5. Between Threads and Scars

The design studio was silent that night.

A single hanging lamp glowed dimly above, casting a soft amber light across a worktable scattered with fabric, sketches, and spools of thread. Beyond the window, the sky was black and starless, as though it too had absorbed the sorrow that had shadowed Emma Taylor for the past few weeks.

She sat hunched over her chair, weary eyes fixed on a piece of champagne-coloured fabric — a remnant of the gown she had worn on her wedding night. Her fingers trembled around the needle, but her mind drifted elsewhere — to the night everything had fallen apart.

Emma could still hear Harry’s angry voice, and see Sophie’s triumphant smile as their marriage crumbled in front of everyone. Since that night, Emma had locked herself away in her work.

She slept no more than two hours each night, ate whatever she could find, and threw herself into sewing, sketching, creating — anything to drown the pain.

But with every stitch she made, it felt as though she were binding herself tighter to the very memories she wanted to escape.

On the table beside her sat a cup of cold coffee, untouched for hours. Her breathing grew heavier, her head throbbed, yet she forced herself to keep going.

“Just a little more,” she whispered to herself. “Just a little more — I have to finish this order.”

But her voice was weak, almost soundless. Her body had been rebelling for days.

For the past two days, Emma had been dizzy and nauseous, but she ignored it. She told herself it was only stress — or lack of food. She couldn’t even remember the last time she had sat down to a proper meal. All she knew was work, work, and more work.

She bent forward again, adding beaded detail to the sleeve of a gown. But her vision began to blur. The needle slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor with a faint metallic clink.

The room spun. Emma tried to stand, but her legs refused to move.

“No… not now…” she murmured weakly.

And then everything went dark.

Her body crumpled to the cold studio floor, the soft champagne fabric falling over part of her face.

---

Outside the studio, James had just parked his car by the roadside.

He looked at the small, dimly lit building from a distance, exhaling before stepping out. It had been nearly three weeks since that night at the villa — since Emma had rejected his help with words that still echoed in his mind.

> “I don’t need your pity, James. I know men like you. You’re no different from Harry.”

The words had stung his pride, but James hadn’t been angry. He had simply bowed his head and walked away, leaving behind a woman clearly fighting to hold herself together.

Since then, he had been quietly watching from afar — making sure Emma was safe, that the lights in her house were on, that no one disturbed her.

James knew too well what it felt like to lose everything.

That was why he was here tonight.

He only wanted to make sure she had eaten. He knew she was too stubborn to ask for help, so he had bought a warm meal from his usual restaurant, planning to leave it by the studio door without saying a word.

But as he approached, something made his heart race.

The studio lights were still on — long past midnight.

The door was unlocked.

“Emma?” he called softly, knocking. “It’s James. I just—”

No answer.

James pushed the door open carefully. Silence. The smell of paint and fabric filled the air. Then he saw her.

A woman’s body on the floor.

“Emma!” he shouted, panic surging through him.

He ran towards her. Emma lay motionless among the scraps of fabric, her face pale, her breathing shallow.

James dropped to his knees, gently patting her cheek.

“Emma, can you hear me? Come on, wake up.”

No response.

He grabbed her hand — cold to the touch. His pulse quickened. There was still a faint heartbeat, weak but steady. Without wasting another second, James scooped her into his arms and carried her out of the studio.

---

A few minutes later, Emma was lying on the sofa in James’s living room — his house only a short distance from the studio.

He covered her with a blanket and immediately called his private doctor.

“She fainted from severe exhaustion,” the doctor explained after examining her. “Her blood pressure is low, and she’s malnourished. She needs complete rest for several days. Don’t let her work.”

James nodded. “Understood. Thank you, Doctor.”

When the doctor left, James sat beside the sofa, studying Emma’s fragile face.

Gone was the confident woman he had always seen at social gatherings — the proud, guarded woman who never let anyone close.

Now she looked vulnerable, peaceful in a fragile way, like someone who had fought too long alone.

He glanced at her thin fingers. He remembered how she had once recoiled from his touch, her eyes cold, as though he were her enemy. But tonight, she looked so breakable — like a flower starved of light.

“Why do you have to carry all of this alone…” he murmured softly.

He stood, went to the kitchen, and returned with a bowl of warm porridge and a glass of water. Then he waited patiently beside the sofa until Emma stirred.

---

The soft light stung her eyes. Emma blinked, her vision blurry.

It took a few seconds before she realised she was no longer in her studio.

“Where am I…?” her voice cracked.

“In my house,” James replied gently, approaching with the glass of water. “You fainted in the studio. I found you on the floor.”

Emma sat up, startled. “You… brought me here?”

James nodded, placing the glass on the table.

“You were unconscious. I couldn’t just leave you there.”

Her expression hardened. “I told you I don’t need your help, James. I don’t want your pity.”

“I’m not pitying you,” he said calmly.

“Then why?” her voice rose. “Why bother coming in the middle of the night just to help me? Do you think I’m some fragile woman who can’t stand on her own?”

James was silent for a moment, taking a steady breath.

He knew her words came not from hatred, but from pain too heavy to bear.

“I came because I know what it’s like to lose everything,” he said at last, his tone low and sincere. “I know what it’s like to fight alone, to pretend you’re strong when inside, you’re barely holding together.”

Emma looked away, blinking back the sudden sting of tears.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

James nodded slowly. “You’re right. But I know that pain. And I don’t want anyone else to feel it the way I did.”

Silence fell. Only the ticking of the clock filled the room.

Emma glanced at him briefly, then turned away. She wanted to be angry — but his words pierced her heart gently, without force.

James stood, preparing to leave. But before he reached the door, he turned and said quietly,

“If you don’t want me here, I’ll go. But please… take care of yourself, Emma. At least eat something.”

He set the bowl of porridge on the table and began to walk away.

But before he could close the door behind him, a soft voice stopped him.

“James…”

He turned.

Emma was still seated on the sofa, her gaze fixed on the bowl for a long moment before lifting her eyes to meet his — gentler now.

“Thank you.”

James gave a faint, sincere smile — almost imperceptible.

“You’re welcome.”

Then he left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Emma sat still, her thoughts in disarray. Her eyes lingered on the bowl in front of her.

Slowly, she reached for the spoon.

And for the first time in a long while, she ate.

Warm. Soft.

And for a fleeting moment, it made her feel… not so alone.