Chapter 31: Paris Fashion Week Invitation

The Maison AVA was no longer a secret. It was a pilgrimage. The small, dusty storefront on the quiet, stone-paved street in the Marais was now the most exclusive, impossible-to-enter atelier in Paris. Two years had passed since Aurora had signed the lease, the iron keys placed in her son's tiny, sleeping fist. Two years of relentless, agonizing, triumphant work. The "Phoenix Rising" collection had sold, piece by piece, for astronomical sums to women who, as Elias had predicted, valued secrecy and exclusivity above all. Celine D'Albret had become their high priestess, wearing AVA to every major event, refusing to name the designer, and driving the fashion elite into a frenzy. The myth of "Ariane Rousseau" was complete. She was the ghost of Paris, a designer who existed only in the flawless, architectural seams of her work. And Aurora... Aurora was a ghost in her own machine. Her life was a rhythm, a monastic, disciplined existence. Wake. Ethan. Design. Ethan. Sew. Ethan.

Last Updated : 2025-12-23

Chapter 32: The Collection

The invitation was a declaration of war. And the atelier was her armory. The decision, once made, had been a conflagration. The ice of her fear had not melted; it had flash-frozen, becoming a new, harder, sharper substance. Ambition. The two years of hiding were over. The next three months were a blur of focused, feverish, 18-hour days. The Maison AVA, the dusty, echoing storefront, was transformed. The front windows were blacked out with heavy paper, turning the sunlit room into a secret, nocturnal cavern, lit only by the harsh, brilliant, white-blue glare of design lamps. Elias was her shield. He was the public face, the "President," a role he played with a new, invigorated theatricality. He handled the logistics of the Fédération. He booked the venue, a small, atmospheric hôtel particulier that would cost a fortune. He hired the models, the lighting, the press, all under his own legendary, resurrected name. He handled the world, so that she, the ghost, could handle the work.

Last Updated : 2025-12-23

Chapter 33: The Runway

The air backstage was a toxic, electric fog. It was a potent, gagging mixture of burnt hair, atomized French hairspray, body heat, and a collective, animalistic fear that was so strong it left a metallic tang on Aurora’s tongue. This was not a debut. It was an execution. Aurora, now the ghost of "Ariane Rousseau," was hidden. She had pressed herself into the darkest, coldest corner of the narrow, white-walled corridor, a shadow among the rolling racks of her own life's work. The hôtel particulier Elias had secured was a masterpiece of crumbling, Gilded Age elegance, but backstage, it was a suffocating, clinical madhouse. Models, who looked like beautiful, angry, half-starved birds, stalked past, their faces painted in severe, architectural makeup. Dressers, all in black, sprinted, their mouths full of pins, their hands shaking. "Où est la blanche?" a voice shrieked from the chaos. Where is the white one? "Merde, she’s smoking, stop her!" "Cinq minutes!" It was the machine. It

Last Updated : 2025-12-23

All Chapters of Runaway Heiress: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Bride: Chapter 31 - Chapter 33

Chapter 31: Paris Fashion Week Invitation

Chapter 32: The Collection

Chapter 33: The Runway