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 worked.

She was no longer the plongeuse. She was the Directrice Créative. She was a CEO. She was a god, sculpting in wool and silk, her new apartment studio no longer big enough.

This new atelier was her kingdom.

It was a cavern of organized, creative chaos. Bolts of fabric were stacked like firewood. Two young seamstresses, hired by Elias and sworn to secrecy, whispered in a back room, their machines a constant, gentle hum. And in the center, a permanent, sprawling island, was her cutting table, a battlefield of chalk, pins, and half-born ideas.

And in the corner, there was Ethan.

He was no longer a baby. He was a person. A small, determined, and deeply frustrated person.

He was fourteen months old.

His world was a large, blanket-padded playpen in the sunniest corner of the studio, a "fortress," as Elias called it, stocked with wooden blocks and soft, velvet animals.

But it was, he had recently decided, a prison.

He was a "cruiser," navigating the world by gripping furniture, his small, chubby hands pulling him from one point to the next. He could stand, his nappy-padded bottom sticking out, his legs wobbly but strong.

And he wanted out.

He wanted his mother.

But his mother was a queen, a goddess, a whirlwind. She was a flash of black, jagged hair and a black, self-sewn tunic, perpetually on the other side of the room.

She was a voice, loving but distant, murmuring, "In a minute, mon petit. Just one more minute."

The guilt was a physical, lead_en weight in Aurora’s chest.

She was succeeding. AVA was not just surviving; it was thriving. It was real. It was a business.

And the price, she was realizing, was her son's childhood.

She was a ghost in her own life, haunting the periphery. She was here, in the same room, but she was not present. Her mind was on a difficult seam, on a shipping invoice, on the precise, architectural drape of a skirt.

She was so focused on building his future, she was missing his now.

"No, Ethan, please," she murmured, her voice tight with stress. "Please, not today."

He was in his fortress, and he was not happy. He had thrown his velvet elephant. He had thrown his favorite wooden block. Now, he was rattling the bars, a tiny, furious prisoner, his face screwed up, his wail a sharp, piercing, heartbreaking sound.

Aurora’s back was to him.

She was on her knees on the floor, a sea of midnight-blue silk spread out around her. It was a couture order for a princess—the same one Celine had sold to—and it had to be perfect. She was pinning the hem, her mouth full of pins, her body aching.

She was so, so tired.

"Mama!" he wailed, the word a clear, sharp, accusatory blade.

"I know, baby," she whispered, her voice muffled by the pins, her back still to him. "Mama's working. I know. I'm sorry. Just... just five more minutes."

She was failing. She was a failure. She was building an empire and she couldn't comfort her own child.

The frantic wail from the playpen suddenly, jarringly, stopped.

The sudden, absolute silence was more alarming than the crying.

"Ethan?" she called, a pin still in her mouth, her head still down. "Baby?"

Nothing.

A cold jolt of panic, the primal, animal fear of a mother, shot through her.

She spit the pins into her hand, her heart lurching. Did he choke? Did he fall?

She turned, her body clumsy, hampered by the sea of silk.

And she froze.

He was not in his playpen.

He had... he had climbed out. Or... no. She’d left the latch undone. In her haste, in her stress, she had made a mistake.

He was standing. Alone. In the middle of the vast, polished wooden floor.

He was halfway between his fortress and her.

And he was, she realized with a dawning, shattering clarity, standing. He was not holding onto the sofa. He was not gripping the bars.

He stood, a tiny, determined, nappy-padded colossus, his arms held out at his sides for balance, his gray eyes—those eyes—locked on her.

"Oh," she breathed, the word a tiny, soundless puff of air. The pins scattered from her numb hand, glittering like fallen stars on the blue silk.

He saw her. He saw her face, her shock.

He smiled. A huge, triumphant, two-toothed grin.

He had her attention.

"Da?" he tried, his favorite, meaningless, heartbreaking sound.

"Oh, baby," she whispered, her voice breaking, the tears already blurring her vision. Don't move. Don't fall.

He took a breath, a small, shuddering inhale.

And he lifted his foot.

It was a clumsy, wobbly, terrible movement. He swayed, his arms pinwheeling.

And he took a step.

One step.

Aurora’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sob.

He hadn't fallen. He was still upright.

He saw that she was still watching, her face a mask of love and terror.

He took another.

He was walking.

He was walking. He was crossing the vast, pin-strewn, dangerous floor of her studio, the no-man's-land of her career, and he was walking to her.

"Elias," she whispered, a prayer to a man who wasn't there. "He's... oh my god."

Ethan took a third step, and a fourth. His confidence was growing. He was a drunken, tiny sailor, but he was moving. He was coming to her.

He was halfway across. And then, he saw it.

Her shears. The massive, heavy, steel shears she used to cut wool, lying on the floor, a glittering, silver, dangerous thing.

He was walking right toward them.

The ice of her fear broke.

"No, baby!" she cried, lunging.

She moved, a blur of black, scrambling on her hands and knees, the midnight silk of the princess's dress tearing under her weight. She didn't care.

He saw her lunge, and he thought it was a game. He squealed, a high, delighted sound, and took two more, fast, wobbly steps.

He reached the shears.

He stumbled.

"ETHAN!"

He fell.

But he didn't hit the floor.

He fell into her.

She had caught him, her arms wrapping around his small, warm, solid body, pulling him against her chest, her face buried in his soft, downy hair.

The steel shears were inches from his hand, but he was safe. He was in her arms.

He was confused. The game was over. He started to cry, a small, startled sound.

"Shh," she sobbed, her voice a raw, broken, triumphant mess. "Shh, you're okay. Mama's got you. You're okay. You... you walked."

She held him, her entire body shaking, and she looked back at his empty playpen, his "fortress." And then she looked at the wobbly, tiny footprints he had left in the chalk dust on the floor.

He had walked.

He had crossed the

distance she had created. He had seen her, his mother, the distant, working, grieving goddess, and he had walked to her.

She looked at the small, perfect, determined boy in her arms, and at the studio she had built from her own ashes.

Liam Cross.

The name was a whisper, a ghost from a different, colder, grayer world.

He was not here.

He had not been here for her first, terrified, lonely night in the attic.

He had not been here for the first, agonizing, angry stitches of her new life.

He had not been here for her son's first word.

He had not been here for his son's first steps.

And for the first time, the thought brought not a single, sharp, familiar sting of pain.

It brought only a profound, clarifying, and absolute relief.

Thank God.

She had done it.

She wasn't a runaway. She wasn't a victim. She wasn't an "unwell" woman.

She was a mother. She was a Maison. She was "Ariane Rousseau," a woman who had, stitch by stitch, and step by step, built a life.

And it was a life entirely, completely, and triumphantly her own.