The evening sun filtered softly through the gauzy curtains of Valerie's sitting room, casting elongated golden streaks across the polished floor. Outside, the wind stirred the branches of the jacaranda trees, their violet petals spiraling to the earth like falling memories. Inside, the weight of Valerie's guilt was growing heavier with each passing day—subtle at first, like the whisper of wind, but now pressing down on her with a suffocating steadiness.
She sat on the edge of her tufted velvet armchair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her knuckles were white. The silence in the room gnawed at her nerves. Her reflection in the gilded mirror across the room showed a woman transformed. Once poised and composed, Valerie now bore the signs of an unraveling soul. Her face, pale and drawn, was etched with lines deeper than her years. The corners of her lips were tight, almost as if they had forgotten how to smile. Her chestnut hair, once meticulously styled, hung in loose waves that she barely remembered brushing that morning. Her eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, shimmered with a constant wetness—eyes that darted around, as though the truth might burst through the walls at any moment.
Guilt had a scent—bitter and cold—and Valerie could feel it in every breath she drew.
Isabella.
The name alone carried a storm within her. Valerie could see her clearly now, in the stage of her memory like a figure illuminated under a spotlight.
Isabella, radiant at twenty-four, had become a beacon of grace and brilliance. Tall, slender, with a subtle strength in her posture, she moved with quiet confidence. Her long, dark curls were usually pulled back in a loose braid that hinted at her practical nature, but strands often escaped to frame her delicate, heart-shaped face. Her skin was sun-kissed and smooth, her brows perfectly arched, and her eyes—those deep, obsidian eyes—were pools of unknowable depth, always hiding more than they revealed. There was an elegance in her that wasn't taught; it was woven into the very fabric of her being.
The university had recognized her brilliance long before the world outside had taken notice. Her professors often said that Isabella didn't just design clothes—she breathed life into fabric. Patterns bloomed beneath her fingertips, rich with color and cultural symbolism, as if she channeled generations of forgotten artisans. Her dorm room was a sanctuary of threads and sketches, her sewing machine always humming softly into the night.
She was the best graduating student of her class, and deservedly so. On the night of the award ceremony, Isabella had worn a dress she made herself—a flowing creation of sapphire and silver that clung to her with effortless grace. She stood on stage with humility, the applause rising like a wave around her, and yet she smiled gently, almost shyly. The cameras caught that moment: her eyes glistening not with pride, but with a profound stillness, a loneliness that no accolades could erase.
Only Luciana, Celestina, and Cassandra—her closest friends—truly knew how little Isabella spoke of her past. They were drawn to her not only because of her creativity and intelligence but because she was a mystery they felt privileged to be close to. Yet even they did not know the whole truth. No one did. The truth was a locked room buried deep in Isabella's heart. A room Valerie knew all too well.
And this was what ate at Valerie's soul.
She had watched from afar as Isabella's star rose, pride warring with a shame she could no longer contain. She had smiled at photos, clapped politely during interviews, even praised Isabella's success to acquaintances. But the mirror knew better. It saw through the charade. Each smile Valerie wore was a mask, each congratulation a dagger to her conscience.
Her anxiety had begun to take physical form—tightness in her chest that woke her at night, trembling fingers she tried to hide during the day. The more Isabella flourished, the more Valerie's secret rotted inside her. Her nights were sleepless, her thoughts plagued by images of a truth buried long ago. A truth that, if ever uncovered, could destroy everything.
She rose from the chair slowly, crossing to the window as if hoping to catch a glimpse of clarity in the fading day. Her hand rested on the glass, cool against her burning skin. She saw Isabella in her mind again—smiling, sketching, creating, living—but the image would not stay still. It blurred, twisted, until the lines between past and present, between guilt and love, between protection and betrayal became indistinguishable.
She whispered her name again. "Isabella…"
Outside, the petals continued to fall, silent and unburdened by secrets.
But inside, Valerie's burden grew heavier.
And the truth—still hidden, still waiting—threatened to rise.
---
Midnight Regrets
The city was silent at midnight—just the hum of distant traffic and the occasional gust of wind rattling against glass. In his darkened penthouse, Steven Ross sat alone, draped in shadow, Helen's face glowing faintly from the screen of his tablet.
A replay of her most recent interview streamed quietly—a panel for Women in Design. She wore a steel-blue pantsuit, her hair swept up, eyes calm but brilliant with intent. She spoke about sustainable fashion, mentoring young talent, and opening Élan's third location in Chicago.
The applause echoed faintly from the speakers. Steven turned the volume down.
His chest ached with something bitter. Regret. Hunger. A feeling that hollowed him out nightly.
He had built empires. He had worn custom suits, closed billion-dollar deals. Which are all gradually crumbling since Helen left.One thing he couldn't reclaim—no matter the money or the power—It was all Helen's idea.
Helen had become the woman the world celebrated—and he, the man she had outgrown.
He reached for a whiskey bottle, pouring a slow measure. It was nearly empty—like the life around him.
Just then, his phone buzzed. A message. Jennifer.
> Still nothing from Helen?
> She's slipping away faster than either of us expected. We need to act.
Steven's jaw clenched.
Jennifer had been the last to remain loyal—though he often questioned her motives. She worked closely with his PR team, keeping rumors at bay, managing shareholders, and—more than anything—fueling his obsession with Helen's downfall. Or, as Jennifer phrased it, "rescue."
He typed back.
> She's too strong now. I see her everywhere. She's glowing... And I'm fading.
Jennifer replied instantly.
> Then let me help. But this time, we don't warn her. We remind her. Of what you had. What she's still afraid to feel.
Steven paused, rereading the message.
> What are you suggesting?
> A meeting. She won't come to you. But if you show her you're lost without her… that you still love her… she might see past Sebastian.
He stared at the screen, his hand frozen.
He hated how desperate he felt. How low he'd fallen.
But he hated more that someone else had taken Helen's warmth—her brilliance—for himself.
And she had once loved him. Truly.
Maybe, if he just reached her…
He typed:
> Do it. Set it up. Whatever it takes.
And then he turned back to the screen, watching her once more, pausing on the moment she smiled.
Even at midnight, Helen's light outshone the dark.
After three weeks, sebastian's mother recovered from illness and she was discharged by the hospital.Sebastian text a message to Helen saying "thank you so much for what you have done for my mother".
Helen saw the text message,her heart melted but she did not reply the message.
---
Across the city, Helen walked through Élan's studio after hours, heels clicking softly, the faint scent of jasmine and fabric dye still lingering in the air. Rolls of silk and unfinished sketches surrounded her like a garden of ambition.
She paused by the glass window overlooking the street—snow just beginning to fall.
Business was booming. Orders came faster than her team could produce. Articles labeled her the quiet queen of minimalist couture. Celebrities requested custom gowns. But none of it dulled the ache that still tugged at her heart at strange hours.
She thought of Sebastian. His mother was recovering. He had kissed her hand yesterday, lingering as though afraid she'd slip away again.
She hadn't told him about Jennifer's article. Not yet.
But soon, she would.
Because if she wanted to love again, really love—she needed to stop running.
Helen closed her eyes.
And in that moment, her phone buzzed with a name she hadn't seen in weeks.
Steven Ross.
A simple message.
> Helen. Please. Just one conversation. One moment. I have nothing left but you.
She didn't reply.
But her hands trembled slightly as she locked the phone and looked out into the night.
---