25. Cassandra
— ? —
Cassandra
The showcase floor buzzes with the controlled chaos of creative ambition.
Vendors are arranging displays in their allotted spaces, event staff are checking credentials, and somewhere in the building, a sound system is playing tasteful instrumental music that no one is actually listening to.
I’m standing in front of my collection - five pieces, carefully chosen, beautifully presented - trying to look like a professional designer and not a twenty-five-weeks-pregnant woman who barely slept last night.
Four months. That’s how long it’s been since I fainted in a storefront and woke up to a new life. Four months of building something from nothing, of watching an idea become a business, of learning who I am when I’m not disappearing.
“You’ve rearranged those collar stays four times,” Odette says, appearing at my elbow with decaf coffee. “The fourth arrangement looked exactly like the first.”
“I was checking the symmetry.”
“You were spiraling. Drink this.”
She presses the cup into my hands, and I take it gratefully. The private viewing starts in two hours. The public exhibition opens in four. Fashion Forward Calabria, the regional showcase Elena Romano sponsors every year for emerging designers - and somehow, impossibly, I’m part of it.
Somewhere in this building, Bianca Fioravanti is setting up her lifestyle merchandise. She’s a registered vendor like everyone else, credentialed and legitimate. The public hours are open to anyone with a ticket, and I can’t do anything about her presence except ignore it.
“The event videographer is doing rounds,” Odette continues, nodding toward a woman with a professional camera and a press badge. “They’re capturing setup footage for the official coverage.”
My mother arrives with Antonio, both of them carrying bags from the caterer I hired for the private viewing. Marta insisted on helping… “A grandmother has rights,” she said - and Antonio has been quietly useful all morning, moving things and staying out of my way.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, setting down the bags.
“Terrified. Nauseated. Also possibly excited, though it’s hard to tell the difference.”
“That sounds about right.” He squeezes my hand briefly. “You’ve got this.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe that four months of work and hope and rebuilding myself from scratch is going to pay off today.
***
The private viewing goes better than I dared hope.
Three buyers express serious interest. One places an order on the spot - a boutique owner from Naples who wants the emerald jacket and two of the blouses for her spring collection. Elena Romano, my investor, watches from the corner with a satisfied expression.
“That jacket is extraordinary,” the Naples buyer tells me. “The construction, the way it moves - where did you train?”
“Self-taught, mostly. Years of observation and a lot of mistakes.”
“The best designers are.” She hands me her card. “I’ll be in touch about the fall line. I have a feeling about you.”
By the time the public exhibition opens, I’m riding a cautious high.
“See?” Odette says. “Nothing catastrophic has happened.”
“The day isn’t over.”
“You’re such a pessimist.”
“I’m a realist. Pessimists don’t build ateliers.”
The exhibition floor fills with visitors - fashion enthusiasts, local press, curious townspeople who want to see what all the fuss is about.
I station myself near my display and answer questions, explain techniques, watch strangers touch the fabric I chose and stitched and sweated over.
It’s surreal. It’s wonderful. It’s the thing I’ve been working toward since I walked into an empty storefront and saw the bones of a future.
An hour passes. Then two.
I’m in the middle of explaining my approach to sustainable sourcing when I spot Bianca making her way through the crowd. She’s dressed impeccably - cream-colored suit, perfect hair, flawless makeup - moving with the practiced ease of someone used to being watched.
She stops in front of my display.
“Cassandra.” Her smile is warm and completely false. “What a charming little presentation.”
“Bianca.” I keep my voice neutral. “I didn’t expect you to visit.”
“I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” She examines the emerald jacket with exaggerated interest. “It’s very… quaint. Perfect for regional markets.”
“Three buyers expressed interest today. One from Naples placed an order.”
“How nice for you.” She turns back to me, and the warmth drops from her expression. “Though I have to wonder if they know the real story. That this whole venture is just a publicity stunt - the wronged wife reinventing herself for sympathy points.”
I feel Antonio tense beside me, but he doesn’t intervene. We discussed this. My battle.
“A publicity stunt,” I repeat. “That’s interesting.”
“Come on, Cassandra. We both know what this is. You couldn’t compete in your husband’s world, so you ran away to play designer in a town no one’s heard of. And now you’re trading on drama to get attention you couldn’t earn otherwise.”
“The drama you created, you mean.”
“The drama you created with your paranoid accusations.” Her voice rises slightly. “I was trying to help a colleague. You’re the one who turned it into a scandal.”
“By walking into a room and finding you with my husband?”
“By assuming the worst because you couldn’t handle that someone else was paying attention to him when you weren’t.”
The event videographer has drifted closer - not pointing her camera directly at us, but nearby, capturing the general crowd. Other visitors have noticed the tension and given us space.
“You know what I find interesting?” I say calmly. “You keep talking about what I assumed. But you’ve never explained the text.”
“What text?”
“The one from Antonio’s phone. Asking me to come to set.”
“I don’t know anything about…”
“Gianni saw you with his phone. The day before. In the dressing room.”
“I was looking for a contact number. That’s hardly…”
“And then the next day, somehow, I get a message telling me Antonio is sick and asking me to come. While he’s delirious with fever. While you’re conveniently there playing nursemaid.”
“Coincidence.” But something flickers in her expression. “I was worried about him.”
“You were worried about positioning yourself. I think you used his phone to bring me there.” I hold her gaze. “You wanted me to find you taking care of him.”
“You can’t prove any of that.”
“Maybe not. But you told Gianni Antonio had asked you to find that number. Antonio says he never asked you to touch his phone.” I tilt my head. “Why did you lie about that?”
Bianca’s composure is cracking. I can see it - the polished performance giving way to something rawer underneath.
“You don’t know what it was like,” she says, her voice dropping. “Watching him struggle. Watching you ignore him while he fell apart. Someone had to…”
“Had to what? Send his wife a fake message so she’d walk in on your little scene?”
“It wasn’t fake. I was helping him. I was there when you weren’t, and I thought if you could just see…” She stops abruptly, realizing what she’s said.
The silence goes taut between us.
“You thought if I could see,” I repeat quietly. “See what, exactly? You wanted me to walk in on that. You arranged it.”
“I wanted you to understand what you were losing.” The words come out bitter, unguarded. “I sent the text because I knew you’d come running. And yes, I made sure I was there when you did. But only because…”
She stops again. Looks around. Notices the videographer’s camera has turned toward us. Notices the small crowd that’s gathered, the phones some of them are holding.
Her face goes pale.
“This was a setup,” she says, but her voice has gone thin.
“This was a showcase. You came to my booth. You started this conversation.” I keep my voice steady. “I didn’t make you say anything. I just asked questions.”
“I’ll deny it. I’ll say you manipulated…”
“You can try. But there are witnesses, Bianca. People heard you admit you sent the text. That you wanted me to find you there.”
She stands frozen for a moment, fury and fear warring on her face. Then she turns and walks away without another word, her perfect posture somehow diminished.
Antonio’s hand finds mine.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“I think so.” I watch Bianca disappear into the crowd. “She actually admitted it. Not everything, but enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Enough for me.” I turn back to my collection, to the buyers still browsing, to the life I’m building. “I don’t need a courtroom verdict. I just needed to know I wasn’t crazy. And now other people know it too.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Right now? Get back to work.” I squeeze his hand and release it. “I have orders to fulfill and a business to run. Bianca can deal with whatever consequences find her. I’m done letting her take up space in my head.”
The Naples buyer catches my eye from across the room, clearly wanting to continue our earlier conversation. I straighten my spine and walk toward her, leaving the confrontation behind.
I didn’t come here to expose Bianca. I came here to show my work. But if she wanted to expose herself in the process, that was her choice.
Mine is to keep building.