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Chapter 3
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2025-07-22 09:29:41“Three years ago, I was told I wasn’t memorable enough for this industry,” she continued. “Not pretty enough. Not loud enough. Not enough in general. I didn’t come from money. I didn’t have connections. I wasn’t invited in, I clawed my way here.”
Murmurs of admiration echoed across the room.
“I poured every ounce of what I once tried to hide, my shame, my anger, my silence, into this collection. Revival wasn’t just a theme. It was a promise. That no matter what the world tried to erase, I would rise.”
A standing ovation began again, but she lifted a hand, gracefully signaling for them to wait.
“There are many people to thank, but one name shines above the rest. The man who saw my talent before the world did. Who invested not just in my vision, but in me.”
She smiled, genuinely this time.
“Julian Cross.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd as the spotlight found Julian in the front row. He stood, dipping his head in acknowledgment. A quiet, respectful king to her war queen.
Elara lifted her award slightly in his direction. “You gave me a runway when all I had was a sketchbook. Thank you for believing in me.”
Julian smiled back. “Always.”
The moment between them was so intimate, it bordered on sacred.
Leonard watched it all, hands clenched in his lap. His stomach twisted.
Backstage again, after the cameras had retreated and the whispers had started rising, Elara stood alone with the award still in hand.
Ava rushed up to her, nearly vibrating. “Elara, you just burned the entire room alive.”
“I spoke my truth,” she said calmly.
A voice came from behind them, uninvited. “You did more than that.”
Julian stepped closer, his eyes bright but searching. “You gave them a masterclass in elegance and vengeance.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Was it too obvious?”
“No,” he said quietly, “It was perfect.”
He reached out, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. “You were magnificent.”
She didn’t stop him.
Meanwhile, Leonard left before dessert was even served.
The sound of her voice still echoed in his head. The smile she gave Julian. The words he’d never deserve to hear again.
He sat alone in the back of a black car, gripping his phone so tightly the screen cracked.
The car was silent.
Not the peaceful kind of silence. Not the expensive, padded hush that came with luxury vehicles. This was a tense, suffocating silence, the kind that swallowed sound and left only breath and thought behind.
Leonard sat in the back seat, his phone still cracked in his hand, the screen black.
His driver glanced back. “Mr. Shaw? Home?”
He didn’t answer right away. He was staring blankly out the window, watching Paris blur past him like smoke.
“Elara Hayes…” he murmured.
The name felt unfamiliar on his tongue. Too sharp. Too strong. That wasn’t the girl he remembered. The girl from college, the girl he’d mocked without a second thought, she had been nothing like the woman who stood on that stage tonight.
Right?
He leaned forward, placing both hands on the back of the driver’s seat. “Take me somewhere quiet. No press. I need time.”
“Yes, sir.”
The car turned off the main avenue and into a private hotel tucked into a side street near Montmartre, where artists once lived in poverty and glory.
Leonard booked a suite under an alias. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, he ripped off his tie and tossed his blazer over a chair, collapsing on the edge of the bed like the weight of the world had dropped into his lap.
He opened his laptop.
Typed:
Her Wikipedia entry popped up.
Elara Hayes (b. 1998) is a British American fashion designer and founder of Hayes Atelier, known for emotionally evocative collections. She studied fashion in Paris, graduating at the top of her class. Her Revival Collection earned her global recognition and the Designer of the Year award in 2025.
His eyes skimmed it again. And again.
No mention of where she’d done undergrad. No photographs before fashion school.
He frowned. Opened another tab.
University of Crestmont – Class of 2020 – Yearbook
He logged into the alumni portal.
His fingers hovered over the search bar, heart pounding.
Elara Hayes
One result.
He clicked.
The photo loaded slowly, like the past didn’t want to be disturbed.
She was sitting stiffly, in a baggy cardigan, glasses too large for her face, hair in a limp braid over one shoulder. No makeup. Wide eyed. An awkward smile like she wasn’t sure whether to smile at all.
He leaned closer, his breath catching.
It was her.
The eyes were the same.
Not in color or size, but in depth. The same sadness. The same quiet intelligence. The same guarded vulnerability he had shattered with just a few careless words.
He closed his eyes.
Images came back like broken glass raining down on him:
Her standing in the quad, eyes wide, too shocked to respond.
His friends laughing.
His voice, cold and loud: “I’m not that desperate.”
Her flinching like he’d hit her.
Turning away. Alone.
He’d told himself it meant nothing. That she meant nothing.
But now?
She was everything.
He opened I*******m, typed her name. Her profile had 4.7 million followers. Her feed was a blend of powerful design shots and clean, minimalist style. No selfies. No personal details. Not even a photo of her smiling.
Just her work.
But it was everywhere. And it was undeniable.
He scrolled until he found a tagged post, one of her on the runway, next to Julian Cross. The way Julian looked at her. Like she was irreplaceable.
Leonard stared at it, unable to breathe.
How had he missed it back then?
How had he looked her in the eye and chosen cruelty over decency?
She hadn’t just been some girl in his class. She’d been an artist hiding under oversized sweaters and silence. And he’d crushed her like she was nothing.
Now… now she looked untouchable.
And suddenly, he couldn’t stop thinking about her voice tonight.
“I clawed my way here.”
He whispered it aloud, feeling the sting of her words all over again.
His phone buzzed. A text from Melissa, his ex: “So the slut from college won an award. LMAO. Still think she’s a nobody?”
He stared at the message like it was acid. Then he blocked the number.
He scrolled back up, eyes fixed on Elara’s recent photo.
He remembered the way she’d looked at him in the lounge tonight, like he was a stranger.
Maybe he was.
Because the Leonard Shaw who hurt her no longer recognized himself either.
He whispered into the empty room, more to himself than anyone else.
“Is that really you, Elara…?”
He zoomed in on her photo, eyes searching for something familiar. Something he could hold onto. Something human. Something forgiving.
But there was nothing.
Only the haunting truth:
She had erased him.
And she looked better for it.
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