The chandeliers glittered like a thousand captured stars.
The air inside the Palazzo di Firenze buzzed with anticipation, a room full of power, money, and whispers wrapped in designer silk.
Tonight was her night.
The world knew her as Aria Valen, the elusive genius behind VALEN COUTURE, the brand that rose from nowhere to dominate Europe's fashion scene.
No one knew where she came from.
No one dared to ask.
Behind the stage curtain, Aria adjusted the cuff of her tailored black suit, sleek, minimal, elegant. Not a trace of the trembling bride she once was.
Her long dark hair was swept into a polished bun, her red lipstick sharp as a blade. Every inch of her screamed control.
Gianna, now her trusted manager, handed her the tablet. "The investors from Cross Holdings are here. Front row."
The name struck like an echo from another life.
"Cross?" Aria asked quietly.
Gianna nodded. "Yes. Their CEO, Damian Cross himself."
For a heartbeat, Aria's hand froze. The world tilted, just like it had that night five years ago.
Then she blinked once, calm, cold, and handed the tablet back.
"Tell them I hope they enjoy the show," she said.
Her voice was smooth as glass. But inside, her heart thudded against the walls she had built for years.
---
Across the grand hall, Damian adjusted his tie, eyes scanning the runway.
He hadn't planned to be here. His board had pushed for the partnership with Valen Couture, a brand that had shaken the fashion world in record time.
He didn't care much for fashion. He cared for power, precision, success, the same things that had once cost him love.
Yet tonight, something about this event unsettled him. The name Valen. It felt oddly familiar, like a whisper from a dream he had long buried.
"Sir," his assistant leaned close. "The designer prefers anonymity, but the press says she's unveiling a new collection, Rebirth."
Damian's lips curved faintly. "Rebirth? Dramatic."
The lights dimmed.
A single spotlight cut through the darkness. Music swelled, low, haunting, beautiful.
Then the models stepped out, one by one, dressed in gowns of silver and black, shimmering like moonlight on broken glass.
Each piece told a story, heartbreak, defiance, and quiet revenge.
Damian watched, transfixed, as if every design was speaking to him directly.
He leaned forward, brows furrowed. "Who designed these?"
No one answered, because the final figure had just stepped into the light.
---
Aria walked the runway slowly, her heels clicking against the marble like thunder wrapped in silk.
The crowd erupted. Cameras flashed. Reporters whispered her name, Aria Valen, the ghost who conquered fashion.
She stopped at the center of the stage, letting the lights burn gold against her face.
And then, across the crowd, her gaze met his.
Time folded in on itself.
Five years vanished.
Damian froze, every breath stolen.
It couldn't be. It wasn't possible.
The same eyes, cold blue-gray like a winter storm.
The same face, sharper now, but unmistakably hers.
Aria didn't flinch. Her expression didn't waver.
If he was fire once, she was ice now.
The applause thundered, but she heard nothing. Only the faint echo of his voice from five years ago, I can't marry you.
Now she stood above him, untouchable.
As the final spotlight faded, Aria turned gracefully and walked backstage, leaving Damian Cross staring at the ghost he thought he buried.
---
The applause still echoed in the grand hall of the Palazzo d'Oro as Aria slipped quietly through the side corridor, her heartbeat refusing to calm. The spotlight had faded, but she could still feel it burning on her skin, or maybe it was his gaze. Damian Cross. The man who once shattered her into pieces, standing there in the front row, alive, powerful, and looking straight at her like time had never passed.
She exhaled sharply, forcing her heels to move faster across the marble.
You're Aria Valen now, she reminded herself. Not the girl who begged for love five years ago.
The sound of footsteps followed. Measured. Heavy. Familiar.
Her chest tightened. She didn't have to turn to know who it was.
"Aria." His voice was deeper now, rougher, a tone that carried command and hesitation all at once.
She stopped. The name he used wasn't the one on her passport, but it still reached straight through her armor. Slowly, she turned around.
Damian stood a few steps away, tall and immaculate in his black suit, the golden light catching the sharp lines of his face. There were faint traces of exhaustion beneath his eyes, the kind that came from sleepless years and buried regret.
"Miss Valen," she said coolly, the hint of an accent lacing her words. "I believe we've never met."
His jaw tensed. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Pretend you don't know me."
She smiled, small, cold, devastating. "Five years can change many things. People. Names. Even memories."
He took a step closer. The air thickened between them. "But not eyes like yours."
Her smile faltered for half a second, enough for him to see the flicker of emotion before she rebuilt the wall.
"Congratulations on the show," he said, his tone carefully composed. "Cross Global is proud to sponsor such... exceptional talent."
"You should be proud of your PR team, Mr. Cross," she replied, her words like silk over blades. "They have exquisite timing. I almost believed it was coincidence."
He hesitated. "It wasn't."
Of course not. Damian Cross never did coincidences.
Her fingers clenched subtly at her side. "Then what is it, Damian? A business acquisition? Or just curiosity, seeing how much the woman you destroyed could rebuild herself?"
His expression hardened. "You think I came here to"
"To what?" she cut in, her voice rising softly but sharp enough to slice. "Apologize? Redeem yourself? You had your chance, remember? I begged you to believe me, and you turned your back. You buried me."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Damian's eyes darkened. "And yet you rose from the ashes."
Her lips curved. "You sound surprised."
"I am," he admitted quietly. "And I'm sorry."
The words hung in the air, heavy, raw, almost alien coming from him. Aria's breath caught, but she didn't let it show.
"Sorry doesn't rewrite the past," she murmured. "And I no longer live there."
He looked at her like he was memorizing every detail, the red silk dress, the strength in her posture, the calm fire in her gaze.
"You've changed," he said finally.
"No," she whispered, stepping closer until her perfume brushed against his skin. "I just stopped waiting for you to come back."
He swallowed hard. For the first time in years, Damian Cross, the man who commanded boardrooms and empires, looked uncertain.
But before he could answer, a small voice echoed from behind the curtain.
"Mommy!"
Aria froze. The world stilled.
A young boy, barely four, peeked out from the backstage shadows, his dark hair falling over eyes that mirrored Damian's exactly. And beside him, a little girl in a pale blue dress held his hand tightly, watching the two adults with wide curiosity.
The blood drained from Damian's face.
Aria's heart pounded painfully, but she managed a steady tone. "Luca, Lily, back to the room, please."
The twins blinked, obediently turning to leave. But not before Damian whispered, voice cracking,
"They're... mine."
She met his eyes, steel and sorrow colliding.
"Not anymore," she said quietly. "You lost that right a long time ago."
Then she walked past him, heels echoing against marble, leaving him standing in silence, his empire crumbling, not in the market, but in his chest.
He didn't move. Couldn't. The only sound left was the soft echo of children's laughter fading down the corridor.
---