Chapter 5 Stitch up the scar

Alina's POV

Three weeks. That was all I had to resurrect myself from ruin and return as someone no one dared to discard again.

My hands moved with growing confidence over the fabric. The studio Ronan had carved out for her at the penthouse had everything. Industrial sewing machines, bolts of imported silk and organza, sketchbooks, mood boards, and mannequins. It looked like a dream, but it felt like a battlefield.

Each stitch I made was a closed scar. Each design, a weapon in disguise.

Ronan rarely interrupted me. He moved in and out like a shadow, sometimes watching from the doorway, sometimes gone for hours without a word.

But every time I needed something...materials, contacts, permits he made it happen. Quietly, Efficiently.

One night, after nearly thirty hours without rest, I passed out on a pile of fabrics. When I woke, there was a soft blanket over me and a mug of warm tea on the table.

I never saw him place them there.

Ten days in, Celeste returned to inspect the progress.

She walked the room in crimson heels, examining the line I had built so far: seven pieces, each one bolder than the last, vibrant colors, sharp edges, raw elegance. Each carried a piece of my story: betrayal, reinvention, survival.

Celeste touched a black silk gown with metallic ribcage embroidery down the back. "This one. It bleeds."

My voice was hoarse. "It was meant to."

Celeste smiled. "You've got teeth, girl."

Ronan, silent by the door, watched us both with unreadable eyes.

"Two more looks," Celeste said. "Then we start casting models." Before working out.

I nodded, exhaustion shadowing my face. But I didn't stop. I couldn't.

Two nights later, Ronan found me pacing on the rooftop in the dark, the skyline glittering around me like stars scattered across broken glass, the breeze followed my movement as though it rehashed it.

"You're freezing," he said, startling me.

"How long have you been there? Turning to him. He didn't answer.

"I'm unraveling," I uttered.

He stepped closer, offering me his coat. "Good. That means you're about to break through."

I accepted it reluctantly. "I don't know who I am anymore."

"That's the point," he said softly. "The old you died in that alley. The new one is being born in this fire."

I looked up at him. "And what about you? Who were you before you disappeared?" I asked.

He hesitated for a moment. Then: "Ronan Vale."

The name echoed.

My eyes widened in disbelief. "Vale... as in Vale & Ashcroft?"

He nodded once.

"But they said your plane crashed... that you were..."

"Dead. I know." He took the word of my mouth.

"Why?" I demanded. "Why disappear?"

"Because the people around me would've killed me for real if I hadn't," he said. "I was set to inherit everything. But....

Ronan's eyes were dark as he turned and stared into the city lights.

"They faked a crash. Paid off investigators. My body was 'never recovered.' And that was that."

I couldn't look away. "So you've been... hiding?" I pressed.

"Watching," he corrected. "And waiting. For a reason to come back."

My breath caught.

"And I'm the reason?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

His gaze slid to mine "You reminded me what it looks like when someone refuses to stay broken."

For a moment, the air between us shifted. Neither moved. But everything inside me was suddenly in motion.

I looked away first.

"I don't know how to thank you," I murmured.

"Don't," he said. "Not yet. Just win." He reached his hands to my shoulder and gave me a wink.

The next week blurred into motion, fabric fittings, late-night adjustments, and castings.

With Ronan's silent influence, top models from New York and Paris flew in quietly. Stylists, lighting crews, and photographers began preparing the secret venue: an abandoned opera house in the heart of the city, long forgotten, now resurrected, just like me.

The show would be a private invite-only showcase, just as Celeste promised. But Ronan had pulled another string.

An exclusive invitation had been hand-delivered to Damon Vexler and Brielle Avery. My lips had curled when I found out.

Let them see, I thought. Let them watch.

On the eve of the showcase, I stood in the empty venue, rows of ghostlike chairs lit by soft spotlights. The air was heavy with the scent of roses and velvet dust. My designs were hung backstage, waiting.

In no Ronan joined me in the aisle. "Nervous?"

"No," I whispered. "I feel... ready."

"Good," he said. Then paused. "There's one more thing."

I turned, staring him in the eyes. "I can make Damon bankrupt. I can ruin Brielle's career. I have the tools," Ronan said quietly. "But that choice is yours."

My fingers tightened on the edge of a velvet seat.

"I want them to watch me rise," I said slowly. "Then... I want them to fall."

Ronan's smile was dark. "Then tomorrow, we begin."

I didn't know whether it was the thrill of revenge or the gravity of my rebirth, but in that moment, standing in a forgotten theater with a "ghost" beside me, I felt truly alive.