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Chapter 12: Excuse
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2025-12-22 16:33:00
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Runaway Heiress: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Bride Chapter 34: International Attention
The atelier, which twenty-four hours ago had been a chaos of adrenaline and burnt hair, was now devastatingly silent. The sun, which Aurora hadn't seen in three days, streamed in, illuminating the aftermath. The empty racks. The scattered pins. The single, midnight-blue dress that had been left behind. And on the oak cutting table, a battlefield of its own: a mountain of newspapers. Aurora, "Ariane," had not slept. She stood in the center of the room, in her now-permanent uniform of a black tunic and trousers, her body a hollowed-out, vibrating shell. She was clutching Ethan, who was blessedly, mercifully asleep, his small, warm body a living anchor in her arms. The roar of the applause from last night was gone, but a new, louder, and far more terrifying roar had replaced it: the sound of the world’s press. "You are no longer a ghost, my child," Elias said, his voice a low, dry rasp. He was in his chair by the window, a cup of coffee in his hand, his phone—which had not stopped
Runaway Heiress: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Bride Chapter 33: The Runway
The air backstage was a toxic, electric fog. It was a potent, gagging mixture of burnt hair, atomized French hairspray, body heat, and a collective, animalistic fear that was so strong it left a metallic tang on Aurora’s tongue. This was not a debut. It was an execution. Aurora, now the ghost of "Ariane Rousseau," was hidden. She had pressed herself into the darkest, coldest corner of the narrow, white-walled corridor, a shadow among the rolling racks of her own life's work. The hôtel particulier Elias had secured was a masterpiece of crumbling, Gilded Age elegance, but backstage, it was a suffocating, clinical madhouse. Models, who looked like beautiful, angry, half-starved birds, stalked past, their faces painted in severe, architectural makeup. Dressers, all in black, sprinted, their mouths full of pins, their hands shaking. "Où est la blanche?" a voice shrieked from the chaos. Where is the white one? "Merde, she’s smoking, stop her!" "Cinq minutes!" It was the machine. It
Runaway Heiress: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Bride Chapter 32: The Collection
The invitation was a declaration of war. And the atelier was her armory. The decision, once made, had been a conflagration. The ice of her fear had not melted; it had flash-frozen, becoming a new, harder, sharper substance. Ambition. The two years of hiding were over. The next three months were a blur of focused, feverish, 18-hour days. The Maison AVA, the dusty, echoing storefront, was transformed. The front windows were blacked out with heavy paper, turning the sunlit room into a secret, nocturnal cavern, lit only by the harsh, brilliant, white-blue glare of design lamps. Elias was her shield. He was the public face, the "President," a role he played with a new, invigorated theatricality. He handled the logistics of the Fédération. He booked the venue, a small, atmospheric hôtel particulier that would cost a fortune. He hired the models, the lighting, the press, all under his own legendary, resurrected name. He handled the world, so that she, the ghost, could handle the work.
Runaway Heiress: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Bride Chapter 31: Paris Fashion Week Invitation
The Maison AVA was no longer a secret. It was a pilgrimage. The small, dusty storefront on the quiet, stone-paved street in the Marais was now the most exclusive, impossible-to-enter atelier in Paris. Two years had passed since Aurora had signed the lease, the iron keys placed in her son's tiny, sleeping fist. Two years of relentless, agonizing, triumphant work. The "Phoenix Rising" collection had sold, piece by piece, for astronomical sums to women who, as Elias had predicted, valued secrecy and exclusivity above all. Celine D'Albret had become their high priestess, wearing AVA to every major event, refusing to name the designer, and driving the fashion elite into a frenzy. The myth of "Ariane Rousseau" was complete. She was the ghost of Paris, a designer who existed only in the flawless, architectural seams of her work. And Aurora... Aurora was a ghost in her own machine. Her life was a rhythm, a monastic, disciplined existence. Wake. Ethan. Design. Ethan. Sew. Ethan.
Runaway Heiress: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Bride Chapter 30: Ethan's First Steps
The Maison AVA, the one Elias had leased on the quiet, stone-paved street, was no longer an empty, echoing room of potential.It was a factory.And it was, Aurora had begun to fear, a beautiful, light-filled, thriving prison of her own making.Three months had passed since she had sold her first piece to Celine D'Albret. Three months since the "Phoenix Rising" collection had, with Elias's masterful, invisible guidance, become the quiet, explosive secret of the Paris fashion elite.The myth of "Ariane Rousseau," the mysterious, unseen protégée of the legendary Elias Ward, was a wildfire.Celine's boutique had sold out. Orders had come from Milan, then London, then New York. New York. That one had sent a jolt of pure, cold terror through her, a fear that she was building a beacon, not a fortress, and that he would see it.But Elias had handled it. "They are not buying 'Aurora Vale'," he’d assured her, his voice firm. "They are buying AVA. They are buying a ghost. You are safe."So she w
Runaway Heiress: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Bride Chapter 29: The Price of Success
Her new life was measured in two sounds: the high, frantic whir of the Bernina sewing machine, and the soft, rhythmic breathing of her son.Nine months had passed since Elias had carried her, a broken, triumphant, terrified mother, from the hospital. Nine months since he had installed her in the new apartment in his building.The apartment was no longer a sanctuary. It was a factory.The living room, with its grand, light-filled windows, was a cocoon of creation and chaos. Bolts of wool and silk were stacked to the ceiling. A massive oak cutting table dominated the center, permanently dusted in chalk. Three dress forms, her silent, headless assistants, stood guard by the cold, marble fireplace.And in the corner, a fortress of his own, was Ethan.His world was a small, blanket-padded playpen, surrounded by a mountain of sketches, fabric swatches, and the silent, ever-present hum of his mother's work.Aurora, now "Ariane Rousseau" to the world, was a ghost in her own machine.She worke
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