Chapter 12: Designs of Defiance
1272words
I nodded, examining the garment with critical eyes. My collection for Milan Fashion Week represented everything I'd become—bold yet elegant, with architectural elements that transformed conventional silhouettes into something unexpected. Like me, these designs refused to be diminished.
"Seraphina?" Marco's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "Your phone has been buzzing non-stop."
I checked the screen—six missed calls from Cassian, three from Isolde, and dozens of message notifications. My stomach tightened.
"Take over here," I told Marco, stepping into my office to return Cassian's call.
He answered immediately. "Have you seen it?"
"Seen what?"
"Check your email. Now."
I opened my laptop with trembling fingers. The subject line from Cassian read simply: *Victoria's latest move*.
The attached file contained photographs—dozens of them. Me at seventeen, face inflamed with acne, hunched in ill-fitting clothes. Me at nineteen, crying after overhearing cruel comments at a garden party. Me at twenty-one, in that hideous yellow dress from the engagement party, my expression a mask of humiliation as champagne dripped from my hands.
"Where did she get these?" I whispered.
"Your father's private albums, apparently. They've been sent to every fashion editor in Milan, along with a charming narrative about your 'deceptive transformation' and 'manipulation' of the industry."
The old Seraphina would have crumbled, would have hidden away in shame. But I wasn't that person anymore.
"Let her try," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "These photos don't diminish what I've created."
"That's my girl." The pride in Cassian's voice warmed me. "But there's more. She's given an 'exclusive interview' to Fashion Italia about our relationship—painting me as a predator and you as an opportunist."
Before I could respond, Isolde burst into my office, breathless and agitated.
"I just heard," she said. "Mother's gone completely mad."
"You didn't know about this?" I asked, still not entirely trusting her newfound loyalty.
"No! I swear, Seraphina." Her eyes were wide with genuine distress. "I would never—"
My phone rang again—Professor Bianchi this time. With a sinking heart, I answered.
"Cara mia," he said without preamble, "the vultures are circling. Three magazines have called asking for comment on these photographs."
"What should I do?"
"Fight fire with fire," he replied simply. "These jackals want scandal? Give them artistry instead."
After the call ended, I looked between Cassian and Isolde. "I need to make a statement before this spirals further."
"Whatever you decide, I'm with you," Cassian said, his hand finding mine.
Isolde nodded in agreement. "Me too. It's time someone stood up to Mother."
Two hours later, I sat in the offices of Vogue Italia, facing their editor-in-chief across an elegant desk. Cassian waited outside, respecting my insistence on handling this alone.
"These photographs," the editor began, sliding them across the desk, "they tell quite a story."
"Yes," I agreed, surprising her. "They tell the story of a young woman who was taught to hate herself. Who was made to believe her worth lay solely in her appearance."
"And now?" She gestured to my transformed self.
"Now I understand that beauty comes in many forms. That confidence is the most attractive quality anyone can possess." I leaned forward. "My designs celebrate that philosophy—the transformation that comes from embracing one's authentic self."
"Even with scars?"
"Especially with scars." I touched my cheek, where the faint marks remained. "They're part of my story."
The editor studied me thoughtfully. "And your relationship with Cassian Vexley? The age difference has raised eyebrows."
"Love doesn't consult calendars," I said simply. "Cassian sees me—the real me. He always has, even when I couldn't see myself."
By the time I left the interview, the narrative had already begun to shift. The editor promised a feature not on scandal but on resilience—how my journey from self-doubt to self-acceptance informed my design aesthetic.
Outside, Cassian waited, tension evident in his stance until he saw my expression.
"It went well?" he asked.
"Better than expected." I took his hand. "She wants to feature my collection as a statement on authentic beauty."
His smile was radiant with pride. "Victoria underestimated you. Again."
That evening, as final preparations for Fashion Week consumed my team, Cassian insisted on stealing me away for dinner.
"Your collection is ready," he said, guiding me toward his waiting car. "You need a break."
Instead of a restaurant, he drove us to Lake Como, to the villa that had become our sanctuary. The terrace was lit with candles, a small table set for an intimate dinner overlooking the moonlit water.
"What's all this?" I asked as he pulled out my chair.
"A celebration." He poured champagne, his movements betraying unusual nervousness. "Of your courage. Your resilience."
We dined on dishes prepared by his private chef, talking of everything and nothing—my collection, his business, the future we hoped to build. As dessert arrived, he grew quieter, more contemplative.
"What is it?" I finally asked. "You've been distracted all evening."
"I've been thinking about what Victoria said—about my reasons for helping you leave London." He set down his glass. "There was truth in her accusations, Seraphina."
My heart stuttered. "What do you mean?"
"I did know your mother. Not well, but enough to respect her enormously." His eyes held mine. "She consulted me once, about evidence she'd gathered against Frederick. I advised her to be careful, to secure her proof before confronting him."
"And then she died," I whispered.
"Yes." Pain flashed across his face. "When I saw you at that engagement party, so broken by their cruelty, I recognized Elise in you—her spirit, her determination. I wanted to help you escape as I couldn't help her."
"So it was guilt? Obligation?"
"At first, perhaps." He reached across the table for my hand. "But from the moment you stood up to me in that library, challenging my pity, you became so much more than Elise's daughter. You became Seraphina—brilliant, fierce, extraordinary Seraphina."
He rose from his chair, coming to kneel beside me. From his pocket, he withdrew a small velvet box.
"I had this made weeks ago," he said, opening it to reveal a ring of platinum and sapphires surrounding a familiar garnet stone. "The center stone is from your mother's ring—the one from her jewelry box. The design is inspired by your first sketch that I ever saw."
My breath caught. "Cassian—"
"I love you, Seraphina. Not because of the past, not because of who you were or who you've become, but because of who you are in every moment—changing, growing, challenging me to be better." His eyes shone with emotion. "Will you marry me? Build a life where neither of us will ever be diminished again?"
The ring glittered in the candlelight, the garnet catching fire like my mother's spirit reborn. In that moment, all doubts, all fears about our age difference, our families' opposition, the scandal Victoria had tried to create—all of it fell away.
"Yes," I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "Yes."
As he slipped the ring onto my finger, I felt a circle completing—my mother's stone, my design, Cassian's promise. The past and future merging into a present filled with possibility.
His kiss tasted of champagne and certainty, of battles fought and those still to come. Victoria's schemes, my father's threats, Orion's jealousy—none of it could touch this moment, this commitment.
"Fashion Week first," I murmured against his lips. "Then we face whatever comes next. Together."
"Together," he agreed, pulling me into his arms as the moon cast silver light across the lake, illuminating our path forward.
