Caliste had always believed fabric spoke more truth than words. Every gown she crafted carried whispers of her soul-her grief, her hopes, her secret dreams. Yet now, even her art betrayed her.
Her sketches no longer held faceless models. Each outline bore the faint shadow of a child-tiny hands stitched into lace patterns, soft curls hidden in embroidered waves.
Her heart ached with each drawing. This is madness. I cannot keep doing this.
But the image of her son-the boy called Lucca Velmore-refused to leave her mind.
---
Three weeks had passed since the Rebeiro Gala, and still her thoughts were consumed by that fleeting encounter in the garden. She had traced every detail: his smile, his warmth, the way his hand had fit into hers as if it belonged there.
The pain of letting him go all those years ago gnawed at her. If only I had fought harder. If only I had not signed that agreement.
But she had. And her son had grown under another's care.
Lucian's care.
That truth was a double-edged blade. It comforted her-knowing the boy was safe, guarded, cherished under the unyielding protection of the Velmores. Yet it tormented her, because she knew the boy would never call her mother.
Still, she could not remain a ghost. Not anymore.
---
It began subtly.
"Book me at the Rivera charity auction," Caliste told her secretary one morning as she flipped through swatches.
Mari tilted her head. "That event? But you usually decline, Ms. Caliste. The Velmores always attend."
"I know," Caliste replied coolly, pretending to be indifferent. "And the Rivera family are dear patrons. I must not offend them."
The truth lay unspoken: the Velmores were expected to bring their heir.
If she could not claim her child, then at least she would see him.
From then on, her calendar shifted. She accepted invitations she once ignored. Luncheons, charity galas, exhibitions-events where she knew the Velmores might appear. She dressed with precision, her every look polished but never desperate, always commanding the admiration of society.
And in the glittering chaos of the elite, she began to glimpse him.
A small boy shielded by bodyguards. His laughter echoing through marble halls. His little hand clutched protectively by Lucian Velmore.
Each sighting was a dagger and a balm all at once. She never approached-never dared. But her eyes drank him in, storing every moment to replay in the lonely silence of her room.
---
But Lucian noticed.
At first, he dismissed it as coincidence. Caliste Winslow was a renowned designer-of course she would cross paths with him at such gatherings. Yet the pattern repeated too often. Wherever he brought his son, she was there, lingering just near enough.
His jaw would tighten each time he caught her gaze flicker toward the boy. There was something raw in her eyes-something she tried to mask with her practiced smile but failed.
What game are you playing, Caliste?
It infuriated him.
For years, he had swallowed his anger, burying the memory of her cold words the night she offered their child as a bargain for freedom. Waiving her right as a mother… handing me the child as if he were a transaction.
That betrayal still burned in his veins.
She had made her choice.
She had walked away.
She had signed the agreement with her own hand.
So why was she circling back now?
---
One night, after another event where he caught her eyes on Lucca, Lucian stood in his study, drink in hand, his thoughts dark.
"She thinks she can just look at him now?" His voice was low, bitter, as if confessing to the shadows.
Lucca had fallen asleep earlier, curled against his chest after begging for one more story. Lucian had held him tightly, his son's warmth steadying him. The boy was his light, his anchor. He would protect him with everything he had.
And that included protecting him from Caliste.
"She forfeited her right," he muttered, setting the glass down with a sharp clink. "She doesn't get to waltz back into his orbit as though she never left."
Yet beneath the anger lurked a truth Lucian hated to admit.
Each time he saw her watching Lucca, there was something in her eyes that unsettled him-something achingly familiar.
It was the look of a mother.
---
The following week, fate tangled their paths again.
It was a children's charity ball, where heirs of the elite were paraded in miniature suits and dresses for photographs and donations. Lucian despised such events, but Lady Victoria insisted Lucca's presence would strengthen the family's image.
Caliste was there too, stunning in a crimson gown that turned heads the moment she entered. She played her role flawlessly, laughing with patrons, accepting praise for her latest collection. But her gaze betrayed her when it softened upon Lucca.
Lucian's blood boiled.
When the boy tugged at his sleeve, pointing toward the grand fountain, Lucian allowed him to run a short distance under the watch of guards. Yet out of the corner of his eye, he saw Caliste shift, as though drawn toward them.
That was enough.
He intercepted her near the marble pillars, his presence like a storm.
"Enjoying the spectacle, Caliste?" His voice was low, edged with steel.
She stiffened but did not falter. "It's a charity event, Lucian. I'm here like everyone else."
His eyes narrowed, piercing her. "Don't insult me. I've seen the way you look at him."
Her lips parted, but words failed.
"You gave him up," he continued, his tone sharp as glass. "You signed away every right, every claim. You don't get to haunt him now with your sudden conscience."
Her chest ached at his cruelty, but she lifted her chin. "And what if I just wanted to see him? To know he's well?"
Lucian's jaw clenched. Rage warred with something else inside him. "He is mine, Caliste. Mine to protect. And I will not let you confuse him with your regrets."
Her eyes glistened, but she refused to let the tears fall. "I don't want to confuse him, Lucian. I only-" She stopped, swallowing her words. I only want to love him.
But she had no right to say it aloud.
Lucian stepped closer, his shadow engulfing her. "Stay away from him. If you truly care for his well-being, you will keep your distance."
Then he left, striding back to his son without looking back.
Caliste's strength crumbled the moment he was gone. She leaned against the pillar, trembling, her nails digging into her palms. His words were knives, but the worst pain came from knowing he was right.
She had no claim.
No right.
No name.
Only the hollow ache of a mother's heart.
---
That night, alone in her room, she whispered into the emptiness, "I will not give up."
Her resolve hardened.
If Lucian would not allow her near their child, she would find another way. She would weave her presence into Lucca's life, stitch by stitch, until the day came when truth could no longer be silenced.
She had been a coward once. She would not be again.
For she was not only a designer of gowns.
She was a woman who had birthed a legacy.
And no matter how Lucian raged, she was still the boy's mother.