Crystella
Crystella sat at her desk, staring at the half-finished sketch she'd abandoned days ago. The lines felt like mere outlines—shadows of what they could be. In the past, her designs had come to her like music, flowing naturally, each note building upon the last. But now, it was as though someone had turned down the volume. The inspiration was still there, somewhere in the background, but it was muted by the constant pressure of her family's legacy, weighing on her shoulders like a cloak too heavy to wear.
She reached out to touch the fabric samples scattered across her desk, running her fingers over the soft silk and delicate lace. The gown she was designing was supposed to be the centerpiece of her latest collection—a statement piece that would turn heads, make waves in the fashion world, and redefine her brand. But every time she tried to breathe life into the design, it felt like something was holding her back.
"Why does it always have to be this way?" she thought, her frustration bubbling to the surface. Every time she tried to create something that was purely hers, it felt like her family's shadow loomed over her, judging every choice she made. The Powers name had opened doors for her, but it had also placed her in a cage—a cage where every success was expected, and every failure would be amplified.
She closed her eyes, letting her mind wander back to her grandmother's study, where she had spent hours as a child watching Lena Powers prepare for society events. Her grandmother had always been a vision of elegance, but there had been a strength beneath her beauty that Crystella admired. Lena had the ability to command a room without ever raising her voice, her presence as striking as the clothes she wore.
"Style is power," Lena had once told her, placing a hand on Crystella's shoulder. "But never forget, power comes with a price. We're not just dressing ourselves, Stell. We're dressing our family's reputation. Every choice we make reflects back on the Powers name."
Crystella could still hear the words echoing in her mind as she sketched, her pencil moving slowly, deliberately. Her hand traced the curves of the gown, adding layers of texture—embroidered roses, leaves woven into the fabric like veins running through the heart of the design. The roses reminded her of the garden where she had spent countless hours seeking solace as a child, hiding from the world and its expectations.
The color palette began to take shape in her mind: deep, rich purples and soft silvers, shades that spoke of power and mystery, like the twilight hours just before dawn. She wanted the gown to feel like stepping into another world—one where strength and softness coexisted, where a woman could be both powerful and vulnerable at the same time.
She imagined the woman wearing it—someone who had faced the weight of the world but refused to let it break her. The dress wasn't just fabric sewn together; it was a story of survival, of resilience. A story that was as much hers as it was her grandmother's.
Just as she was beginning to feel a sense of clarity, there was a soft knock on the door.
Lucy, her assistant, entered with a clipboard in hand. "Crystella, we need to talk about tomorrow's investor meeting."
Crystella placed the sketchbook down and looked at Lucy, her calm exterior masking the unease bubbling beneath the surface. "Have they confirmed everything?"
"They've confirmed," Lucy replied, glancing nervously at her notes. "But there's something else. They want to see more than just the designs. They're asking for detailed projections—sales forecasts, cost analysis, the whole package."
Crystella felt her stomach tighten. She had expected this, of course, but the added pressure always managed to catch her off guard. The investors weren't just looking for beauty—they wanted numbers, assurances that their investment would pay off.
"I'll handle it," Crystella said, her voice steady. "This is too important. I want to make sure everything is perfect."
Lucy hesitated, then nodded. "Of course. But if you need help—"
"I've got it," Crystella interrupted gently, managing a small smile. "Thank you, Lucy."
As Lucy left the room, Crystella turned her gaze back to the sketchbook, her thoughts already spinning toward the investor presentation. The collection had to be flawless—every detail needed to reflect not just her vision, but the promise of success. Investors didn't just want creativity; they wanted to know that their money would multiply, that Crystella's name could command not only attention but profits.
She stood up, moving to the large window that overlooked the estate's gardens. Her mind drifted to the many conversations she'd had with her grandmother about legacy—about how every decision Crystella made would be scrutinized through the lens of the Powers family name. It wasn't enough to simply be good at what she did; she had to excel in every aspect of it.
She remembered the look on her brother Jackson's face the last time they spoke about her business. He had always viewed her fashion line as a side project, a frivolous distraction from the real work of managing the family's assets. No matter how successful her designs became, Jackson always managed to remind her that, in the grand scheme of things, her contributions were "minor."
That memory brought a flash of anger, something she rarely allowed herself to feel. Jackson's dismissiveness wasn't new, but it still stung. He had always been the golden child, the one who could do no wrong, while Crystella had to fight for every scrap of approval. The frustration she felt now was a familiar burn, one she had learned to live with, but had never fully extinguished.
"Why do I still care what he thinks?" she wondered bitterly, even as she knew the answer. She cared because, despite everything, she still wanted her family's approval. She wanted them to see her as more than just a placeholder, more than just the youngest Powers, trying to carve out a space for herself in a world dominated by the expectations of others.
But she couldn't let Jackson's opinions distract her now. She returned to her desk, picking up her pencil with renewed determination. She would finish the design, and she would finish it on her own terms.
The next morning, Crystella stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the tailored suit she had chosen for the presentation. It was a deep shade of purple—subtle, yet commanding. She had designed it herself, opting for sleek lines and a fitted silhouette that conveyed both power and elegance. Her hair, once thick chocolate-brown curls that tumbled down her back in soft waves, was now swept into a sleek low bun, emphasizing the graceful angles of her heart-shaped face. Her skin still held that warm honeyed glow, and her almond-shaped caramel eyes remained as sharp and perceptive as ever. She wore minimal makeup—just enough to highlight her features—wanting her presence to speak for itself.
As Crystella adjusted her suit in the mirror that morning, her thoughts drifted back to a conversation she'd had with her grandmother years ago. She had been sixteen, struggling with her first major collection, feeling overwhelmed by the weight of expectations.
She remembered sitting in her grandmother's study, her sketches spread across the table. Her grandmother had walked in, her sharp eyes immediately assessing the designs with a critical gaze.
"I'm not sure if I'm ready," Crystella had admitted quietly, her hands trembling slightly as she held up one of the sketches. "What if it's not good enough? What if I'm not good enough?"
Lena Powers had looked at her for a long moment before speaking. "Do you know why I chose you, Crystella? Why I brought you here to learn the business, instead of your siblings?"
Crystella had shaken her head, unsure of where this was going.
"It's because you have something they don't," her grandmother had said, her voice firm. "You have heart. You care about what you're creating. But more than that, you have resilience. This business isn't just about beauty; it's about surviving the hard days, the setbacks, the doubts. You have that strength, even if you don't see it yet."
That memory stayed with Crystella now as she prepared for the investor meeting. Her grandmother had always believed in her, even when she doubted herself. And today, she would carry that strength with her.
As she stood there, readying herself for the day ahead, her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at the screen—it was a message from Davis.
"Everything okay?"
The simplicity of his message made her pause. For a moment, she considered not responding, telling herself that she didn't need to be coddled. But then, without thinking too much about it, she typed back: "Big presentation today. I'll be fine."
She stared at the screen for a moment longer before setting the phone down. It was strange, the comfort she found in Davis' quiet support. He wasn't like her family, constantly demanding things from her. He didn't push; he just checked in, a steady presence in the background. And somehow, that steadiness made her feel less alone.
Taking a deep breath, Crystella gathered her materials and headed out the door. It was time to face the investors.
The conference room was filled with a tension Crystella could almost feel. The investors sat at the long table, their faces a mix of curiosity and skepticism. Crystella took her place at the head of the room, Lucy beside her with the financial projections and sales forecasts at the ready.
As Crystella began her presentation, she could feel the weight of every word. She spoke about her designs with passion, walking the investors through the inspiration behind each piece, the careful thought that had gone into every fabric choice, every stitch. But beneath it all, there was a growing sense of unease. She knew they were waiting for the numbers—the cold, hard facts that would prove her designs weren't just beautiful but profitable.
When she reached the centerpiece of the collection—the gown she had finished the night before—she paused, letting the weight of the moment sink in. The investors were silent, their eyes fixed on the dress as if they were trying to read the story woven into its fabric.
"This piece," Crystella said, her voice calm but steady, "isn't just a design. It's a reflection of legacy. It's about taking what has been passed down and transforming it into something new—something personal. This gown represents strength, resilience, and the ability to carve out a new path while honoring the past."
There was a long silence as the investors studied the gown, their expressions unreadable. Crystella held her breath, waiting for their verdict.
Finally, one of the older investors, a silver-haired man with sharp eyes, spoke up. "This is more than just a collection, Miss Powers. It's a statement. I'm impressed."
Crystella felt a wave of relief wash over her, but she kept her composure, nodding politely. "Thank you."
But just as she was about to move on to the next part of the presentation, another investor, a younger woman with an analytical expression, leaned forward. "Miss Powers, while the designs are undoubtedly impressive, I have to ask—how do you plan to translate this artistic vision into tangible profits? The fashion industry is notorious for its volatility. What assurances can you give us that this collection will perform as expected in the market?"
Crystella felt a slight pang of anxiety, but she quickly pushed it aside. This was the moment she had prepared for—the moment to prove that her creativity was matched by her business acumen.
"With respect," Crystella began, meeting the woman's gaze steadily, "I understand your concern. The fashion industry does indeed have its risks, but it also has tremendous potential for reward, especially when you're able to create a brand that resonates on a deeper level with consumers. My approach isn't just about creating beautiful garments; it's about building a brand narrative that people connect with emotionally. This connection drives loyalty, and loyalty drives sales."
She gestured toward Lucy, who brought up the financial projections on the screen. "Our market research has shown a growing demand for luxury fashion that tells a story—pieces that stand out not just for their quality but for what they represent. We've already seen strong interest from high-end retailers and direct inquiries from clients who resonate with the themes of this collection. The projected sales figures reflect a conservative estimate, accounting for potential market fluctuations, but the demand we're seeing suggests that we'll exceed these expectations."
There was a moment of silence as the investors digested her words, their eyes flicking between the gown and the numbers on the screen. The younger woman seemed to consider this, her analytical gaze softening just a fraction.
Crystella continued, her confidence growing. "I believe in this collection not just as a designer, but as a businesswoman. I've built this brand from the ground up, and I understand the balance between creativity and profitability. This collection is just the beginning of a larger vision—one that will establish our brand as a leader in the luxury fashion market."
The silver-haired man nodded, clearly impressed, but the younger woman remained thoughtful. "It's an ambitious plan, Miss Powers. But ambition is often what sets the successful apart from the rest. I'll be looking forward to seeing how you execute it."
Crystella smiled, feeling a mix of relief and pride. "Thank you. I'm confident that you won't be disappointed."
As Crystella continued her presentation, she noticed another investor, Mr. Hawthorne, frowning slightly. His hand rose as she moved on to discuss the projected sales figures.
"Miss Powers," Mr. Hawthorne began, his voice firm but not unkind, "while I appreciate your vision and the artistic value of your collection, I have to wonder: How do you plan to mitigate the risks? The fashion industry is notoriously volatile, and while your name holds weight, we've seen many promising brands rise and fall in a single season."
Crystella held her breath for a moment. This was the question she had been dreading. Investors like Mr. Hawthorne were cautious, always concerned about safeguarding their money. But this was her chance to prove herself—not just as an artist, but as a businesswoman.
"I understand your concerns, Mr. Hawthorne," she said, maintaining her calm demeanor. "And I won't pretend that the fashion industry doesn't come with risks. However, what sets this collection apart is its story, its connection to heritage and strength. We've seen increasing demand for luxury brands that resonate emotionally with consumers, and that's exactly what I'm offering. It's not just about clothing—it's about building a brand with lasting impact."
She gestured to Lucy, who brought up the detailed market research they had gathered. "We've conducted in-depth studies with high-end retailers and clients who are seeking more than just the next trend. They want pieces that stand the test of time, that carry a story with them. And we've already secured pre-orders that exceed our initial projections, which gives us a strong foothold in the market."
The younger investor, the analytical woman from earlier, leaned in. "Pre-orders are a good start, but what about the long-term strategy? How do you plan to maintain consumer interest beyond the initial release?"
Crystella smiled, her confidence growing. "Our strategy is twofold. First, we'll be leveraging exclusivity—limited editions that will keep demand high and ensure that our pieces remain desirable over time. Second, we're focusing on collaborations with influential figures in fashion and art, creating a brand ecosystem that keeps us in the spotlight. This approach has proven successful for other luxury brands, and I believe it will work here as well."
The room was silent for a moment, and Crystella could feel the weight of their scrutiny. But then Mr. Hawthorne nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Ambitious, Miss Powers. But I see potential here. Let's see if you can live up to your name."
The rest of the presentation went smoothly after that. Lucy presented the financial projections, and Crystella answered questions with ease, her confidence growing with each passing minute. By the time the meeting was over, she could see the investors were on board—her vision had resonated with them.
As the investors filed out, Lucy approached her, a grin spreading across her face. "You did it, Crystella. They loved it."
Crystella smiled, but the weight of her family's expectations still lingered in the back of her mind. She had succeeded today, but she knew that every success only brought more pressure—more eyes watching, waiting for her to falter. And deep down, there was still that small voice reminding her that she was never far from being judged by her family—not just for her business, but for who she was. For her place in the Powers legacy.
Later that evening, after the adrenaline of the presentation had worn off, Crystella found herself back in her studio, staring at the finished gown. She ran her fingers over the fabric, tracing the intricate patterns she had spent hours perfecting. It was beautiful, yes—but it was more than that. It was a testament to her ability to create something that was hers, something that wasn't dictated by the Powers legacy.
And yet, even in this moment of triumph, Crystella couldn't shake the feeling that the shadow of her family still loomed large over her. The pressure to succeed—to prove that she was more than just a name—was relentless. But tonight, for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to feel proud of what she had accomplished.
Maybe she couldn't escape her legacy entirely, but she could shape it into something new. Something that was hers.
She was about to close her studio for the night when her phone buzzed again. This time, it was a message from Davis.
*Heard the presentation went well. Knew you'd crush it.*
Crystella read the message twice, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She hadn't expected him to follow up, and for some reason, his quiet support eased the lingering tension in her chest. It was strange how, over time, she had come to appreciate his steady presence. He didn't push, didn't demand more than she was willing to give—he was just there, offering her a sense of calm in a world that was constantly pulling her in a thousand different directions.
"Thanks," she typed back. "I survived the day."
There was a pause before his next message came through: "Surviving's a start. I'm proud of you. We should celebrate."
Crystella hesitated for a moment before replying. "Thanks and yeah, We should celebrate."
There was a pause, and for a moment, Crystella wondered if she should typed something else, like maybe suggest dinner. But then Davis texted back: "Dinner tonight ?"
She smiled, feeling a warmth she hadn't expected. "Dinner sounds good. How about tomorrow night?
As she set her phone down, she realized something had shifted between them. Davis wasn't just her partner in this arranged marriage anymore—he was becoming someone she could rely on, someone who understood the pressure she was under, but didn't judge her for it. He gave her space when she needed it, but he was there, quietly supporting her in ways she hadn't even noticed before.
Maybe, just maybe, she could let him in. Maybe it was time to stop fighting this connection and see where it could lead. For tonight, though, she allowed herself to relax, the weight of the day finally lifting as she thought of the possibility of something more.