Past meets power

Aria’s POV

The silk of my dress brushed smoothly against my skin as I adjusted the gown, its lines falling exactly as I had designed it—sharp, timeless, and commanding. Tonight was not just another gala. Tonight was the haute couture awards, the highest stage in the world I had fought tooth and nail to claim.

I walked through the studio, my fingertips grazing the mannequins clothed in my latest collection. Bold cuts. Intricate embroidery. A whisper of rebellion stitched into every seam, I exhaled slowly. My work. My voice. Once upon a time, I had been the girl too afraid to even look people in the eye. But tonight, I'm the woman the industry will bowed to.

Last year, they had crowned me the Top Designer Brand of the Year. And tonight, I intend to prove it had never been luck.

When I was satisfied with every detail, I returned to my dressing mirror. I smiled as I watched my reflection stared back—no longer fragile, no longer broken. Seven years had carved steel where weakness used to live.

The gown hugged my frame so well, my hair coiled into perfection, I painted my lips fire. And for a moment, I allowed myself to admire the transformation.

Then suddenly, the door opened.

“Aria,” my mother’s voice floated in, warm as always. She entered slowly, her eyes immediately softening as they landed on me.

I turned, a smile tugging at my lips. “Do I look ready, Mom?”

She placed a hand over her chest. “Ready? You look like everything you dreamed of becoming. I can’t believe this is my little girl.” she teased.

I stood, my throat tightening, and crossed to her. “I wouldn’t be here without you,” I said quietly. “You stood by me when all I wanted was to disappear. When I thought the world had swallowed me whole, you refused to let me drown. You’re the reason I rose again.”

Her eyes shimmered. “Aria…”

Tears pricked at mine, the kind I rarely allowed. For years, pain had hardened me. But in that moment, love cracked through me. I took her hand, pressing it against my cheek. “Thank you, Mom. For never letting go of me. For believing, even when I couldn’t.”

She sniffed softly, then in the next breath, her expression shifted to a mocking sternness. “And you, young lady, will not dare cry right now. Not after I spent two hours watching your makeup artist work their magic.”

I laughed, the sound breaking the heaviness. “Fine. No tears. But I make no promises after tonight okay!.”

She grinned, then handed me a small, elegant box tied with dark ribbon. “This came for you. From Kollin.”

I opened it carefully. Inside lay a delicate bracelet, thin and encrusted with tiny diamonds that shimmered under the lights. My heart softened as I unfolded the note attached.

Sorry I won’t be early to the event. But I promise, I won’t miss the moment they recognize you for the second year in a row. Wear this for luck—though you don’t need it.

I smiled. “He’s impossible sometimes.”

“But thoughtful,” Mom said, watching me fasten the bracelet around my wrist.

“Yes,” I admitted softly. “Very thoughtful.”

And together, we stepped out into the night.

___

Mom and I pulled up to the event venue in the sleek black car Kollin had insisted I use, a machine as polished as the life I had carved for myself.

The chauffeur opened the door, and I stepped out, the hem of my gown trailing elegantly against the carpet.

The hall was ablaze with light and grandeur when we walked in. Cameras flashed, gowns glittered, and the air buzzed with ambition. It was more than an event—it was the altar where fashion’s titans came to be celebrated and some, well..forgotten.

I moved through the sea of faces with my chin high, no longer invisible, and no longer afraid.

When the host finally announced the opening, the murmurs faded into silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the iconic voice of our industry, the man who has defined three decades of couture, the legend himself—Mr. Julian Hart.”

Applause thundered even before he reached the podium. Tall, silver-haired, his presence commanded every eye. I felt my pulse quicken as he adjusted the microphone, his gaze sweeping across the room.

Then, his voice—measured, resonant and unforgettable started...

“Fashion is not fabric. It is not color, nor seam, nor cut. Fashion is memory. It is the story you wear when words are not enough. We do not sew dresses—we sew confidence. We do not stitch suits—we stitch legacies. Tonight, we gather not only to honor brands but to honor the visionaries who dared to dream, who dared to bleed their hearts into cloth. May we never forget—true couture is not for the eyes alone, it is for the soul.”

The hall broke into a roar of applause, a standing ovation shaking the marble. Even I found myself clapping harder than I meant to, moved by the weight of his words. Am indeed fortunate to have him as a coach.

Beside me, my mother whispered, “That… that was beautiful.”

It was. And it reminded me why I fought, why I never stopped. Because fashion had been my salvation, my rebellion, my rebirth.

After Mr. Hart left the stage, the host’s voice returned, lighter now. “Thank you, Mr. Hart, for reminding us why we do what we do.”

Another ripple of applause echoed, then the evening shifted gears.

The judges—dignified, immaculate in their tailored suits—rose from their section and processed toward the grand exhibition hall. The audience followed, moving in streams of silk and velvet, anticipation buzzing in every step.

The exhibition hall opened like a treasure chest. Every brand had been given its pedestal—literal shining platforms where their latest designs stood tall beneath glass lights. Gowns shimmered, menswear cut sharp, accessories glowed like jewels freshly mined.

I moved slowly through the hall, eyes skimming the competition. Some faces I recognized, others were new blood, hungry for recognition. Each display was not just fashion—it was battle strategy.

And tonight was not only about awards, it was about alliances, about finding the right eyes, the right partners, the right whispers that could change destinies, and everyone took advantage of it.

Conversations rose in elegant hums. Designers, investors, critics—all weaving connections. I caught nods, brief greetings, polite admiration. My name carried weight now, and I felt it in every glance.

At my display, my latest line commanded attention. Strangers lingered longer there. Whispers thickened. The cuts were bold, the lines unflinching—a mirror of my own rebirth.

My mother slipped a hand into mine. “Look at them, Aria. They’re not just admiring your work. They’re admiring you.”

And for the first time in years, I allowed myself to believe she was right.

The exhibition floor pulsed more with life, and people were moving from one display to another. Everyone was waiting, watching in anticipation.

“Aria, I’ll fetch Kollin from outside,” my mother whispered, touching my arm, after reading a text she just got. The hall was too crowded, he sure would need ushering to find us. “Stay here, don’t vanish.” she added before leaving

I nodded, smiling faintly as she disappeared into the crowd. Alone, I lingered near some displays, watching the judges trickle back into the main hall one by one, their expressions unreadable. And soon, the crowd would follow. Soon the results would be out.

I turned to one of the display, and instantly my breath caught.

Liam Brooks.

The name still carried a sting, like a scar I thought had faded but it only slept beneath my skin. He cut through the crowd with the same arrogant stride I remembered from school days—the boy who had humiliated me, whose words once stripped me bare before everyone. The one boy who made me believe I would never rise.

But tonight he wasn’t a boy anymore. And neither was I a victim. What a world!.

His eyes landed on me—recognition flickered, then a look I couldn’t quite read. His lips twisted into something close to admiration as he reached for the nearest champagne flute. He offered it out, almost rehearsed.

“You,” he said, with voice lower. “I must say… you look different.”

Different. That was all he could say after years. Not stronger. Not successful. Just different, as if all the years, all the battles, all the rebirth had reduced to one shallow word.

For a heartbeat, my pulse betrayed me. Images of the past flooded—crowds laughing, my name mocked, the sting of tears on a high school floor. And then, just as quickly, the weight of my gown, the sparkle of my jewels, the whispers of admirers anchored me back.

I was not that girl anymore I reminded myself.

The host’s voice suddenly echoed through the sound system, saving me from the moment.

“All nominees who showcased their designs tonight, please proceed backstage for the final announcements.”

Liam raised his glass a little, waiting for me to answer. Waiting, perhaps, for an old weakness to crawl out.

Instead, I smiled faintly, tilting my head just enough to sting him.

“Sorry, sir… have we met before?”

His expression cracked—just slightly. The arrogance wavered and was replaced with something raw.

“I have to go backstage, if you’ll excuse me.”

And just like that, I walked past him. No fear, no hesitation. I didn’t need to look back to know his eyes were still on me, burning with regret and interest he had no right to anymore.

This time, I swore—the story was mine to write. This time, I'd be the one in control.