Three years.
Three long years had passed since Caliste Winslow last set foot on the Velmore island—the very place where she had given birth to the child she never got to hold.
Time had not dulled the scar in her heart, but it had taught her how to live again.
She had returned to her parents' home, greeted with tears and embraces from her mother, Agatha, and silent apologies from her father, Gregory. They had both aged in worry, but when Caliste came back, it was as though light entered their house again. Gregory had reclaimed his position as the rightful head of the Winslow Empire, casting Desmund into the shadows where he belonged. And though Caliste's heart still carried unspoken pain, the stability of her family gave her the foundation to rebuild herself.
No longer was she the fragile girl whose identity revolved around Lucian Velmore's whims. No longer the fallen heiress who once worked in boutiques and lived under someone else's conditions. She was Caliste Winslow again—daughter of Gregory and Agatha, heiress to the Winslow name.
But she had changed.
The Caliste that emerged after those three years was not the same as before.
She had decided she would never allow herself to be powerless again.
Instead of attending the endless parties and empty luncheons of the social elite, she buried herself in her studies. She pursued her master's degree in design, a passion she had long suppressed for the sake of expectations and appearances. Her professors soon recognized her brilliance—her sketches were bold yet graceful, and her concepts carried emotion that drew attention even from renowned critics.
The fashion world began to whisper her name.
At first, she was "the Winslow heiress making her hobby a career." But soon, she became something else: the designer whose creations carried stories.
Three years had turned her into more than an heiress. She was now a renowned designer, her pieces featured in exclusive fashion houses, her collections awaited in every high-end show. She had her own atelier, her own team, her own voice in a world where only the strongest thrived.
Still, in the quiet of her nights, Caliste sometimes sat by her desk, staring at the flicker of her lamp, her hand unconsciously pressing against her abdomen. Three years had passed, but not a single day went by when she didn't wonder—was her child healthy? Did he have Lucian's piercing eyes or her quiet smile? Did he laugh loudly or cry softly?
And most of all—did he know she existed?
She had signed her right away. She had chosen her child's safety over her own motherhood. But no matter how she tried to convince herself, it hurt.
Yet she had learned to turn pain into strength.
Whenever she picked up her pencil and began sketching, her heart poured out. Every curve of fabric, every cut of cloth, every thread seemed to weave together pieces of herself she had lost. Her designs carried her grief, her longing, her love, her resilience.
And slowly, the world began to notice.
---
It was a warm afternoon when Caliste entered her atelier, a wide studio filled with sunlight and shelves of fabric. Her assistants bustled around, preparing mood boards and fabrics for the upcoming fashion week.
"Miss Winslow, the investors are here to discuss your Paris showcase," her secretary reminded her.
Caliste nodded, brushing a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. She wore a sleek cream blouse tucked into tailored trousers, simple yet commanding. She had learned to dress no longer as the doll others wanted her to be, but as the woman she wanted to present.
As she walked into the meeting room, her presence commanded silence.
Three years ago, she had walked timidly, hiding under others' shadows. Now, when she stepped into a room, she carried herself like fire wrapped in velvet—graceful, but undeniable.
She spoke with confidence, presenting her new line inspired by rebirth. A collection dedicated to women who had been broken but chose to rise again. The investors, mostly men twice her age, were captivated by her sharp words and visionary sketches.
When the meeting ended, her secretary whispered with a smile, "They're hooked, Miss Winslow. They'll fund everything."
Caliste allowed herself a small smile. "Good. Then let's begin."
---
That night, after all the lights of her atelier dimmed and her team left, Caliste sat by herself with a sketchbook. The silence was both comfort and torment.
Her fingers traced lines across the paper, forming the outline of a child's jacket. She stopped midway, her hand trembling.
"Three years…" she whispered softly. "You must be walking by now…"
Her throat tightened, and she pressed her hand against her lips to stifle the sob. Tears slipped past anyway, staining the page.
But then she inhaled, steadying herself. She closed the sketchbook and whispered, "Not tonight. Tonight, I will be strong."
---
The Winslows hosted a grand charity gala two weeks later. Gregory wanted to reintroduce his daughter into high society in full force, not as a victim of the past but as the heiress and designer she had become.
Caliste walked into the grand ballroom in a gown of her own creation—sleek, black silk that hugged her frame yet trailed like liquid shadow behind her. A single ruby pendant gleamed on her neck. Whispers filled the room the moment she entered.
"Is that Caliste Winslow? She's stunning…"
"She looks different. Stronger."
"That gown—don't tell me she designed it herself?"
But Caliste only held her head high, her face calm though her heart pounded.
She greeted acquaintances politely, but she no longer lingered in false pleasantries. She smiled, spoke briefly, then moved on.
It wasn't long before she found herself standing by the balcony, gazing out at the glittering city lights. For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe.
"You've changed."
The voice startled her.
Caliste turned, and her breath caught. Standing a few feet away, tall and composed, was a man she had once believed she would never see again.
Lucian Velmore.
He was dressed in a tailored black suit, his sharp features illuminated by the golden light of the chandeliers. Time had only made him more refined, more dangerous. But it wasn't his appearance that made her heart clench—it was the look in his eyes. Dark, unreadable, but filled with something heavy.
Caliste froze, her lips parting slightly. For a brief moment, every wound she thought had healed began to ache again.
Lucian's gaze swept over her, lingering on her gown, her presence, the way she stood with unshaken grace.
"Three years," he said quietly. "And you've become… remarkable."
Her fingers curled against her gown. She forced her voice steady. "And you're still the same, Mr. Velmore. Always appearing where you're least wanted."
A ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips. "I see you haven't lost your fire."
Caliste turned her gaze back to the city, unwilling to let him see how her heart raced. "Why are you here? This is my father's gala."
"I'm here because I was invited," Lucian replied calmly. "Business, as always." He paused, his tone lowering.
Her breath caught.
She clenched her fists to steady herself.
Lucian's eyes softened almost imperceptibly. "You gave me everything, Caliste. And yet… I wonder if you even know what that means."
Her chest ached, her composure threatening to shatter. Memories flooded—his touch, his coldness, his rare moments of gentleness, the night she surrendered her child.
Caliste turned sharply, her voice trembling with restrained fury. "Don't. Don't you dare speak of what I gave. You—of all people—have no right."
Lucian fell silent, his gaze fixed on her as though he could see through every wall she built.
For the first time in years, Caliste felt her strength falter. But she lifted her chin high, refusing to let him see her break.
"Enjoy the gala, Mr. Velmore," she said coldly. "I have guests to attend to."
With that, she swept past him, her gown trailing like a blade behind her.
But as she walked away, her heart thundered painfully in her chest.
Because she knew—her past was not done with him yet.