Chapter 2

Present Day.

The camera flashes didn’t faze her anymore.

“Elara! Elara Hayes! Over here!”

“Smile, just one shot in that gown!”

She didn’t pause. Her heels clicked confidently against the marble floors of the Palais de Mode, a rhythmic, deliberate reminder that she now owned every room she entered.

The fabric of her custom designed black velvet gown shimmered under the golden chandeliers, fitted like second skin, draped just enough to whisper class while screaming dominance.

Her hair was pinned in a sleek bun. Diamond cuffs glinted at her wrists, minimal and sharp. Her lips, blood red. Her gaze, unapologetic.

She was power in motion.

“Elara, how does it feel to be nominated for Designer of the Year?” a reporter called from behind the velvet ropes.

She turned her head slightly, just enough for the cameras. “Unexpected,” she said coolly. “But earned.”

The room buzzed with hushed admiration.

She moved past the crowd, her assistant Ava keeping close.

“I swear, you don’t even blink anymore when they shout your name,” Ava said as they reached the inner lobby.

“I don’t need to blink at noise,” Elara replied, her voice calm but edged.

Ava chuckled under her breath. “Savage. Love it.”

They passed through the glass doors of the private lounge, exclusive to nominees and elite investors. Only the best. Only the chosen.

“Elara.” A soft voice greeted her from the far corner.

She turned.

Julian Cross stood tall in a navy three piece suit, sipping from a crystal tumbler. The CEO of Cross Atelier. Billionaire investor. A man who could destroy reputations with a single email, yet looked at Elara like she hung the stars.

“You look like the empire you’ve built,” he said smoothly.

She allowed a small smile. “And you look like you came to buy it.”

“Tempting.”

Ava discreetly disappeared, sensing their magnetic pull.

Julian stepped closer. “Your new line, devastating. Elegant. Every critic is obsessed. Even Vogue called it a revolution.”

“Pain is a wonderful muse,” Elara replied.

He raised a brow. “Still designing from your scars?”

“I just learned to make them look couture.”

They shared a moment, quiet.

His admiration wasn’t loud, but it was constant.

He never asked about her past. Never pushed. Only watched, offered, respected.

She was about to say something when the side door opened.

She saw him the moment he stepped in.

Leonard Shaw.

The name still echoed in the deepest parts of her, like a scar that never faded. But she felt nothing now. Not the way she used to. No ache. Just cold, distant calculation.

He hadn’t changed much, still tall, still charismatic, still radiating charm that seemed curated to impress. But something was… off. His eyes had shadows now. And when they landed on her, time froze.

Recognition flickered.

Then disbelief.

“Elara?” His voice cracked.

She blinked once. Slowly. And turned to Julian.

“I’ll be backstage. They want me to prep before the award ceremony.”

Leonard stepped forward. “Wait...”

She looked at him, finally. Cool. Blank. Not a trace of emotion.

“Sorry, sir. Have we met?”

And just like that, she walked away.

Backstage, her hands were steady as her stylists adjusted her dress. The award show had begun. Her category was last.

“Elara,” Ava whispered from behind her. “He looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

“He has,” she said simply.

“You’re really okay?”

Elara met her friend’s reflection in the mirror.

“I’m not okay,” she said softly. “I’m better.”

Across the ballroom, Leonard stared at the stage, where her name flashed in gold across the massive screen.

Nominee: Elara Hayes, The Revival Collection

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Only one thought screamed in his head: What have I done?

The lights dimmed.

A hush fell over the grand ballroom of the Palais de Mode. Glittering chandeliers above refracted like shattered stars, casting ripples of light over a sea of the world's most influential designers, celebrities, investors, and critics.

The host, an elegant woman draped in sequins and sharp wit, stepped onto the stage with practiced grace.

Her voice rang through the room.

“And now, for the final award of the evening, the one we’ve all been waiting for.”

The room tensed, hungry.

“Designer of the Year,” she continued. “An honor that celebrates innovation, artistry, and influence in redefining the industry. This year, the decision was not easy. The fashion world saw fierce competition, breathtaking designs, and voices that refused to be silenced.”

Leonard sat frozen in his seat near the front, his glass untouched. He hadn’t spoken since Elara walked away from him backstage.

He wasn’t the only one still recovering from her entrance.

“From obscurity to global sensation,” the host went on, “this designer has stunned us not only with her creations, but with the story sewn into every thread. She took pain and turned it into power. She showed us what it means to survive, then dominate.”

A slow drumroll began.

Leonard’s breath caught.

“Please join me in congratulating… Elara Hayes, for her groundbreaking Revival Collection!”

Applause exploded across the ballroom.

The camera lights returned with brutal brilliance.

And then she walked out.

Elara didn’t just step onto the stage, she claimed it.

The dress she wore shimmered with obsidian silk and a high slit that commanded attention.

Her shoulders were bare, her posture flawless, her expression as poised as a queen surveying her kingdom.

Every person rose to their feet.

Except Leonard.

He could only stare.

Elara reached the podium, accepted the sculpted award with one hand, and turned toward the mic.

She let the applause settle before she began.

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was smooth, measured, with just enough warmth to draw people in, and enough steel to keep them at a distance.

She scanned the crowd briefly, pausing for a heartbeat when her gaze touched Leonard’s, and then passed over him as if he were nothing more than a forgotten shadow.