Chapter 13: Runway Revelation
1216words
"Five minutes, Seraphina," Marco called, clipboard in hand. "The house is packed."
I nodded, smoothing the fabric of my final creation—a gown I would wear for my designer's bow. The silk was printed with my mother's designs, patterns I'd discovered in her sketchbooks, brought to life in shimmering midnight blue. My tribute to her, my reclamation of our shared heritage.
Professor Bianchi appeared at my side, his eyes misty with pride. "They're all here, cara. Every important editor, buyer, and critic in the industry."
"And my family?" I asked, knowing the answer.
"Front row, as requested." He squeezed my hand. "Your father looks like he's attending a funeral. Your stepmother could freeze hell with her expression."
I smiled despite my nerves. "Perfect."
"Cassian is seated directly across from them." Bianchi's eyes twinkled. "The tension is... exquisite."
The music began—not the typical thumping runway beat, but a haunting piano piece that had been my mother's favorite. I took a deep breath and nodded to the stage manager.
"Send out the first model."
My collection was unlike anything Milan had seen before. I'd selected models of all body types, ages, and skin conditions—women with vitiligo, burn scars, birthmarks. Each garment was designed to highlight, not hide, these unique features. Beauty redefined, on my terms.
Through a gap in the curtains, I watched the audience reaction. Fashion editors leaned forward, captivated. Buyers whispered excitedly to each other. And in the front row, the tableau I'd orchestrated played out perfectly.
Cassian sat tall and proud, his eyes never leaving the runway, his expression one of complete admiration. Across from him, my father's face had turned an alarming shade of red, while Victoria's frozen smile looked painful to maintain. Between them sat Isolde, her expression surprisingly thoughtful, and Orion, who appeared more confused than angry.
As the final model returned backstage, the music shifted to a crescendo. My cue.
"Ready?" Marco asked, adjusting the train of my gown.
I touched the garnet ring on my finger—my mother's stone, Cassian's promise. "Ready."
The moment I stepped onto the runway, the audience erupted in applause. The lights were blinding, but I walked with confidence, feeling my mother's designs move with me like a second skin. At the end of the runway, I paused, allowing photographers to capture the moment.
My gaze found Cassian first—his eyes shining with such love it nearly stole my breath. Then I deliberately turned to my father and Victoria, meeting their glares with a serene smile. This was my moment of triumph, my declaration of independence.
As the applause continued, I completed my circuit of the runway. The traditional bow felt insufficient for what I wanted to express, so instead, I raised my arms in a gesture of embrace, welcoming the audience into the world I'd created.
The ovation was deafening. Fashion critics who had never stood for a debut designer rose to their feet. Even Isolde was clapping, though Victoria quickly grabbed her wrist to stop her.
Backstage was a blur of congratulations, champagne, and camera flashes. Journalists shouted questions, buyers clamored for appointments. Through it all, I searched for one face.
And then he was there, pushing through the crowd, his eyes never leaving mine. Cassian reached me just as a path cleared between us, as if the universe itself had decided this moment deserved space.
"You did it," he said, his voice rough with emotion.
"We did it," I corrected.
Something shifted in his expression—restraint giving way to raw feeling. In front of journalists, photographers, and industry elites, Cassian pulled me into his arms and kissed me with such passion that the room fell momentarily silent before erupting in renewed excitement.
Camera flashes exploded around us, capturing the moment for tomorrow's headlines. When we finally broke apart, both breathless, I glimpsed my father storming away, Victoria trailing behind him like a vengeful shadow.
"That should clarify our relationship status," Cassian murmured against my ear, making me laugh.
The celebration continued at an exclusive after-party, where champagne flowed freely and critics already hailed my collection as "revolutionary" and "a defiant redefinition of beauty." Through it all, Cassian remained by my side, his hand at the small of my back, his pride in me evident to everyone.
I was speaking with the editor of British Vogue when I noticed Orion watching us from across the room, his expression unreadable. Excusing myself, I approached him cautiously.
"Congratulations," he said, surprising me with what appeared to be genuine admiration. "The collection was... unexpected."
"Thank you." I studied him, searching for the cruelty I remembered. "Where's Isolde?"
"She left with your parents." He swirled his champagne thoughtfully. "She was quite moved by your show. Victoria was not pleased."
"And you?" I couldn't help asking. "Are you pleased with your choice of bride? With the life you're building?"
Something vulnerable flashed across his face. "I always thought I knew exactly what I wanted."
"And now?"
His eyes drifted to where Cassian stood talking with investors, radiating confidence and purpose. "Now I wonder if I've been pursuing the wrong things entirely."
Before I could respond, he nodded curtly and walked away, leaving me to ponder the unexpected moment of honesty.
Later, as the party wound down, Cassian led me to the rooftop terrace of the venue. Milan sparkled below us, the cathedral dome illuminated against the night sky.
"I have something for you," he said, producing a small package.
Inside was a newspaper, dated the day after my mother's death. The headline read: "Socialite Dies in Car Accident," with a small photo of my mother.
"I don't understand," I said, looking up at him.
"Turn to page three."
There, in a column about business news, was a small item: "Whitestone Holdings Under Investigation for Financial Irregularities."
"The investigation was dropped two days later," Cassian explained quietly. "Your father's influence at work. But this proves your mother wasn't paranoid. She was right."
"And now the same investigators are closing in again," I realized. "That's why Father is so desperate to control the narrative."
"Yes." Cassian took my hands in his. "Your collection tonight wasn't just a fashion statement, Seraphina. It was justice for your mother. Vindication."
Tears pricked my eyes. "She would have loved it, wouldn't she?"
"She would have been as proud as I am." He brushed a tear from my cheek. "The photographs of us will be everywhere tomorrow. Our engagement will be public knowledge. Are you ready for that?"
I thought of my father's fury, Victoria's schemes, the challenges still ahead. Then I looked at the man before me—the man who had seen value in me when I couldn't see it myself, who had given me wings instead of chains.
"I've spent my life hiding," I said, touching the ring on my finger. "I'm done with shadows."
As if to seal my declaration, fireworks suddenly burst over the Milan skyline—a coincidence, perhaps, or the universe's affirmation. In their multicolored light, I kissed my future husband, no longer caring who saw or what tomorrow's headlines might read.
For the first time in my life, I was fully, unapologetically visible. And it felt like freedom.
