The Exception
Country: Aurivelle
City: Cressford
Alvara
Morning arrived far too quickly.
I hadn’t slept at all.
I sat at the small kitchen table, already dressed for work, a cup of tea growing cold between my hands as I stared at absolutely nothing.
My mind was still trapped in what happened yesterday.
Or rather…
In him.
Grayson Hawthorne.
The memory of his voice replayed in my head whether I wanted it to or not.
Skill alone doesn’t equal competence.
I squeezed my eyes shut briefly.
Why did that line bother me so much?
“Alvara.”
My mother’s voice pulled me back.
I looked up to find her watching me from across the table, a hint of worry in her eyes. She had been moving around the kitchen all morning, but I hadn’t noticed until now.
“You’ve been staring at that tea for ten minutes,” she said gently. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I answered quickly.
Too quickly.
Before she could question it further, Leo’s voice cut in from the living room.
“Whoa.”
He sounded impressed.
Suspiciously impressed.
Leo was sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, scrolling with the intensity of someone who had just discovered buried treasure.
“Did you know this guy is, like… ridiculously rich?” he said.
Mom glanced toward him. “What guy?”
“Grayson Hawthorne.”
The name hit me like someone had poured ice down my spine.
My fingers tightened around the cup, before I even realized it.
Leo kept talking, completely unaware.
“It’s all over the internet,” he said, scrolling faster. “Apparently he visited Maison Aurelle boutique yesterday.”
My breath caught.
For a split second, I was back in the boutique again.
Standing in front of him.
Trying…and failing…not to feel completely judged.
Leo let out a low whistle.
“People are freaking out about it,” he continued. “They’re saying he never personally visits places like that unless he’s planning something big.”
Mom looked between the two of us.
Then her gaze settled on me.
“Alvara,” she said gently, “did something happen at work yesterday?”
I forced a small smile.
“No,” I said. “Nothing happened.”
The lie slipped out smoothly.
But Leo wasn’t done.
“Do you know how famous this guy is?” he said, finally looking up from his phone. “His family is like… insanely powerful.”
He started reading from his screen, his voice rising with excitement.
“They own Hawthorne Real Estate and Development.
And Hawthorne Finance and Investment.
Then there’s Hawthorne Luxury and Fashion Division.
Oh…and Hawthorne Technology and Innovation.
Plus Hawthorne Hospitality and Leisure.
And Hawthorne Media and Communications.”
Leo’s eyes widened dramatically.
“Oh my God… this is crazy!”
He sat up straighter, shaking his head in disbelief.
“I thought they were just some rich family, but they practically own half the country!
This is insane!”
I took a slow sip of my tea, even though it had already gone cold.
Leo shook his head again, still staring at his phone.
“People are saying if the Hawthorne Group invests in you, your career is basically guaranteed,” he added.
My stomach twisted.
I set the cup down.
“I should get going,” I said, standing.
Mom frowned slightly.
“You’re leaving already?”
“Yes, Mom. After the visit yesterday, things will probably be busy at the boutique.”
Leo waved a hand lazily without looking up again.
“If you see Grayson Hawthorne again, tell him I said hi.”
I ignored him and grabbed my bag.
But as I stepped out of the house, Leo’s words followed me.
If the Hawthorne Group invests in you… your career is basically guaranteed.
And somehow, the only thing I could hear was his voice again.
Skill alone doesn’t equal competence.
The city felt louder than usual. Or maybe I was just noticing it more today.
Traffic roared down the streets, people rushed past each other on the sidewalks, and the scent of street food drifted through the air.
Normal.
Everything looked normal.
Except for the massive digital billboard flickering to life above one of the downtown buildings. A sleek promotional video played across the screen: luxury fashion, runways, investors. And then…
A familiar name appeared in bold lettering: Hawthorne Luxury And Fashion Division.
My steps slowed.
Two women walking nearby stopped to watch the screen.
“Did you see this?” one whispered. “They’re expanding again. I heard he was here for a new Hawthorne luxury district project.”
“Of course,” the other replied. “The Hawthorne Group never stops.”
I forced myself to keep walking, swallowing hard as the conversations buzzed around me. Another group nearby exchanged the same words.
“They’re launching something new this year.”
By the time I reached the boutique, my nerves were already frayed. I paused outside the door, taking a breath before pushing it open.
Inside, the boutique was unusually quiet. Several colleagues gathered near the reception counter, talking in hushed tones. My eyes immediately found Isabella.
“Alvara!” she waved, practically bouncing with excitement. “Come here!”
I joined them just as our manager stepped forward.
Clara Beaumont has a presence that commands attention naturally. She doesn’t need to raise her voice, yet when she spoke, everyone listened.
“I assume you’ve all heard the news,” she began. A few nodded. “Yesterday, Maison Aurelle boutique received an official visit from the Hawthorne Luxury And Fashion Division”
Even though I already knew, hearing it out loud made my chest tighten.
Clara continued calmly.
“As a result, our boutique has been invited to participate in the Hawthorne Designer Selection Program.”
Whispers rippled through the room. Isabella practically vibrated beside me.
“This program is designed to identify promising designers working in smaller fashion houses,” Clara explained.
Someone raised a hand. “So… we can apply?”
Clara nodded once. “Yes.”
The room buzzed with speculation. Clara raised a hand, silencing everyone.
“There are rules. Only designers with at least one year of professional experience may submit a design for consideration.”
Several colleagues nodded thoughtfully.
I felt a cold knot settle in my chest. Of course. That makes sense…I’ve only been here a few months.
I glanced at the floor, hoping to disappear.
Then Clara’s gaze shifted. Directly to me.
“However,” she continued, calm and deliberate, “in rare cases, exceptional talent may be considered. In Alvara’s case, I am willing to make an exception.”
The room went still. Slowly, every head turned toward me. Heat crawled up my neck.
“A year of experience for everyone else, but suddenly the rules change for her?” one whispered.
“Funny how the ‘exception’ just happens to be Alvara,” another muttered.
“I guess hard work doesn’t matter anymore if Clara likes her,” a third added.
Isabella ignored the side comments, beaming as if she’d won the lottery.
Clara carried on as if nothing unusual had happened.
“You will have seven days. The Hawthorne Institute believes true talent reveals itself under pressure, and it does not need months to appear ”
“The designers selected will receive six months of training at the Hawthorne Institute of Fashion,” she added.
The name alone made a ripple through the room. Everyone knows it…it’s one of the most exclusive fashion schools in the country.
Clara’s voice remained steady.
“After completing the program, participants may receive one of two opportunities.” She held up two fingers. “First: startup funding to launch your own brand.”
A few coworkers gasped softly.
“Second: direct investment from Hawthorne Luxury and Fashion Division.”
The room buzzed again. Isabella grabbed my arm.
“Alvara,” she whispered, “this is huge.”
I nodded slowly, though inside I felt a tangled mess..hope, fear, and pressure all wrapped into one tight knot.
Clara finished with a final statement: “Design submissions will be reviewed personally by representatives from Hawthorne Luxury and Fashion Division.”
My heart pounded harder.
Later that night, my room was quiet. Mom and Leo were asleep. I sat at my desk, staring at my sketchbook.
My mind drifted back to yesterday…to the way Grayson Hawthorne looked at me, to the calm certainty in his voice.
Skill alone doesn’t equal competence.
The words pressed against my chest, heavy and insistent. I gripped my pencil tighter. For a long moment, I didn’t move. Then I flipped open my sketchbook. A blank page stared back at me, daring me to try.
My pulse quickened, and my fingers hovered.
Doubt gnawed at me, whispering that I wasn’t ready, that I didn’t belong.
But then I thought of Clara’s words.
Of Isabella’s unwavering grin.
If he thought I was incompetent…
then my designs would prove otherwise.
The pencil finally met paper.
And with that first tentative stroke, I started to fight.