Chapter 8
The atelier was silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioner. I stepped inside, flicked the remote, and the room bloomed with light. A wall of sketches sprawled across a large whiteboard, their familiar lines tugging a smile from me.
At the worktable, ivory satin lay spilled like moonlight, waiting for me to breathe life into it.
"The fabric was delivered yesterday, Ms. Aurora. Also," Celeste's voice came gently at my side, "the test fabric design was brought early this morning."
I hummed in acknowledgment, eyes catching on the needles in their small tray—gleaming, patient, like secrets twelve years in the making. My breath hitched as I ran my fingers over the satin.
"I'll handle everything from here, Celeste. Thank you."
I pulled out my chair and set the sewing machine ready. Celeste excused herself, leaving me alone with the quiet. The needle pierced the fabric with a steady rhythm—tack, tack, tack—like a controlled heartbeat, unlike the faltering one inside me.
"Small stitches, Ro," I murmured, echoing my mother's lessons. "Invisible seams. Perfection is in what they cannot see."
The fabric accepted my touch, yielding where I guided it, resisting where it wanted to keep its own shape.
I folded the edge with precision, the thread slipping through, pulling it tight.
A faint smile tugged at my lips as the stitch disappeared, seamless, as though it had never been touched at all.
Sloane's silhouette burned in my mind—the slope of her shoulders, the proud lift of her collarbones, the curve of her waist I used to trace with trembling hands in the dark.
I had designed this dress years ago, when forever still felt like a promise, not a punishment.
A silk bodice that skimmed her frame, delicate spaghetti straps that would glint against her skin, a low back that revealed everything I could never claim again.
My eyes blurred. I laughed at myself, blinking away the tears threatening to fall. "Damn, Ro," I hissed under my breath as I wiped my eyes. "Why so dramatic? It's just a dress you're stitching for Sol."
Heaving a sigh, I pressed the pedal again. The needle pierced the fabric, steady and merciless. Each stitch was a vow, a confession I would never dare to speak aloud. Every push of my heel was deliberate, binding thread to cloth the way I once bound myself to her memory.
I heard her voice again, teasing, soft as a ghost: "Ro, you always make me feel like you're designing armor, not dresses."
"Perhaps you were right," I whispered. "This gown is the only armor I can give you, one that might outlast me."
When the final stitch closed the hem, I lifted the presser foot and smoothed the seam with my palm. My throat tightened as I raised the dress to eye level. "This is perfect," I murmured. "She will be perfect."
I dressed the mannequin, positioning it beside the test fabric I had locked away for twelve years—the unfinished dream of a girl who once believed she could give Sloane the world. Now, at last, I had stitched that dream into reality, though it would never belong to me.
Reaching for the swatch, I winced as a needle pricked my finger.
"Shit." A bead of blood welled bright against my skin.
I moved to press it to my lips but smeared it instead against the gown's hem.
I froze. The mark stared back like a seal.
A signature. A piece of me left with her, whether she knew or not.
I swallowed hard, bandaged the cut, and picked up a fresh needle with red thread. I didn't wipe the blood away—I sewed over it.
When I finished, I stepped back. The dress was more than fabric now. It was her. She owned it. No one else. Every stitch was like every piece of me I still had left to give.
My gaze fell on the empty mannequin across the room. My lips curved faintly. "Well... what's a bride without her partner?"
My eyes drifted to the sketch pinned on the whiteboard, its edges yellowed, its folds nearly tearing from time.
My hand trembled as I pulled it free and laid it flat on the table.
A suit. My suit. A tailored dream I once drew for myself, back when I still believed we would stand side by side—not as adversaries chained by paper contracts, but as two women who chose love above all else.
"It wasn't a game, Sol," I whispered.
The jacket was slim-cut, double-breasted with soft lapels, designed to accentuate rather than hide the delicacy of my frame.
I had chosen ivory silk-blend wool, crisp but light, meant to move with me, not against me.
It would mirror her gown in shade, but not in form—balance of light and shadow; strength beside beauty.
I set the sketch aside, replacing satin with ivory wool beneath the needle. My hands didn't tremble this time; they knew the shape of this dream too well.
The machine hummed again. Tack, tack, tack.
The jacket front took form, lapels folding into symmetry.
The lining bound to the fabric, crimson silk hidden within, like a secret stitched into my ribs.
No one would ever see it—not even Sloane.
But I would know. I would carry her against my skin, even if she never carried me in her heart again.
I pressed harder, the hum growing louder, almost frantic. The pants came together quickly, seams crisp and sharp. I imagined us standing side by side, ivory against ivory—two mannequins alive. Bride and bride. Partner and partner. Past and future colliding into what should have been.
When the final thread clipped free, I hung the jacket beside the gown. They stood hauntingly complete, waiting not for mannequins, but for us.
A breath slipped from me, heavy and suspended. For a fleeting moment, I believed the illusion—that stitches could rewrite fate, that seams could hold love unraveling, that fabric could carry the weight of forever.
The silence of the atelier reminded me otherwise. The fabric would endure. But I would not.
"Maybe, after the wedding, I'll tell you the truth," I whispered, reaching for my phone. I unlocked it and typed a message to Sloane—just to tell her the gown was finished—but my thumb froze above the screen. The message hung unsent, glowing on the screen.
"It wasn't because I don't love you, Sol. I love you too much to let you endure pain because of me—that's why..." My voice faltered as I sank deeper into the chair, one hand clutching the phone like a lifeline.
I shut my eyes, leaning back until my head tipped against the rest. "I let you hate me because I cared. I'd rather carry your hatred forever, wound you once and clean, than keep you chained to someone who could never truly stand and fight beside you."
My lips curved in a bitter smile as sleep tugged me under.
"I love you, Sol," I breathed, darkness wrapping around me. "It's still you."
?·???°???°???·?
Sloane was never the type to stay still if something bothered her.
She wasn't the kind to let things slip without saying them.
She used to tell me that whenever we argued, we should cool down first and talk only after our emotions had settled—never throw tantrums, never speak words we couldn't take back.
She taught me humility. She taught me understanding. She taught me that staying and working things out was better than seeking comfort in someone else when storms came. She taught me that I could show my real self without being invalidated.
That's why I wasn't surprised to see her standing outside Oxford.
I froze, clutching my umbrella. She stood a few meters away, drenched in the downpour. I glanced back, then at her. She didn't move, but neither did I.
"Ro," she called, her voice raw as she walked toward me. "Ro, what's this? Did you just move out of our apartment?"
My throat tightened. I couldn't look her in the eye. "You didn't have class today. Why are you here?" My voice came out small.
"Why are your things gone? Why didn't you tell me you were moving out? It's still a week before the break—why are you leaving early?" She reached for my free hand, her grip cold and trembling.
"And what about the letter? Why... why are you breaking up with me?"
Her voice cracked. I forced myself to look at her—and immediately regretted it. Her eyes were rimmed red, her cheeks streaked with tears, her hair plastered to her face. She looked broken, and the sight hollowed me out.
My mother was right. I wasn't good for her. All I could bring was pain. And that pain was carved across her face now, undeniable.
"Ro... please, tell me what's wrong. Did I do something?"
I shut my eyes and drew in a ragged breath. When I opened them again, I forced myself into ice. I stepped closer and cupped her cheek, my grip harsh enough to make her flinch.
"Ro, you're hurting me," she whispered, her hand tightening on my wrist.
I pulled her closer, close enough to breathe her in. "You want to know why?" My voice was low, cruel. "I got bored. You tasted good in bed, Sloane, and you were great at every performance."
Her name scraped my throat. I never called her Sloane. She was always Sol—my sun. Sometimes Sloey, when I was needy. But never Sloane. Not until now.
"Ro..." Her grip on my wrist tightened as she tried to pull away, but I pressed my fingers into her cheek. "Ro, don't call me that."
"All you've ever been to me is a plaything, Sloane," I spat, my voice low, sharp. "A pastime for whenever I needed to release... whatever I wanted. A relationship? Do you really think those four years meant I planned to marry you? No. I never planned to marry you. So dream on."
I glared at her as I shoved her away. "So back off, Sloane. I don't love you. You're nothing to me." I brushed past her, letting my shoulder bump hers for emphasis.
A loud pounding echoed in my chest. I wanted to turn back, wrap her in my arms, tell her the truth: I loved her.
But I couldn't. For her sake, I had to hurt her, to keep her safe from me.
I walked on, ignoring her calls, the confused gazes of students, ignoring everything except the distance I needed to put between us. She didn't deserve to be with me.
"Ro."
"Aurora."
A warm touch startled me. I blinked, disoriented—was it a dream? I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again, and there she was: the same familiar face I had hurt twelve years ago.
"Sol..." I whispered, then jolted upright, nearly toppling from my chair. The screech of it against the floor made me wince.
"Hey," Sloane said, holding my wrist to steady me. In doing so, she lost her balance and hit the edge of my worktable. I leaned on either side of her to prevent her from falling.
Our bodies were too close. My breathing hitched as we stared at each other. "Are you alright? You're sweating..." she frowned, glancing at the air conditioner. "But it's cool enough in here."
My throat went dry. I swallowed hard. "Why are you here...?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? You sent me a message—that's why I'm here."
A message? My eyes flicked to hers. "Sol..." I whispered again, unable to look away.
She didn't respond, just waited, patient, steady. My hands trembled as I cupped her cheeks, and before I could stop myself, I leaned in and kissed her.
Her body stiffened. She didn't push me away, nor did she respond at first. I pressed my lips against hers, nibbling her lower lip. A soft groan escaped her, and then she kissed me back, clutching my shoulders as I deepened the kiss.
My other hand moved to her waist, pulling her closer. Her fingers tangled in my hair. "Sol... I lo—"
"Ms. Aurora—"
Sloane pushed me, almost knocking me off balance. We both froze, turning toward the sound. Celeste was at the doorway, frozen in place. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Aurora," she whispered, bowing.
"Celeste," I said, regaining composure. "Do you need... something?"
"I—" Her face flushed. "I thought you and Ms. Duvall might like snacks, so I brought coffee and cake."
"Right," I said, pointing to the vacant worktable. "Just put it there. Thank you."
She nodded and hurried to the table, placing the bag down. "If there's nothing else, I'll excuse myself," she said, bowing again and almost running out.
I swallowed hard and wiped my hands on my face. "I'm sorry—" I started, but Sloane's gaze stopped me. She was glaring, and I froze.
"Why did you kiss me?" she demanded, striding toward me. I raised my hands, palms facing her, like a shield.
"I'm sorry, okay?" I mumbled, glancing at her lips. "But... you responded anyway."
She scoffed, raising her hand to slap me. I blocked it, and she just looked at me, hand still suspended. After a long pause, she sighed and stepped closer, brushing her hand to my forehead.
"Do you have a fever? You're sweating."
"No... maybe?" I mumbled, wiping my neck.
Sloane stepped back and walked toward the mannequin. "Did you stay late to finish this?" she asked, gesturing to the dress.
"Yeah," I said, setting the coffee and cake from Celeste on the table. I walked to stand beside her.
Her fingers traced the fabric. "It's... beautiful," she whispered, barely audible.
I smiled sideways. "I'm glad you like it."
She turned to me, a ghost of a smile tugging her lips. "You wouldn't be CEO and creative director of your empire if you weren't amazing at what you do. And I know how great you are at your craft—no doubt in it."
She tilted her head, eyes lingering on me. "But you really don't look well. You're pale."
"Maybe just fatigue," I waved her concern away. "Come on—coffee and cake?" I gestured to the snacks.
She sighed and walked beside me to the table. I pulled out a chair for her; she nodded, settling in. I sat across from her, handing her the caramel macchiato while I took the Americano.
We sipped in silence, until she broke it. "Were you dreaming earlier?"
My cup froze mid-air. "What do you mean?"
"You were mumbling." She sipped. "You kept calling me the name you used before. Sloey."
The knot in my throat nearly choked me. She scoffed softly, shaking her head. "What was that, Ro? A nightmare from back then?"
I forced a laugh, staring at the suit across the room. "Yeah... maybe it was. The same nightmare I've been having for twelve years."