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.

Sleep.

She was no longer the gaunt, black-clad creature from the attic. She was, instead, a woman carved from ice. She was the CEO, the Creative Director, and the sole employee of AVA, (Elias, she knew, was the true President).

Her studio, the vast, sunlit room, was no longer a place of hiding. It was a factory. Two seamstresses, both old, silent women who had worked for Elias for thirty years, now sat in the back, their machines a constant, gentle hum.

And in the corner, by the window, was Ethan.

He was no longer a baby. He was two.

He was a whirlwind, a tiny, laughing, perfect creature of impossible energy. He had her chestnut hair—the dark dye had long since grown out, replaced by her real, natural color, though still worn in a severe, sharp bob.

And he had his father's eyes.

She no longer flinched when she saw them. The slate gray that had once been a mirror of her betrayal was now just... Ethan. They were the eyes she loved most in the world. They were her why.

She was on the floor, her black trousers covered in chalk, her back aching. She was not a CEO. She was a jungle gym.

"Encore, Maman!" Ethan shrieked, his small body climbing onto her back, his laughter a pure, perfect sound.

"No, mon petit," she laughed, her voice, which was so often cold and precise with Elias, becoming soft, melodic. "Maman has to work. This is a very serious seam."

"Non! Bataille!" he yelled. Battle!

"You," she said, flipping him onto her lap, burying her face in his neck, "are the only battle I care about."

He smelled of milk, and soap, and a future that was, for the first time, starting to feel... possible.

"Ariane."

The voice from the doorway was a slash of cold, elegant ice, cutting through the warm, domestic scene.

Elias.

Aurora froze, her smile vanishing, the "Maman" evaporating. She instantly became the "Directrice." She stood, brushing the chalk from her trousers, Ethan held, suddenly, as a shield.

Elias was not his usual, critical self. He was not here to tear apart her new drape.

He was in his finest suit, a dark, funereal navy. And he was holding a single, impossibly thick, cream-colored envelope.

"Elias," she said, her voice a careful neutral. "You are early."

"The world, my child," he said, his voice strangely tight, "does not wait for us to be ready."

He did not look at Ethan. His eyes were fixed on her. And in his gaze, she saw a flicker of something she had never seen from him.

Fear.

"What is it?" she asked, her heart, which had been light, suddenly turning to a cold, lead weight. "Is it... is it him? Have they found me?"

"No," he said, his voice sharp. "He has not found you. They have."

He held up the envelope.

It was not a bill. It was not a letter.

Embossed on the back, in severe, black, perfect lettering, was a logo she recognized from her old life. The logo she had studied, revered, and, in a world that was now dead, dreamed of.

Fédération de la Haute Couture et de la Mode.

The official, governing body of Paris Fashion Week.

Aurora’s blood did not just go cold. It stopped.

"Elias," she whispered, "what is this?"

"This," he said, "is a problem. Or... it is an opportunity. I have not yet decided which."

He had, without her knowledge, submitted her "Phoenix Rising" collection, and her new, unnamed second collection, to the Fédération for consideration. He had submitted it under the Maison AVA, a house with no face, no history, and no designer.

He had expected a polite, dismissive "non."

"They are... intrigued," Elias said, his voice a dry rasp. "They are intrigued by the 'angry' lines. By the 'anonymous artisan.' They are, in short, desperate for something new."

He handed her the envelope.

Her hands, the ones that were no longer red and chapped, but were still scarred, were trembling.

She opened it.

It was an invitation.

Not to a party. Not to a show.

It was an invitation for the Maison AVA to present its first collection, as a Membre Invité, a guest member, on the official calendar of Paris Fashion Week.

It was the single highest honor, the most impossible, unattainable dream, for any designer.

And Aurora dropped it, as if the thick, cream-colored cardstock had burned her. It fluttered to the floor.

"No," she whispered, backing away, her hand grabbing Ethan, pulling him close.

"No?" Elias’s eyebrows shot up.

"I can't. Elias, you know I can't! This... this is... this is visibility! This is the world! This is... him."

Her mind flashed, sharp and cold, to Liam. To the New York Times. To the "unwell" woman.

"If I do this," she said, her voice shaking, "he will see me. Not me, but the work. He will see the name. A.V.A. He will... he will know."

"He will know what?" Elias snapped, his patience vanishing. "That a ghost in Paris has stolen your initials? He will see nothing! He will see a new designer."

"He will see me!" she insisted, her voice rising, the old, "hysterical" panic returning. "Elias, this... this is a death sentence. I am hiding. That is the entire point. You built the wall!"

"A wall is not a life, Ariane!" he roared, his voice, for the first time, echoing in the vast, sunlit studio.

Ethan, terrified by the sound, burst into tears, his small hands clinging to her.

"Shh," she whispered, her body trembling, "shh, mon petit, it's all right, Maman is here."

Elias, seeing the boy's terror, stopped. His shoulders slumped. He ran a shaking hand over his face.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

He knelt, not to her, but to Ethan. He looked at the small, crying boy.

"He is two years old," Elias said, his voice thick. "What happens when he is five? When he is ten? What happens when he asks, 'Maman, why can we not leave this room? Maman, why must you be a ghost? Maman, why are you afraid?'"

He looked up at her, his old, wise, critical eyes now full of a profound, heartbreaking sadness.

"You have built a fortress, my child. I helped you. But it has become a very, very beautiful prison."

He stood.

"You are a designer. The most talented I have ever known. But your 'Phoenix Rising' collection... it was a lie. A phoenix does not hide in the ashes. It rises. It burns."

He pointed to the invitation, lying on the floor like a dare.

"This," he said, "is your fire. You can stay in here, a 'protégé,' a ghost, and let your talent, and your son, suffocate in this perfect, safe, gray room. Or... you can walk out onto that stage, and show the man who tried to erase you... that you have, in fact, just begun."

He walked to the door.

"The choice, as always, is yours, Ariane. But I will not spend the rest of my life as a shield for a woman who is afraid of her own genius."

He left. The door clicked shut, the sound as final as a gavel.

Aurora was left alone in the silence, her heart pounding, her son weeping quietly in her arms.

A prison.

She looked at her studio. The beautiful fabrics. The perfect light. The high, white walls.

She looked at her son, his small face buried in her neck, his gray eyes hidden.

He will never know you.

Her vow. Her reason.

She had thought it meant hiding.

She had thought it meant running.

EGlias was right. A prison was not a life. Hiding was not a victory.

She had to rise. Not for her. For him.

She had to build an empire so vast, so powerful, so public, that if Liam Cross ever did find them... he would find not a "hyst-erical," "unwell" runaway...

He would find a Queen. An equal. A rival.

She put Ethan down, her movements no longer hesitant, but deliberate. She wiped his tears.

"It's all right, mon ange," she whispered, her voice a new, cold, calm. "Maman is not afraid."

She walked across the floor and she picked up the invitation.

She held the thick, heavy, cream-colored card in her hand. It was not a "chance to rise," as the blueprint had said.

It was a declaration of war.