20. Zoe
Chapter Twenty
ZOE
I t is not that I had not been out of the nightclub before, but it has always been with a blindfold. I could only feel the world around me.
“Are you going to eat that?” Cesare motions at the sausage wrap in my hand. “We are almost there.”
I pout. I was still a little hungry and I didn’t want to keep him waiting, so I grabbed it. But the moment I entered the car, I just couldn’t stomach it.
“You want to show your celebrity crush what you had for breakfast?” Cesare teases. “People smile when people tease them, Zoe,” he says, shaking his head pitifully at me.
It’s been so long since anyone tried teasing me or making jokes around me. It’s not that I don’t know how to react, it’s just that Cesare surprises me. He is so effortlessly light. So different from his brother.
Their fashion senses are also very contrasting. While one likes to dress like the sun setting on the beach, the other likes to dress like a night void of stars.
“I feel nervous. It’s a…”
“I can eat it,” he shrugs, “You talked about Virgilio, and I didn’t have the appetite for food anymore,” he snaps his fingers at the sausage, “If you don’t mind.”
Instead of handing him the entire thing, I break it in two and hand him one part—the smaller part—and he chuckles.
“Shame on you, selfish lady,” he takes it and sighs heavily. I’m sorry about what you’ve been through.” His eyes shimmer with concern. “I know this is not much compared to everything you have endured, but it’s a start to something different, at least.” He smiles warmly.
“Thank you,” I mutter, his compassion making me feel uneasy.
He nods as if he understands what I am doing and then throws his gaze elsewhere. Then he leans on his side of the car and stares out the window.
We are both in the backseat of the car, with a scrawny driver in front and a bodyguard in the passenger seat. I do the same thing, leaning on my side of the car and staring out the window.
I feel like I’m walking into a candy store. I spin, spreading my arms out as I inhale the tangy scent of new fabrics, the sight of all the colors giving me wings.
Here we are. Valerie Moore's fabric store is all I had dreamed it would be, although some of the fabric columns are empty. This is likely because, as the adsaid, she is aboutto sell. I wonder why?
“Hello?” The sound comes from behind me, startling me. I stop spinning, now dizzy but feeling completely elated. I tilt to face the direction of the voice, and my heart hops.
I spin, almost losing my balance, but Cesare helps out, gripping my forearm and steadying me with a chuckle.
“Thank you,” I whisper to him, but my gaze stays trained on Valerie Moore, now stepping out from behind a counter that concealed her presence when we came in. “It’s Valerie,” I gasp. “It’s actually her, she is in the store!” My voice turns shaky, and I’m breathless.
To say I’m starstruck is an understatement. I’m losing my shit.
I scuttle over to her, then remember to regain composure, only because I want her to see me as a… A big girl?
“Miss Moore,” I stop in front of her, “I’m Zoe, Zoe…” It takes me a second to remember my surname because I haven’t used it in years, “Gray, I’m Zoe Gray, I am your greatest fan, I won your contest in Milan fifteen years ago…” I stutter, and she gives me a quizzical look.
She has aged. Her raven hair is a little longer, and she has tiny wrinkles on the edges of her eyes. Furthermore, she has lost weight and is, surprisingly,sporting a simple white T-shirt and fitted blue jeans.
“Zoe Gray,” she blinks, “the very same?”
I nod, my tears blurring my sight, “Yes…” I breathe out the word.
“My God,” she says, blinking her own tears back. “What… How…” She closes the distance and wraps me in a hug.
I lock my arms around her, sniffling.
She pulls away from me gently. “You are alive,” she smiles sadly, “And you must be Virgilio,” she smiles at Cesare. “You finally found her,” her smile broadens.
My face falls, and I shake my head, “He is not—” I chuckle nervously, “You met Virgilio?” She couldn’t have, because Virgilio is dead. And how would she even remember his name after all these years?
“I’m Cesare,” Cesare steps closer and stretches his hand out for a handshake, but Valerie just stares at him.
“Such a striking resemblance,” she says, taking the handshake. “I’m sorry,” she scoffs. “I never forgot his face ,” she sniffs. “And you look so much like him,” she nods to herself and then retrieves her hand. “He came to see me, asking about you, Zoe. He was so desperate to find you. I told him that you never showed up and that the authorities believed you might be dead.”
I turn to Cesare, and he looks perturbed by this revelation, the way he looked when I talked about Virgilio for the first time.
I know he is empathetic. I can tell from the way he looks at me with compassion. Maybe he is reacting that way because he feels sorry for Virgilio and now two of us have said they look alike.
Valerie continues, oblivious to Cesare’s reaction. “It was absurd how that kid hadn’t given up on you after all those months. He was so determined, so sure that you were still out there somewhere.” My eyes well up with tears as I listen, finding out like this about Virgilio’s unwavering hope is hitting me hard.
“Uncanny, the resemblance. Except for the eyes, his eyes possessed a certain… intensity and fire. That fire inspired my Opposite in Motion collection.”
“You made a collection inspired by Virgilio?” I step closer.
“Inspired by both of you, that’s why I called it that,” she smiles. “It was one of my most personal collections, but it never reached the success I hoped it would.” She motions for us to follow her, leading us to a back room where she keeps her archives.
Valerie opens a large, dusty portfolio and spreads out several sketches and fabric swatches. The collection is beautiful and poignant, capturing the essence of our tragic story. “This was a tribute to your resilience and his devotion,” Valerie explains. “It was a blend of winter outfits with summer colors, a blend of night and day, of the sun and the moon. You know, like everything opposite that makes perfect sense together.” She flips open a page. Most of the outfits are ombré. “When he came searching for you, it was then I knew something must have happened. I did all I could to help the police, but after a while, they gave up. But that boy,” she chuckles as if remembering something, “That boy never gave up.”
My tears meander in lazy streaks down my cheeks, and I feel dizzy.
Virgilio is not dead. He came back. He came back for me, but it was all too late. The Bratva had taken me and ruined our chances of a better life.
“I did everything I could,” Valerie continues, “but people moved on too quickly.”
“I was kidnapped by the Bratva and sold as a sex slave,” I whisper as if Virgilio was around to hear me. I know how angry it would make him, and I know him enough to know he would think it was his fault.
I don’t want that. I don’t want him to ever feel like he didn’t do enough for me. I was just doomed to cruelty from birth.
I want Virgilio to know I am alive.
Valerie takes my hand and squeezes gently, her eyes conveying a sympathy that words cannot express. Then she begins turning the pages of the album, displaying one striking outfit after another, their colors and patterns evoking the feeling of balance.
It does remind me of the both of us—Virgilio and me. The way Valerie was able to blend the theme feels much like the friendship we had.
We fit. Two different things that just make perfect sense together.
“I came here to pick up fabrics from your store because my new…” Owner almost makes it to my tongue, but I’m quick to clip it back, “my savior needs some suits,” I glance around. I gaze at the sketches, a lump forming in my throat. “I always dreamed of becoming a fashion designer,” I admit. “But after everything that happened, I never had the chance to pursue it.”
Valerie looks at me with disappointment and empathy in her gaze. “I always hoped you would come to Milan’s Fashion Week,” she says. “You had so much potential.”
My eyes light up with hope. “I want to make something more than the suits.” I flip through another page this time, unsure when or how I took the album from her.
“What?”
“I want to do something for Virgilio,” I breathe, still trembling from the force of the emotions I am trying so hard to suppress, “I want to honor him, and maybe,” I sniff, “if he is alive somewhere, he can see it, like a fire sign.”
“That would be great,” she smiles, then strokes my back, “Your story would inspire millions.”
“I want your help with it,” I mutter, “I can’t do it alone, and I can’t…”
“I can’t help you,” she steps away from me, her eyes drooping to the glossy finish of the countertop, “I lost the power to pull any weight. I went under.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I search my mind for anything that can help plead my case, “I feel like life is giving it back to me. I want to do this. Please help me, you have been my role model my whole life.”
Valerie sighs, shaking her head, and clears her throat, “I wish I could, Zoe, but I’m not as influential as I once was. My relevance in the fashion industry has dwindled, and I don’t have the sponsorship needed to support a debut in the fashion scene. When I drew that collection, I had a sponsor who saw me as an artist, not just a cash cow. We created a joint venture, agreeing that if the collection inspired by your story reached five hundred thousand pieces of clothing sold, I would receive fifty percent of the revenue instead of ten percent. That was over ten years ago, and our contract expires in six months. We haven't come close to that number.”
“There's no chance?” My hope dampens.
Valerie shakes her head sadly. “I've given up, it is impossible.”
I nod, trying to hide my disappointment. “Thank you anyway, Valerie,” I say softly. “I truly appreciate everything you've done for me and Virgilio."
She smiles with understanding, seeing through my fa?ade, “Don’t give up on the fire sign. The world can make do with a lot of fire signs for missing girls like yourself.”
Fire sign. Sounds like the title of a book more than a fashion collection.
But again, I did say I wanted to tell stories through my designs.