and they sent him to the city to find work. He discovered he loved making things with his hands and would join the sewists often when he was still alive. When he took me in, he taught me how to sew as well.” 

“I guess you could say there would be no Steele Industries without Greyson Mills,” he laughs. “If your Great -grandfather hadn’t taken my Grandpa Jasper in and taught him the ways of this business, I wouldn’t be 

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Chapter 110 

here right now.” he smiles. “With you. I think it is part of why my Grandfather had hoped our families would come together. He was trying to repay a debt.” 

came 

+25 BONUS 

I had never heard this story. I always assumed the Steele family came from old money. I don’t think that even Angelica knows this story. 

As I watch his hands work, something else occurs to me. The scrapes on his hands, the grease stains, the exhaustion in his eyes, and the shaking of his hands. This is how he had spent his afternoon–sitting next to these men and women working hard at repairing the damage caused by Angelica’s petty actions. 

Stunned into silence by his nobility, I sit down next to him and pick up a garment. Following his lead, I begin repairing the garments. I went to design school and I sew my production samples. but I am nowhere near as good on a machine as a sewing professional. Even Atlas is much faster. But none of that matters as we sit together with the sewists and work side by side for our common goal. 

It feels good to be doing something real. 

Together we work on repairing the garments until my hands grow tired and my arms start to droop. After my third mistake ends with a ruined garment, the sewists beg us to stop. 

“No mas, Mr. and Mrs., or we will have to do it all over,” she begs us with her hands clasped, “You are a big help. You saved us at least una hora. But please, por favor, let us finish.” 

“Si, si,” Atlas nods and takes my hand. “Muchas Gracias,” he thanks them as we leave the floor. They are all smiles as they wave after us, most likely grateful that we are leaving them alone to their work. 

When the doors to the elevator close, Atlas reaches over and pushes the up button. “I want to show you something else.” 

Taking it up to the top, we climb a final flight of stairs and step outside onto the rooftop. Holding me close, Atlas guides my sight with his arm as he points to a digital billboard near the financial district. 

“Ah, there it is,” I can feel his smile against my hair as he whispers. “Watch that sign.” 

After a few seconds of waiting, I see an elegant model standing in one of my designs. “Cordelia Louise,” it reads. “Next Exit, Beverly Hills Drive.”