Chapter 7

I did it.

Even if it took me two years, I did it. Two years since I walked away from the cage my parents built, since I scattered the ashes of the woman Maverick broke. Two years of silence, of clawing my way out of the dark.

I buried myself in work. I sketched pain into patterns, crafted grief into jewels. And from that, I built something that was mine.

CJ Styles.

My company. My brand. My armor. The world whispered about me in glossy editorials and runways, but they didn’t know the face behind the name. I preferred it that way. The brand was everything. I was nothing, not anymore.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself on nights when the past pressed too close.

For somewhere that I did the majority of my work on, my desk was pretty chaotic. Half-drained teacups, scattered sketches, fabric swatches spilling over the edge. The afternoon light carved golden lines across the mess, but I barely noticed. I was lost in the curve of a new silhouette, the weight of emerald that promised power, when a sharp knock shattered my focus.

“Delivery for Ms.Jepherson.”

I blinked, startled. A boy in a crisp uniform stood at the door, a white envelope balanced carefully in his hands.

“For me?” My voice cracked more than I meant it to.

“Yes, ma’am.” He placed it down and disappeared before I could ask anything else.

The envelope sat like an intruder in the midst of the mess, the only touch of sanity apparently. A white paper with a gold embossed crest. It looked expensive, important even. On closer inspection, I recognised that crest.

I dropped the jewel I was working on and reached for the envelope-The Global Fashion Foundation. They finally sent word. They had a contest three weeks ago. I submitted an outfit—a dress and a set of matching jewels. I’d been waiting for word from them since I submitted. It finally arrived. I hope I win.

My hand trembled as I slit the envelope open.

Dear CJ Styles,

You are cordially invited as one of the finalists of the Global Emerging Designers Contest…

I jumped to my squealing loudly, and my assistant rushed in.

“Did something happen, Ma’am?” she asked, worry evident in her voice.

“We were selected as one of the finalists!” I said with a small laugh. She grinned.

“That’s great. When is the award night?” she asked.

“I don’t know, let me find out” I continued reading.

The gala will be held in Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates on the 23rd of July.

Abu Dhabi.

The name slammed into me like a fist. My stomach lurched, memories clawing to the surface, hot and sharp. I felt blood drain from my face. My assistant, Tasha, rushed towards me.

“Is something the matter? You look pale” she said as she got to my side, trying to peek into the letter.

“No, everything’s fine,” I whispered. I wish I believed myself. ”It holds next weekend” I continued “At Abu Dhabi”

“That’s great, right? I’ve never been there before” she said with a small smile. I wish I could say the same, it was a cursed city to me.

“Yes, it’s beautiful” I cleared my throat.”Let’s get back to work.”

“Right,” she said and left my office.

I pressed the letter flat against the desk, my nails digging crescent moons into the wood. I wanted to rip it in half, to tear Abu Dhabi from my story forever. But the paper trembled under my hand, daring me.

For a long time, I just stared at it.

Then, softly, I whispered into the silence,

“If it has to be Abu Dhabi… then fine. But I won’t go as her. Camilla is gone. Dead, burnt, and flushed away. I’ll go as Carla. As CJ Styles.”

My reflection caught me in the darkened window. Stronger. Sharper. Colder. A woman carved from ashes.

This wasn’t Camilla’s return.

This was Carla Jepherson’s arrival.

The weekend came quickly. As much as I wanted the award night to come, I dreaded meeting Maverick. All the days I lived in that house, I never actually knew where he worked but still, he was a freaking billionaire, for all I care, he may have been invited to the god damn award night. I closed early at noon and headed home to prepare for the night.

The flight was long. Hours blurred into clouds and recycled air, the hum of engines mixing with the restless beat of my heart. I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the marble halls of the Shelby manor, Maverick’s silhouette in the doorway, my grandmother’s still face.

But when I stepped off the plane, heat smacked into me like an open hand. Dry, heavy, alive. Abu Dhabi gleamed ahead — glass towers shimmering under the desert sun, as though the city itself was daring me to try again.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t flinch.

The hotel was a palace disguised as modern luxury — marble floors polished to glass, chandeliers raining down light, staff bowing as if each guest were royalty. My suite overlooked the skyline, molten gold against the horizon.

The emerald gown I’d chosen lay draped across the bed like a present to be unwrapped. I stood at the window, tracing the city’s lines with my eyes, and whispered to my reflection:

“This is it. The world will finally know.”

The gala was a kingdom of opulence.

Diamonds winked from every neckline, silks rustled like whispers, laughter clinked against crystal glasses. Cameras flashed around me, catching polished smiles. The chatters carried accents from different countries of the continents.

I kept my hood low as I entered. The emerald silk clung like liquid fire, the hood my only shield. For two years, anonymity had been my weapon. I wasn’t ready to surrender it — not until I chose.

Eyes followed me anyway. Curiosity. Suspicion. Whispers rippled like waves. Security hesitated, but when I handed over my invitation and murmured, “CJ Styles,” their faces shifted. Deference. Almost awe.

They didn’t want me. They wanted the name. The brand. The ghost I’d built.

Inside, the ballroom pulsed with light and wealth. Chandeliers spilled fire across mirrored walls, string music wove through the air, waiters floated with trays of champagne. It should have dazzled me, but my chest felt tight, my palms damp.

So I slipped backstage, letting the hum of equipment and frantic voices anchor me. And that’s when I saw him.

Maverick.

The name flared in my skull before my eyes could confirm it.

He was across the hall, impossible to miss. Taller than most, shoulders rigid in a tuxedo sharp enough to cut. His hair was darker now, but his presence—commanding, consuming—was the same. He spoke to some official-looking man, voice low, clipped, the kind that made people obey without thinking.

My lungs seized. Two years had passed, but my body remembered him instantly. Every line of his jaw, the steel in his gaze, the gravity that drew and destroyed.

My hood shielded me. My position gave me cover. But my chest was chaos, my pulse a storm pounding against my ribs.

I gripped the folds of my dress until my nails bit silk. You didn’t claw your way here to crumble over him.

I turned away. I fixed my gaze on the stage. I waited.

The host’s voice was heard through the ballroom, polished and theatrical. One by one, names were called, awards handed out, rounds of applause rising and fading. My skin prickled with every second that went by, anticipation and dread twining like thorns in my veins.

“And now,” the host announced, dragging the pause, “the award for Second Place. A brand that has taken the fashion world by a whirlwind. A label bought by many but known by few, whispered about in every editorial. Tonight, the world will finally know. Ladies and gentlemen—CJ Styles!”

Applause thundered, rattling my bones. Cameras swung like cannons, flashes bursting white-hot.

A girl with a headset darted toward me, breathless. “CJ Styles?”

I nodded.

She blinked at the hood but swallowed her question. “You’re on in a few.”

My legs moved before my mind caught up. Each step toward the stage was a step away from shadows, a step toward light I wasn’t sure I wanted. The curtains parted. Heat and brilliance slammed into me. The host gestured dramatically, the crowd leaning forward, hungry.

I walked center stage, emerald silk pooling like water at my feet, hood still low. Whispers rippled, sharp and electric.

I stopped.

And slowly, I raised my hands.

The hood fell back.

Gasps erupted like sparks. Cameras exploded in a frenzy. For the first time, the world saw me.

“I am Carla Jepherson,” I said, voice steady, strong. “Founder and CEO of CJ Styles.

The silence that followed was knife-sharp. And then the room detonated — applause, cheers, a wave crashing over me.

But I only saw him.

Maverick.

His composure was gone, his eyes locked on me with raw shock.

The host pressed the award into my hands—cool glass, heavier than it looked, heavy like the two years I’d carried alone.

I lifted it. My voice shook, but I didn’t stop.

“Two years ago, CJ Styles was nothing but sketches in my grandmother’s living room. She left me an inheritance, yes. But more than that, she left me her belief. Her voice reminded me I could.”

My throat tightened, but I pushed through.

“I failed. I started again. I worked until my fingers bled. And I realized something—fashion isn’t just fabric and thread. It’s survival. It’s resilience. It’s turning pain into something beautiful enough to wear. Every piece I’ve made carries a story. My story.”

The crowd was silent, leaning in, drinking every word.

“So if you’ve ever felt unseen, unheard, unwanted—CJ Styles is proof you are not invisible. This is not the end. It’s only the beginning.”

The room erupted again, applause like thunder, people rising to their feet. My name — not the brand — echoed.

But my gaze betrayed me. It found him again. Maverick hadn’t moved. His face was stiff as though it was carved from stone, his stare devouring me whole.

I smiled — sharp, practiced — and left the stage.

Backstage, the noise dimmed. My breath came ragged. I caught my reflection in a tall mirror — hood down, eyes fierce, face bare for the first time in years.

The world finally knew I was.

But beneath the victory, one thought burned hotter than all the lights combined.

Maverick saw me.

And he wasn’t fooled.

Voices buzzed around me, congratulations, laughter, footsteps. But they all fell away when a single word sliced through the air, low and unshakable.

“Camilla.”

I froze. I knew that voice.

Slowly, I turned.

Maverick stood there. Tuxedo perfect. Eyes sharp as knives. His face, unreadable, but his voice left no doubt.