Chapter 22: Chapter 22: A Thread of Her Own
Gasps echoed throughout the room. Someone at the back whispered, “Oh, then Leah’s already won.”
Melanie’s eyes flicked toward the front where Leah sat confidently. She wore a sleek white blazer, her hair cascading in perfect waves. Leah tilted her head and gave Melanie a slow, knowing smirk, as if the win was already hers.
She was ready to begin again.
Everyone sat straighter.
It was about reclaiming the part of her that had been stolen.
“Oh, you have to do it,” Betty said between bites of penne. “Mel, come on. If there’s a Leah in this class, then there’s a Melanie too.”
“I was starting to think you’d ditch me,” he teased lightly.
What did that mean to her?
She was going to rise.
The room buzzed with chatter and soft rustling paper. Sketchpads were being flipped open, pens clicked, tablet styluses charged and ready.
“Sure,” Betty shrugged. “As long as you’re not annoying.”
They clinked their drinks, and for the first time in a long time, Melanie felt like she belonged.
Because maybe for the first time since it all fell apart—
“Over here,” Jason called with a bright grin, waving her over.
And this design?
She looked at him.
She hadn’t even lifted a pencil when Jason nudged her.
“Food. Now. Let’s go.”
As students began filing out, Betty appeared in the doorway, waving dramatically.
Melanie blinked at them both, her eyes stinging a little.
She remembered the sting of betrayal. The way Leonard looked at her like she was more than what they made her believe she was.
She wasn’t just surviving anymore.
Revival.
She thought about all the times she’d fallen and gotten back up. About the dreams she’d buried. The lies she’d swallowed. The day she walked into a wedding hall meant for her—and saw someone else wearing the dress.
“Good morning, designers,” she began, her voice even and smooth. “I have news. A challenge, rather.”
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I haven’t drawn anything serious in years.”
Jason turned slightly toward her. “You going to enter?”
Over steaming pasta and fruit spritzers, Melanie told Betty about the competition.
Melanie stared at the blank page in her notebook, her thoughts racing. Revival.
The students began murmuring, some already scribbling ideas.
Melanie Westwood.
As she entered the classroom, her eyes swept across the rows of seats—until she saw him.
They walked down the hall together, passing framed quotes from past designers and student creations displayed in glass cases. Melanie let the energy of the school fill her—a strange mix of ambition, art, and silent dreams.
“You should,” he said without hesitation. “No offense, but I’ve seen some of these rich kids’ sketches. They’ve got money, not vision.”
She thought of her mother’s cold dismissal. Her father’s silence. The wedding that never was. The name she bore now.
Betty: Wait for me after class. Lunch is on me 💅
Melanie’s lips curved up. She typed back quickly.
The trio settled into a small bistro across from campus. The smell of freshly baked bread and herbs wafted through the air, and the cafe buzzed with other students from different departments.
“You two are something else.”
“I am,” Betty said, more serious now. “You forget I saw your fabric sketches. They weren’t beginner work. They were someone clawing their way back to something they love.”
Even she, who had once left her dream in the dust, knew the name. He was a legend in haute couture, a man known for turning unknown talents into stars.
This wasn’t about winning.
It felt earned.
Betty winked. “We’re the best friends you didn’t ask for.”
After lunch, she parted ways with Jason and Betty, her steps slower, her mind full.
She thought of the first time she’d ever sketched something—a child’s crayon drawing of a dress for her doll. Her mother had tossed it aside like trash. But she remembered the joy. The feeling of creation.
Melanie’s hand paused mid-stroke.
“The winner,” she continued, “will be given a one-on-one mentorship session with none other than Designer Lee.”
Just then, the classroom door opened, and silence fell as Professor Yara stepped inside. She was an elegant woman in her fifties, wearing a simple black dress with a measuring tape like a sash. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled into a low chignon, and she walked with the grace of someone who had lived her art.
Designer Lee.
Professor Yara held up a finger. “I expect creativity, not mimicry. No tracing, no recycling your family name, and no group work. This will be individual effort. Deadline: one week.”
Her pencil moved slowly at first, then faster, sketching shapes, silhouettes, colors dancing in her mind like threads weaving her life into art.
“I considered it,” she joked back, settling beside him.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
The name didn’t feel borrowed anymore.
Back inside the car with her driver, she pulled out her sketchpad and stared at the blank page.
Melanie chuckled. “I’m not so sure.”
Jason stood and stretched. “Mind if I tag along?”
Melanie’s throat tightened, but she gave him a grateful nod.
“She’s right. Everyone’s already betting on Leah,” he said casually.
Melanie: Got it. Hope you’re paying for dessert too.
Her phone buzzed softly.
She was becoming.
With that, she walked out, heels clicking in sharp rhythm.
Melanie stepped into the design studio building, the morning sun casting a soft glow across the polished marble floors. The tall windows stretched from floor to ceiling, spilling golden light across sketch mannequins, dress forms, and display cases filled with past award-winning designs. The walls were lined with framed fashion illustrations, some sharp and modern, others soft and whimsical.
Melanie blinked. “Yeah… I noticed.”
She smiled back and walked toward him. He had saved her a seat.
She whispered to the paper, “I won’t lose myself again.”
They shared a quick laugh, and for a moment, Melanie felt something she hadn’t in a while—comfort. Familiarity.
Jason nodded. “And if you need help brainstorming or want someone to critique without sugarcoating, I’m your guy.”
Her nerves prickled beneath her skin, though she tried to hide it beneath a calm expression. She clutched her sketchpad closer to her chest, drawing in a slow, measured breath.
She remembered the day she left her fashion dreams behind to become Adrian’s arm candy.
And as the car pulled up to the manor gate, her eyes burned, but her heart steadied.
This would be the first stitch in sewing herself back together.
Melanie’s heart skipped.
Her gaze swept over the room with calm authority.
Because even if the world tried to reduce her to someone’s ex, someone’s mistake, someone’s wife by contract—
Professor Yara set a sketchpad on her desk. “There will be a mini-competition for our first years. You will each be tasked with creating an original design—your theme is ‘Revival.’ That’s it. Interpret it however you choose.”
“You’ve got the vision, Mel.”
