6!

MABEL

The California sun streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my studio, casting golden light across racks of designer gowns that shimmer like liquid jewels.

I stand before the three-way mirror, my expert hands adjusting the drape of a crimson Valentino gown on Dakota Mills's shoulders.

"Turn slightly to the left," I instruct, my voice carrying the quiet authority I've earned over five hard years.

Dakota obeys, and the fabric transforms, creating an optical illusion that will photograph beautifully on the Oscars red carpet.

I step back, critically assessing my work with the same intensity I bring to every client.

This is my domain now, my empire built from nothing but determination and an eye for transforming people into their most confident selves.

Five years have reshaped me into someone virtually unrecognizable from the broken woman who fled New York with empty arms and a shattered heart.

My dark hair, once pulled back in practical ponytails during my days as an overworked assistant, now falls in glossy waves past my shoulders.

The budget department store clothes have been replaced by carefully curated pieces that speak of success without screaming it.

But the most striking transformation is in my eyes, I see it every morning in the mirror. Once clouded with pain and self-doubt, they now hold a sharp, focused determination that has propelled me from nothing to the top of Los Angeles's competitive styling scene.

"You're a miracle worker, Mabel," Dakota gushes, admiring her reflection. "I don't know how you do it. You make me feel like I could conquer the world in this dress."

"That's the goal," I reply with a small smile, the kind that never quite reaches my eyes anymore. "Confidence is the best accessory anyone can wear."

Jenny, my assistant, a bright-eyed twenty-three-year-old with purple highlights and infectious enthusiasm, enters the studio balancing a tray with two cappuccinos.

"Your three o'clock called to confirm," she announces, setting the coffee down on my desk. "And these just arrived from Milan." She gestures to several garment bags hanging near the entrance.

"Perfect. We'll look at those after Dakota's fitting." I reach for my coffee, grateful for the familiar ritual.

These small moments of normalcy have become my anchors, keeping me grounded when memories of what I've lost threaten to pull me under.

My phone buzzes on the desk, and I glance at it absently, expecting another client inquiry or vendor confirmation. Instead, my breath catches in my throat.

The email is from an unknown sender, the subject line reading simply: "Your son's 5th birthday is next month."

The cappuccino cup slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, splashing across the hardwood floor.

Dakota and Jenny both jump, but I barely register their reactions. My entire world has narrowed to the glowing screen in my hand.

"Mabel? Are you okay?" Dakota's concerned voice seems to come from very far away.

"I…yes, I'm sorry. Jenny, could you finish up with Dakota? I need to…" My voice cracks. I clear my throat, fighting to maintain composure. "I need to take this. It's urgent."

I don't wait for a response. My legs carry me automatically to my private office. The door closes behind me with a soft click, and only then do I allow myself to look at the email again, my hands shaking so violently I nearly drop the phone.

Below the subject line is an attached photograph. With trembling fingers, I open it.

A little boy stares back at me from the screen. He can't be more than four years old in the picture, his dark curly hair catching the sunlight in a way that makes my chest physically ache.

His eyes, warm brown, sparkling with pure joy, are fixed on something beyond the camera's frame. He's laughing, the kind of uninhibited laughter only children possess, and clutched in his small hands is a red toy car.

My knees buckle, and I sink into my desk chair, unable to tear my gaze from those eyes. Are they my eyes? His father's? Both?

I've spent five years searching, following every lead no matter how tenuous, hiring private investigators who found nothing but dead ends and sealed records.

Five years of wondering if I'd ever see those newborn features again, if I'd ever know what color his eyes had become or what his laugh sounded like.

And now, here he is. Real. Alive. Beautiful.

My vision blurs with tears as I scroll down to read the rest of the email:

"Liam Latham. Adopted by Vanessa Latham, NYC real estate mogul. Invitation to style her for upcoming charity events attached. His birthday party is your way in. Don't waste this chance."

Liam. His name is Liam.

I press a hand to my mouth, suppressing a sob. Liam Latham. My son has a name, a life, a home.

With Vanessa Latham, my mind races, pulling up everything I know about New York's real estate elite.

Vanessa Latham is a powerhouse, featured regularly in business magazines and society pages. Wealthy beyond measure, connected, influential.

And she has my son.

The attachment opens to reveal a formal invitation, embossed and elegant, requesting my services for a series of high-profile events.

It's an olive branch, a door opening. But who opened it?

I read the email three more times, searching for clues in every word, every punctuation mark.

Who knows about Liam? Who knows about me? Most importantly, who is helping me, and why?

The questions spiral through my mind, but beneath them all pulses a single, overwhelming truth: this is my chance.

After five years of darkness, someone has switched on a light.

My fingers fly across my phone's screen, pulling up flight options to New York.

The first available seat is tomorrow morning, absurdly expensive for the short notice, but I don't hesitate before booking it.

Money means nothing compared to this. Nothing in my carefully constructed Los Angeles life means anything compared to the little boy with the curly hair and the toy car.

I look at the photograph again, memorizing every detail of Liam's face. My son. Five years old next month. Five birthdays I've missed, scraped knees I haven't kissed, bedtime stories I haven't read.

But not anymore.

"I'm coming, baby," I whisper to the image on my screen. "Mama's coming.”