A Company Divided
The Moretti Moda headquarters was a cathedral of glass and steel, rising above the narrow cobblestone streets of Milan like a monument to modern luxury. Inside, everything gleamed—marble floors, brushed gold accents, and sleek displays of current collections. It was fashion at its most powerful, and at its coldest.
Elena stepped out of the elevator, her heels making a soft echo across the marble. She wore a charcoal gray dress—tailored, elegant, but without flourish. It was a quiet defiance to the world she had once left behind. Her eyes scanned the open-plan floor, the familiar buzz of sewing machines and marketing meetings rushing back like a tide.
As she approached the executive wing, eyes followed her. Whispers traveled faster than footsteps.
"She's back."
"Is that the one who left?"
"I thought Valentina was the only Moretti left in charge."
The receptionist stood quickly. "Ms. Moretti. Welcome. Ms. Valentina is in the boardroom. They're waiting for you."
Elena nodded once, adjusting the strap of her leather bag before stepping through the glass doors.
Inside, the atmosphere was taut. Valentina stood at the head of the long table, flawlessly composed in a navy blouse and high-waisted trousers, delivering a projection overview to the senior department heads. At her side was Marco Bianchi, the CFO and her right hand since their father's illness began.
"Elena," Valentina said coolly, glancing at her watch without skipping a beat. "You're right on time."
Elena offered a tight smile and took a seat. She could feel Marco's eyes lingering—a mixture of curiosity and challenge.
"Good morning," Elena said. "Please, continue."
Valentina tapped the screen. "As I was saying, our fall line saw a 12% drop in international sales, largely due to the aggressive campaigns from Balenciaga and Moët-Ferrand. We need a strong counter for the spring collection—and we need it fast."
"Or," Elena offered, leaning forward, "we rethink the strategy completely. Instead of chasing competitors, we reclaim what made us different—our story, our heritage."
Valentina paused. The room shifted.
Marco raised an eyebrow. "And that would be?"
"Our roots," Elena said. "Our mother. She was the soul of the original Moretti line—textiles inspired by local artisans, hand-woven fabrics, raw emotion. That's what people fell in love with. We've become too polished. Too cold."
Valentina's eyes narrowed, but she didn't interrupt.
Elena continued. "If we redesign the spring line with authenticity, we not only differentiate from the competition—we give people a reason to feel something again."
Silence held for a beat too long.
Then Marco chuckled dryly. "So you want to romanticize nostalgia as a business plan?"
"I want to tell the truth," Elena replied calmly. "Fashion is nothing without story."
Valentina crossed her arms. "And how exactly do you plan to do that in three months?"
"I'll start with the design team today," Elena said. "And I'll personally oversee the textile partnerships. I know who to call."
Valentina held her gaze. "Fine. But if we're betting the brand on emotion, I expect results."
"I'll deliver."
"Then let's see what you've got."
The tension in the room broke as the team filed out, murmuring about campaigns and strategy. Elena stayed seated, gathering her notes slowly. Valentina lingered by the screen, back turned, jaw clenched.
"You really think you can waltz in here with old memories and change the direction of a company in free fall?" Valentina said quietly.
"I think this company lost more than numbers," Elena replied. "And you know it."
Valentina turned, eyes sharp. "You don't know what I know. I've been here every day since Dad fell ill. I held this place together while you hid in Florence."
"I wasn't hiding."
"No? Then what would you call it?"
Elena stood. "I was healing. Something you never allowed yourself to do."
For a brief second, Valentina's composure faltered. But it snapped back just as quickly.
"Just don't let your healing cost us our legacy."
Later that afternoon, Elena found herself in the old design wing—a quieter floor that had once been her mother's favorite space. The walls still bore sketches and textile samples from collections long past. The scent of fabric dye lingered faintly in the air, like a memory waiting to be touched.
A young designer looked up from her desk as Elena entered.
"Can I help you?"
"Yes," Elena said warmly. "I'm Elena Moretti."
The girl's eyes widened. "Oh... I've heard so much about you. I'm Lucia. I just started six months ago."
"Nice to meet you, Lucia. I'll be working closely with the team on the spring collection."
Lucia's face lit up. "That's amazing! Do you really want to bring back the artisan textures? I've seen old samples—some of them are breathtaking."
Elena smiled. "Exactly. We're going to make people feel again."
They spoke for an hour—Elena sketching, Lucia pulling fabric options, excitement brewing in the room like a long-forgotten song returning. By the time Elena stepped out into the hallway, she felt lighter than she had in years.
But down the corridor, she caught a glimpse of something that stopped her: a door, half open, leading into her father's private vault. It had been sealed since his death.
She stepped closer.
Inside, the room was dark—except for a lone light hanging above the desk. Files, ledgers, and blueprints lined the shelves. And in the far corner, a locked black cabinet bearing a golden emblem: a phoenix.
The same symbol their mother used in her final collection before her death.
Elena's breath caught.
She reached for the cabinet handle.
It didn't budge.
Behind her, a voice echoed.
"You shouldn't be in here."
She turned.
It was Marco.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"That room holds sensitive documents," he said, tone even.
"I was just looking," Elena said. "That cabinet—what's in it?"
"Only what your father wanted buried."
Elena stared at the emblem again, heart quickening.
Then she met Marco's gaze.
"Secrets don't stay buried forever."
Marco didn't smile. "In this family, they usually do."