Chapter 4 A place of destiny

Alina's POV

I adjusted the cuffs of my borrowed blazer from Ronan in front of the penthouse's full-length mirror. The fabric still smelled faintly of his cologne. Expensive, subtle, commanding. I looked sharper than I had in months, but underneath the clean lines and polished look, my nerves trembled.

This was my first step back into a world that had turned its back on me

Ronan stood by the elevator, arms crossed, watching me with an unreadable expression, I pretended not to have noticed.

He looked more like a bodyguard than a billionaire heir today. Dark jeans, tailored coat, and an edge seemed carved from years of carefully concealed fury.

"Ready?" he asked.

"No," I replied, brushing my hands. "But let's go anyway."

We rode down in silence.

I still wasn't sure what Ronan had planned for the day. All he had told me was that he was taking me to "meet someone useful."

I wasn't sure what that meant..., but I was beginning to learn that Ronan never wasted words.

The black SUV waiting outside drove us to the financial district. The building we pulled up to was one I recognized: Carradine House, home to the city's most exclusive fashion investment firm. My throat tightens as I gulp down saliva.

"This is where people go to sell dreams," I murmured.

"No," Ronan said. "This is where people go to be bought. You're not selling anything today. You're observing."

"You weren't meant to hear that, I squinted"

Roman looked at me, almost smiling with a bent lip, and gave a sign. He led me inside without another word.

The lobby gleamed with white marble floors, golden fixtures, and air scented with privilege. Ronan moved like he belonged. The receptionist nodded at him with the recognition reserved for "ghosts" who still had power.

We took a private elevator to the 31st floor.

A tall, stylish woman with platinum hair waited for us as the doors opened. She wore stilettos that could kill and a blood-red suit that screamed authority.

"Ronan," she said with a knowing smile. "I thought you were dead."

He returned the smile with equal coolness. "I got better."

She turned to me, flashing a smile. "And this must be your secret."

I stiffened. Ronan didn't correct her.

The woman extended a manicured hand. "I'm Celeste Maren. I fund rebellions in the shape of runway shows."

I took her hand. "Alina Elston."

Celeste arched her brow. "Elston? Looking surprised, The disgraced heiress?"

I flushed but stood straighter. "The same."

Celeste's smile turned sharper. "Then I already like you."

She led us into a glass-walled conference room with a view of the entire city. I tried not to be overwhelmed, but everything about this place screamed elite and I wasn't sure I belonged anymore.

Celeste dropped a tablet on the table. "So. Show me why Ronan's willing to come back from the dead for you."

I looked at Ronan, then pulled a USB from my pocket. I handed it to Celeste without a word.

Celeste raised her brow, plugged it in, and watched.

Sketches, concept boards, mockups, even rough garment prototypes, everything I had built over years of dreaming, stitched together in silent passion.

When the presentation ended, Celeste looked impressed. But guarded.

"You've got fire," she said. "But fire alone doesn't survive in this world. You'll need armor."

"She'll have it," Ronan said. Why he had so much confidence in me was something I never knew.

Celeste studied me for a long moment. "Then we'll start small. One showing. Quiet, exclusive. Invite only. If she crashes, no one will remember. If she burns bright, they'll never forget."

My chest skipped, as though it had been hit by thunder. "When?"

"Three weeks," Celeste replied. "Don't waste them."

As we left the building, I felt the adrenaline crash.

"Three weeks?" I whispered. "That's insane."

"It's just enough," Ronan said. "You don't need time. You need pressure."

We stopped at a red light. On the billboard above us flashed an ad for Vexler Holdings' latest charity gala. Damon stood next to his father, smiling for the camera. Brielle was beside them in a dress I had designed, repurposed without credit.

I felt my blood boil.

Ronan followed my gaze. "You want in on that gala?"

I didn't hesitate. "Yes."

His smile was pure fire. "Then we'll get you in."

That night, as we returned to the penthouse studio Ronan had cleared for me to work in,

I felt something inside me had shifted.

Not fear, not pain, but purpose.