Chapter 15
For the next several days, Penelope did what she promised herself she would do–she kept her distance.
She arrived early, left late, and poured herself into work with unwavering focus. She avoided unnecessary conversations, skipped lunch breaks with the team, and kept Julian at arm’s length. Every time he passed her desk or offered her a quiet smile, she responded politely but never allowed it to linger.
The boundaries were up.
She didn’t want complications–not again. She didn’t want to be misread or misunderstood. After what she heard in the bathroom, after seeing Julian’s late wife online and the similarities she couldn’t unsee, Penelope knew it was safer to retreat.
So she threw herself into preparing for the
, whispers followed her. Some murmured behind folders, others behind phone screens. Penelope heard the occasional giggle.
The stares. The unspoken doubts. But she pressed on.
She sketched and stitched, reviewed fittings, oversaw fabric deliveries. She corrected patterns at 2 A.M. and reworked designs when they didn’t feel perfect.
And Julian–he noticed the shift.
He approached her gently during one of the quieter evenings. “Penelope,” he said, “you’ve been… distant.”
She didn’t look up from her sewing machine. “I’m fine.”
“Is something going on?”
She paused, then exhaled. “Nothing I want to talk about. I just want to focus. That’s all.”
He nodded slowly, sensing there was more. But he didn’t push.
“Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll give you space. Just know, I’m here. If you need anything.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, not meeting his gaze.
He walked away.
Ella
ella
And someone else watched.
Maureen.
One of the designers on the team. Young, sharp, ambitious. She had been working under Julian for over two years, hoping, waiting for attention, for promotion, for something more. But now Julian’s attention had shifted.
To Penelope.
She couldn’t stand it.
In her eyes, Penelope hadn’t earned any of it. She hadn’t paid her dues. She was a “has–been” making a comeback and coasting on pity–or worse, attraction. Jealousy simmered beneath Maureen’s polished smile.
So she made a decision.
If Penelope was going to shine on the runway, Maureen would make sure that light turned into a fire.
The day of the show arrived.
It was held in one of Milan’s glass–domed galleries, sunlight streaming through to illuminate the rows of VIP guests, journalists, influencers, and buyers. Penelope was calm–nervous, yes, but steady. Her hands moved confidently as she made last–minute adjustments. “Good luck,” Julian said to her before the show began. “You’ve worked for this. Own it.”
She nodded, her throat tight. “Thank you.”
Backstage was buzzing with final preparations. Models were lining up. Stylists clipped tags, zipped gowns, adjusted accessories.
Everything was in place.
Until it wasn’t.
Penelope turned to retrieve the final look of her collection–a flowing gown of layered silk and organza she had worked on for over a month. Her highlight piece. The finale.
And then she froze.
The gown was ripped–torn right down the back, the fabric jagged as if someone had sliced it with intention.
Panic hit her like a punch to the chest.
“What–what happened?” she stammered.
Gasps echoed behind her. Stylists rushed in, whispering. A model stood half–dressed, wide–eyed.
“I swear it was fine earlier,” one of the assistants said. “I don’t know how-”
Then Maureen stepped forward, feigning concern. “Oh dear. That’s unfortunate.”
Penelope turned to her, heart pounding.
“I told you to be careful, Maureen added. “This was too big of a responsibility for a newcomer. Honestly, we should’ve been more cautious.”
Penelope’s lips parted in disbelief.
“Look what she’s done, Maureen said, now turning to Julian, who had just arrived. “We trusted her with this entire line. And now the finale is ruined. The press is out there already-”
:
1
“Stop.” Julian’s voice was calm, but sharp.
Everyone fell silent.
“She can fix this,” he said, locking eyes with Penelope. “Let her decide what to do.”
“But Julian-” Maureen started.
“I said let her,” he cut in firmly.
04
He turned to Penelope. “Do you have a plan?”
Her chest rose and fell. Her hands trembled slightly. The room watched her, waiting for her to collapse. To fold. To run.
But she didn’t.
She reached for the scissors.
“I can make something,” she said, voice steady. “I need fifteen minutes.”
She grabbed a sheer cape from one of the
rooke A jeweled belt A spare roll of
silk. Her mind raced as her fingers moved. Cutting, folding, layering. Stitching under pressure she hadn’t felt in years.
She didn’t just repair the dress.
She redesigned it.
When the model stepped onto the runway, the gown shimmered under the lights like water. Fluid. Ethereal. The crowd gasped. Cameras clicked in a frenzy. Whispers turned into applause.
And when the show ended–standing ovation.
Penelope stood backstage, breathless.
She had done it.
Later that night, articles began pouring in about her success.
