24. Cassandra
— ? —
Cassandra
Twenty-four weeks pregnant, and I’m standing in a room full of my own designs, trying not to hyperventilate.
The space has transformed since I first walked through that door four months ago - a half-empty storefront with good light and a dreamer’s optimism.
Now it’s a proper showroom, even if a modest one. Garments hang on dress forms I spent two weeks restoring. Fabric samples line the back wall in a gradient of colors I chose specifically to catch the afternoon sun.
And in the corner, suspended from a custom display I built myself with Antonio holding the ladder, hangs the dress from my first commission - the mother-of-the-bride gown I delivered a month ago, now back on temporary loan as we’d agreed, displayed for the investor visit before it returns to its owner.
“The construction is excellent,” Elena Romano says, running her fingers along a seam with the practiced touch of someone who’s spent forty years in textiles. “Really excellent. Your training shows.”
“I didn’t have formal training. Just years of observation and a lot of practice with my own hands.”
“Sometimes that’s better. Formal training can make designers too rigid.
They learn the rules before they learn to trust their instincts.
” She moves to the next piece - the tailored jacket in deep emerald that Antonio modeled for the lookbook.
“This is the one from your photographs, yes? Your husband wearing it?”
“Yes.”
“It photographs beautifully. But it looks even better in person. The way the lapel sits…” She gestures approvingly. “You have an eye for structure. Not just decoration.”
I try not to beam like an idiot.
Elena found me through Solenne’s recommendation. A friend-of-a-friend connection that I almost didn’t pursue because it felt too much like asking for favors. But Solenne insisted. She’s not doing you a favor, she said.
She’s looking for fresh talent, and you have it. Don’t let impostor syndrome talk you out of an opportunity.
So I sent my portfolio. And Elena called. And now she’s standing in my showroom, touching my garments, saying words like excellent and eye for structure.
“The showcase is confirmed,” Elena says, turning to face me directly. “Your slot is locked in - five or six of your best pieces, enough to introduce your work to the buyers who’ll be attending. The funding we discussed is finalized. Ten days to prepare.”
“I’d be honored.”
“The investment we discussed covers production costs for your initial run - the pieces we’re showing, plus a small ready-to-wear line if you can design it in time.
If the showcase goes well, we can talk about expansion.
Perhaps a second location eventually. Naples has good foot traffic for this kind of work. ”
My heart is pounding, but I keep my voice steady. “That sounds wonderful.”
“I’ll have my assistant send the paperwork.” She extends her hand, her grip firm and businesslike. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Cassandra. You have something special here. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
After she leaves, I stand alone in the showroom and let myself feel it - the pride, the excitement, the disbelief that this is actually happening.
Four months ago, I was a ghost in my own life. I was someone’s wife, someone’s problem, someone who had forgotten she was capable of building anything.
Now I have a business. An investor. A spot in a legitimate industry event.
I did this. Not Antonio’s money, not my family’s connections, not some twist of fate. Me. My hands. My vision. My stubborn refusal to disappear.
The bell over the door chimes, and I turn to see Antonio coming in with lunch - sandwiches from the café down the street, the ones I’ve been craving lately with extra tomatoes and that specific olive oil they use.
“How did it go?” he asks, setting the bag on the counter.
“She wants to invest. Feature me at the showcase. Talk about expansion.”
His face breaks into a grin. “That’s incredible. I knew she would…”
“You knew nothing. You were optimistic. Don’t rewrite history.”
“I knew.” He pulls me into a hug, careful of my belly. “I’ve watched you make these pieces. I couldn’t imagine her seeing them and walking away.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right. As usual.”
I laugh despite myself, leaning into his warmth. This is what I wanted - not someone who takes over, who manages things for me, but someone who stands beside me while I manage them myself. Antonio has learned the difference.
“The showcase is in ten days,” I say. “I need to finalize which pieces we’re presenting, get the alterations perfect, figure out the display setup…”
“And you’ll do all of that. But first, you’re going to eat lunch.”
“I don’t have time to…”
“Cass.” He holds up the sandwich bag. “Extra tomatoes. Fancy olive oil. Twenty minutes won’t kill your timeline.”
I take the bag, mostly because he’s right and partly because the baby has very strong opinions about lunch.
We eat at the small table by the window.
The same window where I stood months ago, imagining what this space could become. Antonio asks about the presentation requirements, and I explain the setup while he listens with genuine interest.
He’s gotten good at this, asking questions instead of offering solutions, letting me think out loud without rushing to fix things.
“I hired someone, by the way,” I say between bites. “Nina. She’s a local seamstress, been working at her mother’s tailor shop for years. She’s going to help with alterations and basic production so I’m not doing everything myself.”
“That’s great. When does she start?”
“Next week. She needs to finish a commitment at her current job first.” I wipe olive oil from my fingers. “It feels strange, being someone’s employer. Being responsible for another person’s livelihood.”
“You’ll be good at it.”
“You can’t possibly know that.”
“I know you. You’re fair, you’re clear about expectations, and you don’t ask anyone to do work you wouldn’t do yourself.” He shrugs. “That’s more than most bosses can say.”
I want to argue, but he’s not wrong.
One of the things the counseling has helped me see is that I tend to dismiss compliments as flattery while accepting criticism as truth. Dr. Ferretti called it a pattern. I called it realism. She gave me homework to practice accepting positive feedback without immediately undermining it.
“Thank you,” I say instead. “For saying that.”
“You’re welcome.” His eyes crinkle with amusement. “That looked painful.”
“It was. Happy?”
“Thrilled.”
***
The next few days blur into preparation.
I spend hours in the shop, adjusting hemlines and replacing buttons and making the tiny changes that no one will consciously notice but everyone will feel.
Nina arrives midweek and proves immediately invaluable - her hand-stitching is impeccable, and she has a calm steadiness that balances my tendency toward last-minute perfectionism.
“You need to sleep,” she tells me on Thursday evening, watching me fuss with a collar for the third time. “The garments are ready. You’re just looking for problems now.”
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re being anxious. Which is understandable, but counterproductive.”
I set down the collar. She’s right, and I hate that she’s right.
Antonio appears at seven with dinner - pasta from my mother’s kitchen, which means Marta has been cooking again despite my insistence that I can feed myself. He takes one look at my face and steers me toward the back room.
“Sit,” he says. “Eat. Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Then why do you look like you’re preparing for battle?”
I stab at the pasta. “Because I am. Bianca is going to be there, Antonio. At my showcase. In my space. And I don’t know what she’s planning, but I know she’s planning something.”
“You’ve taken precautions. The private viewing is invitation-only…”
“But the public hours aren’t. Anyone with a ticket can walk in. And she’ll walk in. You know she will.”
He doesn’t argue, because there’s nothing to argue. We both know Bianca isn’t done. Her victim interview failed to turn public opinion against me, and she’s been too quiet since then. This showcase appearance isn’t coincidence - it’s strategy.
“What’s the worst-case scenario?” Antonio asks.
“She causes a scene. Accuses me of something in front of buyers. Derails the presentation.”
“And what would you do?”
“I don’t know. That’s the problem.”
He’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “Do you remember what you told me, months ago, about fighting your own battles?”
“Vaguely.”
“You said you needed to face things yourself. That I couldn’t keep trying to protect you from everything, because protection isn’t the same as respect.” He meets my eyes. “I think you already know how to handle Bianca. You just don’t trust yourself to do it.”
“That’s very therapist of you.”
“I’ve been taking notes.”
I almost smile.
He’s not wrong - about any of it. I’ve spent so long feeling powerless in this situation, waiting for Bianca to make her move, bracing for impact.
But I’m not powerless. I have witnesses now - Gianni’s testimony, the corridor footage that confirms the timeline.
I have Antonio’s public statement taking responsibility for his part in our troubles. I have four months of rebuilding that proves I’m not the jealous, unstable wife she tried to paint me as.
“Gianni called yesterday,” I say. “The production company officially authorized limited release of the documentary footage. Corridors and common areas only - nothing from private spaces. But it shows her entering the building, shows her near Antonio’s dressing room before I arrived.”
“That’s something.”
“It’s not proof. Not of the staging. But it supports the timeline.” I push the pasta around my plate. “He said if things escalate, he’s willing to make a public statement. Confirm what he saw that day - her with Antonio’s phone, claiming she was looking for a number he never asked her to find.”
“So you have evidence. You have witnesses. You have the truth on your side.”
“The truth doesn’t always win.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it helps.”
I finish my pasta while he cleans up, watching him move around my workspace with familiar ease.
He’s been here almost every day for months now - helping with physical labor, bringing meals, doing whatever I ask without trying to take over. It’s such a small thing, but it represents everything that’s changed between us. He used to solve problems for me without asking.
Now he asks what I need and provides it without commentary.
“Whatever happens at the showcase,” he says, coming to sit beside me, “I’ll be there. Not to fight for you - I know that’s not what you want. But to stand with you. If that helps.”
“It helps.”
“Good.” He takes my hand. “Now let’s go home. You need actual sleep, in an actual bed, not another night on that terrible couch in the back room.”
“The couch isn’t terrible.”
“The couch is a health hazard. I’ve sat on bricks that were more comfortable.”
I let him pull me to my feet, let him guide me out of the shop and into the evening air. The showcase is in three days. Bianca is coming. Everything I’ve built is about to face its first real test.
But I’m ready.
At least, I’m as ready as I’m going to be.