Chapter 3

Cassandra’s POV

Four years later, the rain sounded different to me.

It was softer and friendlier somehow. It tapped against the window of my small apartment like it was checking in.

The city wasn’t the kind that glittered, there were no high towers, no noise that swallowed thought. Just the hum of buses, the smell of fresh bread from the bakery below, and the quiet rhythm of people making an honest living.

My sewing machine filled most of the room. The table beside it was stacked with fabric rolls and sketches stained by different kinds of food items. This place wasn’t much. It was a single room, a narrow kitchen, and a bathroom with a shower that sighed every time I turned it on, but it was mine. Everything inside it had been paid for with my hands.

I worked late most nights, stitching gowns for neighborhood weddings, adjusting school uniforms, and fixing torn sleeves. I’d learned to measure worth in stitches instead of money.

Behind me, loud —very very loud— laughter erupted.

“Simon, that’s my pencil!” Simone’s small voice carried its usual indignation.

“It’s everyone’s pencil!” Simon shot back, already ducking as she flung a cushion at him.

I didn’t turn. I was used to it. “No flying objects when I’m sewing, you two.”

Silence. Then a muffled giggle.

The twins had just turned four, though they acted twice that age. Simon was all restless hands and ideas. Simone was sharp-eyed and deliberate. They spent hours beside me while I worked, sketching tiny outfits for their dolls. Those dolls wore better clothes than even I did.

I’d once caught Simon tracing patterns from one of my old fashion textbooks, a book he couldn’t even read yet.

Sometimes, when I watched them work together, his messy strokes and her careful lines, I saw flashes of something familiar.

It was Austin’s talent, yes.

But it was better.

Purer.

“Mommy,” Simone said one evening, sliding her sketchpad toward me. “If this dress was real, what fagric would you use?”

I leaned closer. It was stunning, it was obviously a child’s drawing, but the lines were meticulous. The cut, and the detail were things no four-year-old should understand. “It’s fabric with a b, Simone. I’d use maybe silk,” I said softly. “Or light tulle.”

Simon grinned. “I’d use feathers!”

“Of course you would.” I smiled. “But feathers don’t wash well baby.”

They both laughed, but I could see the challenging glint in Simone’s eyes. I knew I was going to have some wet feathers on my hands pretty soon, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Those nights were my favorite. The world outside could forget me, but inside this little room, I had enough.

I didn’t mind living with them like this forever.

Except, Simon had plans.

I didn’t know until weeks later that he’d borrowed my old tablet one night while I was asleep. With Simone’s help, he’d scanned their sketches and uploaded them to a children’s design contest online.

He filled out the forms using a fake name, S.S. Lang. I didn’t find out until the morning he shoved the email confirmation in my face.

What kind of kids had I given birth to? They were just four but they acted like teenagers and were as smart as some adults. Where had they gotten the brains from? It obviously couldn’t have been from Austin.

“Simon!” I’d scolded. “You can’t just-”

But he looked so proud, I couldn’t stay angry. I figured it would go nowhere. Just another little dream. At least they had started putting themselves out there… at four years old.

If in the future, they wanted to work at a company that needed 20 years of experience at 22, then my children would be overqualified for the job.

I had shrugged and gone to cook, expecting that to be the end of it.

The shocking news came on a quiet Sunday. I was hemming a client’s dress when the TV in the corner blared with excitement. “And now, the winners of the Global Young Designers Challenge!”

I wasn’t really listening until I heard it: “-and the first prize goes to S.S. Lang, for the breathtaking Sky Threads collection!”

I froze.

The screen filled with miniature couture, gowns so intricate and alive that I forgot to breathe. Each design shimmered like it had been touched by light itself. The dress Simone had asked my opinion of was also there in silky fabric with feathers at the shoulders. And there, in the corner, was the signature, S.S. Lang.

My children’s alias.

The announcer went on. “The winner will receive a mentorship and design partnership with billionaire fashion magnate Gideon Storm and a feature in the world’s largest fashion show next spring.”

The applause on-screen roared. My living room went silent.

Simon peeked from behind the couch, biting his lip. Simone clutched the hem of her nightdress, eyes wide.

“Mommy,” she whispered. “Did… did we win?”

My throat tightened. I couldn’t speak for a moment.

Then I laughed, a sound so full of disbelief and pride it startled all three of us. I pulled them close, pressing my face into their hair. “You two–” I shook my head. “You two just changed everything.”

The news anchor was still talking, showing close-ups of their designs, announcing how the mysterious S.S. Lang had redefined “child prodigy.”

And then I saw a photo montage. One of the dresses looked hauntingly familiar. The stitching pattern and the color palette. They’d unknowingly used one of my old sketches as a base.

Somewhere inside me, the old fire I had for design sparked again. The one I thought had died in that hotel suite.

By the next morning, my inbox was flooded. Calls from unknown numbers. Messages from journalists wanting to interview the “parents of S.S. Lang.”

I didn’t answer any of them. I just sat at the table, watching my children draw new designs with cereal crumbs on their fingers, and realized that the world that had destroyed me once was about to open its doors again.

Then came a knock.

I opened the door to find a woman in a sleek black suit, holding a folder and an iPad. She had the crisp confidence of someone who didn’t waste words.

“Miss Cassandra Langston?” she asked.

My heart skipped.

She smiled slightly. “Mr. Storm would like to meet the mother of the Genius Twins.”

And just like that, the quiet life I’d built began to tremble, not from fear this time, but from possibility.