The Night Before
The call came just past midnight.
Aira sat cross-legged on her bed, sketchpad resting in her lap. Her fingers were stained with graphite, though she hadn't drawn much tonight. Her mind was elsewhere. Distant. Quiet.
The screen of her private phone—the one used only for business—lit up.
Incoming Call: Helena Lin (CEO - House of Éclat)
Aira answered with a flick.
"Helena," she said, her tone low and even.
"Aira—sorry for the late hour. You need to hear this."
Aira's brows lifted slightly. "Go on."
"There was a massive order placed a few hours ago. Full seasons—spring to winter. Bags, coats, gowns, streetwear—basically every ready-to-wear line under Éclat Noire."
Aira stilled. "…All of it?"
"Almost. We're scrambling to rearrange distribution. It came from a single buyer. Anonymous."
That caught Aira's attention.
Her voice cooled further. "Anonymous how?"
"No name. No contact. The shipping address was scrambled—only a secure logistics service was used. The payment was cleared through a luxury escrow. It's someone powerful, Aira. No one outside your circles can afford something like this."
Aira didn't respond immediately.
Helena waited, then added carefully, "It's almost as if they were buying… for someone else."
Aira narrowed her eyes.
"I'll look into it when I can. Hold off on public releases. Don't mention the drop."
"You got it."
She ended the call.
Aira placed the phone aside and stood.
Her fingers brushed the edge of her wardrobe.
Éclat Noire.
The name whispered like silk across the fashion world. A global brand that had redefined luxury, timelessness, and power. Every design released under the alias Vérité Noire bore her mind, her hands, her silence.
Vérité Noire—the phantom designer who had never once been seen, never interviewed, never caught in photos. Rumored to be male, older, European. No one suspected a barely-twenty-year-old heiress-turned-ghost.
She, Aira Laurent, was the mind behind the world's most coveted fashion empire.
And someone had just bought nearly every design she'd ever made.
For her.
Though she didn't know that yet.
Not fully.
Not until the next day.
The Return
The Laurent estate was… overwhelming.
Not in scale—but in quiet.
It wasn't loud, flashy, or filled with servants barking orders. It was intimate, grand without boasting. The walls carried silence like a memory. Like her.
She arrived just before lunch.
Seraphina greeted her with a smile touched by nerves, eyes filled with everything she didn't say.
Alaric, her father, waited at the base of the grand staircase, hands tucked into his blazer pockets, trying to look composed.
They didn't rush her.
They didn't reach for her.
They waited—for her to come home in her own time.
Aira didn't cry.
She simply nodded once, cool and elegant, and followed them inside.
It was only later—after the initial welcome, after her brothers had filed past with quiet nods and cautious hope—that Seraphina took her hand gently and said, "There's something we want to show you."
They led her upstairs, down a wide hallway, to the suite prepared for her. The double doors opened to a soft gasp from Seraphina.
Aira didn't gasp.
But her heart paused.
The walk-in wardrobe stretched the length of the room.
It wasn't just a collection.
It was a curation.
Dozens of pristine garments, all arranged seasonally. From hand-embroidered winter coats to sheer summer silks. Gowns she had sketched in moonlight. Bags she had prototyped over sleepless nights. Accessories only she could've designed.
Her designs.
Every single item in this wardrobe was hers.
From Éclat Noire.
The brand she owned. The art she bled into quietly, behind her alias.
She stepped forward and brushed a soft midnight velvet piece. She knew the texture. She had sourced it herself.
Seraphina's voice broke softly behind her. "We wanted you to have the best. Alaric and I… we asked the stylists to find pieces that felt like you."
Aira turned to look at her mother.
There was no recognition in her eyes.
They didn't know.
They had no idea their anonymous order had gone straight to their own daughter's hands.
She schooled her face into neutrality.
"Thank you," she said.
It was all she could manage.
Alaric appeared at the doorway, smiling faintly. "We weren't sure what you'd like, so… we chose everything."
Everything.
She believed him.
They had unknowingly emptied half her brand's vault.
The irony struck her in a way that was almost funny—but the ache underneath it wasn't.
This was love, she realized.
Not the performative kind. Not the suffocating kind.
Quiet, clumsy love.
They were trying.
And now, so would she.
She didn't tell them.
Not yet.
She simply turned back to the wardrobe, touched a sleek black overcoat she had designed during a storm, and whispered so softly only the fabric could hear:
"Welcome home."