Caliste had buried herself in work ever since the Gala at the Winslow estate. Sketches piled up on her desk, fabrics draped across the mannequin in the corner, and the sharp scent of ink and perfume filled her design studio.
Work was her sanctuary. The one place where her thoughts didn't dare betray her.
When her hands were sketching, her mind was steady. When she was choosing threads, she was in control. For hours, sometimes days, she could forget the piercing weight of Lucian Velmore's eyes across a crowded room.
At least… until silence crept back in.
Her pen stilled that afternoon, the silence broken by a gentle knock on her office door.
"Come in," she called, her tone composed though her brows furrowed.
Her secretary, a young woman with neatly tied hair and a nervous smile, stepped inside holding a silver-trimmed envelope. "Miss Winslow, this has just arrived. An invitation."
Caliste lifted her gaze from the half-finished sketch. "From whom?"
"The Rebeiro family," the secretary replied, placing the envelope carefully on her desk. "They're hosting their annual Gala. They've requested your attendance."
Caliste's brows rose slightly. The Rebeiros were not just clients—they were among her most loyal patrons, proudly wearing her designs to every social function. Their support had cemented her reputation as a sought-after designer.
"They expect you to attend," her secretary added carefully. "In fact, the note emphasizes they wish to acknowledge you publicly as their designer."
Caliste sat back in her chair, fingers brushing lightly over the envelope.
For a moment, she hesitated. Gala. The word itself carried too much weight. Too many memories of glittering lights and faces turned toward her… and of another face she never wished to see again.
But this was different. This was not about her past, nor about him. This was about her career. About her identity—the one she rebuilt from ashes.
Finally, she nodded. "Tell them I'll attend."
A smile spread on the secretary's face. "Very well, Miss Winslow. Shall I arrange the fittings?"
"No need," Caliste replied softly, standing from her desk. "I'll prepare the gown myself."
That night, Caliste stood before her gilded mirror, her vanity covered in palettes and brushes. With steady hands, she applied her makeup, highlighting the sharp lines of her cheekbones, the subtle glow of her lips, the elegance of her eyes.
She had always been beautiful—her mother never let her forget it—but tonight, her beauty carried something new. A quiet power. A dignity she had earned.
Her gown, a creation of her own, shimmered like liquid silver beneath the lamplight. The fabric hugged her figure, falling into graceful folds that seemed made for a queen. It was neither loud nor desperate for attention. It was regal.
As she slipped into her heels, she stared at her reflection one last time.
The woman staring back was not the naive girl who once sacrificed everything. Nor the broken figure who cried silently in an island manor.
This woman was Caliste Winslow—renowned designer, heiress reborn, a woman who no longer needed anyone's approval but her own.
And yet, as she turned to leave, a flicker of unease stirred in her chest.
For no matter how much she told herself otherwise, every Gala carried the risk of crossing paths with him again.
Lucian Velmore.
Her hand tightened around her clutch. She straightened her back, her eyes cold with resolve.
If he is there… so be it. Tonight, I attend not as his past but as the woman I've become.
The Gala Night.
The Rebeiro mansion shimmered under a thousand crystal lights, its marble floors glowing beneath the chandeliers. Guests flowed in, diamonds glittering, laughter and music mixing like a practiced symphony of wealth and power.
Caliste stepped through the grand entrance, her silver gown catching every glimmer. Heads turned, whispers trailed, but she kept her chin high, her every movement graceful and measured.
"Caliste, my dear!"
The warm voice of Xonia Rebeiro cut through the crowd. The matriarch herself approached, resplendent in emerald satin and layered pearls. Her face lit up with genuine delight as she clasped Caliste's hands.
"You came! How it pleases me to see you here tonight."
Caliste offered a small, respectful smile. "I couldn't miss it, Madame. Your invitation is an honor."
"Honor?" Xonia chuckled, giving her hand a fond squeeze. "The honor is ours. You've transformed my entire family's wardrobe. Tonight, everyone will know it."
Before Caliste could protest modestly, Xonia swept her toward the stage with a force only a matriarch could command.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Xonia's voice rang out, commanding the room as silence fell. "It is my privilege to introduce a woman of extraordinary vision and talent. The designer behind every Rebeiro gown you've admired—our family's pride—Miss Caliste Winslow."
A spotlight found her, dazzling.
Caliste's breath caught for a heartbeat, but then she lifted her head, stepping into the light with poise. Applause thundered across the hall, nobles and elites craning their necks to glimpse her.
"She's stunning," someone whispered.
"So young… and already at the top of her craft."
Caliste bowed her head slightly, her face serene. Inside, her chest swelled with something she hadn't felt in years—recognition not tied to her name, but her work. Her creation. Her survival.
When she returned to her seat, the tide of attention followed.
Elegant women leaned toward her, smiles sharp with both curiosity and admiration.
"Miss Winslow, I must have you design my gown for the winter ball."
"And me, for my daughter's wedding. Nothing less will do."
"I've heard of you for so long. Finally, we meet!"
Caliste kept her composure, offering each a polite smile. She withdrew a slim case of calling cards and distributed them with practiced grace.
"Please book an appointment with my office," she said warmly. "We'll discuss details, fabrics, and measurements at your convenience."
Her tone was professional, not boastful. And yet, in that moment, she no longer felt like the girl who once hid behind gilded curtains—she was the woman shaping futures in silk and lace.
Dinner followed, a lavish affair of crystal goblets and delicacies served in gold-trimmed plates. Laughter and chatter rose high, but as the night wore on, Caliste's chest grew tight.
The crowd pressed in, their voices echoing too loudly in her ears. Applause and music mixed into a dizzying hum.
Her hand lightly touched her collarbone, steadying herself.
She stood, excusing herself from the table with a polite smile.
"Just for some air," she murmured.
The garden welcomed her with cool night air and the gentle rustle of leaves. Lanterns lined the paths, their glow soft against the darkness, the scent of roses heavy on the breeze.
Caliste inhaled deeply, finally loosening the tight grip around her chest.
Here, away from the chatter and the hungry eyes, she could breathe again.
She let her hand brush the petals of a white rose, the silence wrapping around her like a shield.
But deep inside, she knew this peace would not last long.