Semua Bab He Chose my Cousin, so I Chose Revenge: Bab 171 - Bab 180

A letter was waiting for me on the counter when I came in. The envelope was heavy cream stock, the kind that makes you slow down before you open it. My name was written in a deep blue ink, the handwriting careful and even. Claudia was at the back steaming a blouse when she heard me pick it up. “That came by courier an hour ago,” she said, walking over. “The address is from the capital.” I turned the envelope over. The return logo was small and embossed. It took me a moment to place it. “It is the national fashion museum,” I said quietly. Claudia’s eyebrows went up. “You should open it.” I did. The paper inside matched the envelope, thick enough to hold its shape. The letter was formal but not cold. It began by explaining that the museum’s acquisitions committee had been following my work for years. They had chosen one of my early designs to add to their permanent collection. It was a dress from my first independent collection, the one with the layered silk panels that I had stitc

The invitation had been sitting on my desk for weeks before I gave them a final answer. It was for a design conference in the capital, the kind that drew both established names and rising ones. They wanted me on a panel about the future of fashion alongside three other designers whose brands filled glossy magazines and ran massive campaigns. I said yes, but not because I wanted to be part of the noise. I wanted to be very clear about what it costs to do the work in a way that leaves no part of it hidden. The morning of the panel, Julian came with me. The conference was being held in a renovated theater, its high ceilings still holding the echoes of another time. The lobby smelled faintly of polished wood and coffee from a small table near the entrance. People moved in clusters, greeting each other, adjusting name badges, scanning the schedule in their programs. “You do not have to hold back,” Julian said as we walked toward the registration desk. “I do not plan to,” I replied. Th

The boutique was still quiet when I unlocked the door that morning. The light outside had that pale winter quality, soft enough to feel almost fragile. Claudia was in the back sorting a delivery, so I switched on the front lights and set the kettle to boil. It was the kind of morning that usually felt gentle.I had not checked my email yet. I almost left it until later, but when the kettle clicked off, I opened my laptop on the counter. The usual messages were there first: a supplier update, a client confirming a fitting, an invitation to a small exhibition. Then there was one I did not recognize.The subject line was short. A word of advice.I opened it.The sender’s name meant nothing to me, but the email was written as if we knew each other. The words were careful, almost polite, but they carried something sharp underneath.It would be in your best interest to consider a larger expansion this year. There are people watching your next moves. Declining the opportunity may lead to con

I had not planned on going. The invitation had come weeks earlier from the local arts council, asking if I would be willing to speak about the boutique’s work with traditional artisans. Before I could even reply, Julian had already said yes — not for me, but for himself. It was the first time he had agreed to speak publicly about what we had built together.When he told me, I was surprised. Julian was not the kind of man who enjoyed standing in front of a room and delivering prepared remarks. His strength was in the work itself, the quiet persistence, the unseen decisions that shaped the direction of our life. Yet here he was, telling me with a calm certainty that it was time.The evening was cool when we walked to the small cultural center where the event was being held. The building was old but well kept, the kind of place that smelled faintly of wood polish and paper. Inside, the main hall had been arranged with rows of chairs facing a modest stage. A podium stood at the front, a s

The letter from Milan stayed on my desk for three days before I even tried to answer it. I kept it beside the Kyoto sketchbook, where the pages still held faint traces of dye at the corners. Every morning when I sat down with my coffee, it was there, the embossed seal catching the morning light, waiting. Every evening, when I closed the sketchbook, the letter stayed in place, unread for a fourth or fifth time.It was not uncertainty about whether I would go. I knew I would. The moment I opened it in the boutique, I had felt that quiet pull in my chest. What I was still working through was how I would go, and on what terms.Julian found me on the fourth morning in the same spot, a mug cooling beside my hand. He was carrying two fresh mugs of tea, steam curling above them. He set one in front of me before taking the chair opposite the desk.“Still thinking?” he asked.“Yes,” I said, without looking away from the letter.“What’s left to decide?”“My pace,” I told him. “If I go as they ex