Chapter 10
+ 5 Points
Perched by the window of my rented apartment–a snug studio tucked away in the center of Milan–I absently ran my fingers along the edges of the business card Julian had handed me days earlier. I’d been holding it for hours, flipping it over again and again, as if the answers I needed were somehow hidden within its cardstock or ink.
The whole situation felt almost unreal.
A real chance at beginning again.
Could I be naive enough to think that, at long last, the universe was offering me something good? After so many years spent pouring out everything I had, only to end up empty–handed–was it really okay to accept something for myself now, without feeling undeserving?
I let out a slow breath, the murmur of Milanese life drifting up through the window.
+5 Points
“I’m doing this.”
The following morning, Julian was already waiting outside Studio Élan when I arrived. The building was striking–its sleek glass facade partially draped in climbing vines, with a minimal gold sign glinting above the doorway. Inside, it pulsed with energy: models moving through fittings, designers sketching, fabrics cascading in motion. It was creative chaos in perfect rhythm.
Julian stood by the entrance, holding out a cup of coffee and flashing a disarming grin. “Welcome to your new playground.”
I raised an eyebrow as I accepted the drink. “Playground?”
He leaned in conspiratorially. “Design isn’t work. It’s play–but with imagination.”
I chuckled. “That sounds dangerously poetic.”
He gave me a quick wink. “Dangerously charming, too.”
I rolled my eyes, but the way my heart fluttered betrayed me.
He guided me through the studio with ease -introducing me to staff, showing me mood boards and fabric samples. He never hovered, yet was somehow always nearby when I was uncertain or in need of direction.
That’s how it all began.
At first, I struggled. My hands felt clumsy on sketch paper, and I questioned every shade. I selected. But Julian never pressured me- only offered quiet encouragement.
“Stop–second–guessing,” he said one afternoon, glancing over my shoulder. “You’re Penelope Hughes. I’ve seen what you’re capable of.”
I sighed. “You saw what I was. That was a
“And now I get to see who you’re becoming.”
With him nearby, I started to remember what creating felt like before fear and self–doubt crept in. I rediscovered the texture of fabric slipping between my fingers, the thrill of sketching at midnight, the satisfaction of watching a design take form from sheer instinct and pencil lines.
One evening, long after most of the studio had emptied, I stayed behind to pin lace onto the bodice of my first piece. The only sounds were the scratch of my pencil and the faint hum of his playlist drifting from his corner.
“You’re in your element, Julian observed, sipping tea.
I looked up, smiling faintly. “I haven’t felt this alive in years.”
He stepped closer. “Then stay–don’t just stay in Milan. Stay in this version of yourself. The one who glows when she’s making
His words landed deeper than I expected.
After that night, we began spending more time together. Sometimes it was just lunch at a quiet café nearby. Other times, we’d sit on the rooftop terrace with coffee in hand, watching the Palazzo Mezzanotte sparkle as the city fell into evening. He had this way of noticing things–pulling out my chair before I sat, handing me chocolates when I looked worn out, simply listening when I spoke.
One rainy afternoon, I sneezed mid–fitting.
“Cold?” he asked, brows knitted in concern.
“It’s nothing,” I replied quickly.
Fifteen minutes later, he reappeared with chamomile tea, honey, and a pack of lozenges.
“Too much?” he asked, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips.
My heart softened. “Just enough.”
In those small, quiet moments, something dangerous began to take root.
I felt safe.
I felt seen.
And I had no idea what to do with that.
Because safety begets comfort–and comfort, if left unchecked, can lead to something deeper. Feelings. And I wasn’t ready for feelings. Not after spending so long trying to piece myself back together. I wasn’t ready to risk handing those fragile pieces to someone else.
Still, I noticed the way Julian’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, how he always smelled faintly of cedarwood and clean laundry, and how he seemed to know exactly what to say -always.
1 nought munalf storing too long
+
unce, I caught myself staring too long.
“You okay?” he asked, one brow raised.
“Yeah,” I answered quickly, turning back to my fabric swatches.
Too close, Penelope.
And yet, at night, my thoughts always drifted to him.
I remembered my college crush. We all had one on Julian back then–smart, confident, effortlessly attractive. He walked the
campus like he had already figured himself out. Meanwhile, I was just the quiet design girl, sketching in the shade of mango trees.
It had been silly, childish.
But now? He was no longer a memory. He was here, flesh and blood, and he made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time: wanted.
Still, I kept telling myself it was nothing–just a harmless little crush, the kind that passes. We were older now. Wiser. He was probably just being kind. That was who Julian was.
So I smiled, thanked him for the tea, and returned to my sketches.
Because I had made a choice.
I had chosen myself.
And right now, all I wanted was to fall back in love with my work, my creativity, and the version of me that had slowly faded
away in the blur of motherhood, silence, and sacrifice.
There was no room to fall for someone else.
Not yet.
