Chapter 22: A Thread of Her Own

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.

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.

As she entered the classroom, her eyes swept across the rows of seats—until she saw him.

"Over here," Jason called with a bright grin, waving her over.

She smiled back and walked toward him. He had saved her a seat.

"I was starting to think you'd ditch me," he teased lightly.

"I considered it," she joked back, settling beside him.

They shared a quick laugh, and for a moment, Melanie felt something she hadn't in a while—comfort. Familiarity.

The room buzzed with chatter and soft rustling paper. Sketchpads were being flipped open, pens clicked, tablet styluses charged and ready.

Her phone buzzed softly.

Betty: Wait for me after class. Lunch is on me 💅

Melanie's lips curved up. She typed back quickly.

Melanie: Got it. Hope you're paying for dessert too.

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.

Her gaze swept over the room with calm authority.

"Good morning, designers," she began, her voice even and smooth. "I have news. A challenge, rather."

Everyone sat straighter.

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."

The students began murmuring, some already scribbling ideas.

"The winner," she continued, "will be given a one-on-one mentorship session with none other than Designer Lee."

Melanie's heart skipped.

Designer Lee.

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.

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.

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."

With that, she walked out, heels clicking in sharp rhythm.

Melanie stared at the blank page in her notebook, her thoughts racing. Revival.

What did that mean to her?

She hadn't even lifted a pencil when Jason nudged her.

"She's right. Everyone's already betting on Leah," he said casually.

Melanie blinked. "Yeah… I noticed."

Jason turned slightly toward her. "You going to enter?"

"I don't know," she said quietly. "I haven't drawn anything serious in years."

"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 looked at him.

"You've got the vision, Mel."

Melanie's throat tightened, but she gave him a grateful nod.

As students began filing out, Betty appeared in the doorway, waving dramatically.

"Food. Now. Let's go."

Jason stood and stretched. "Mind if I tag along?"

"Sure," Betty shrugged. "As long as you're not annoying."

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.

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.

Over steaming pasta and fruit spritzers, Melanie told Betty about the competition.

"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."

Melanie chuckled. "I'm not so sure."

"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."

Jason nodded. "And if you need help brainstorming or want someone to critique without sugarcoating, I'm your guy."

Melanie blinked at them both, her eyes stinging a little.

"You two are something else."

Betty winked. "We're the best friends you didn't ask for."

They clinked their drinks, and for the first time in a long time, Melanie felt like she belonged.

After lunch, she parted ways with Jason and Betty, her steps slower, her mind full.

Back inside the car with her driver, she pulled out her sketchpad and stared at the blank page.

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.

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.

She remembered the day she left her fashion dreams behind to become Adrian's arm candy.

She remembered the sting of betrayal. The way Leonard looked at her like she was more than what they made her believe she was.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

She wasn't just surviving anymore.

She was becoming.

Her pencil moved slowly at first, then faster, sketching shapes, silhouettes, colors dancing in her mind like threads weaving her life into art.

This wasn't about winning.

It was about reclaiming the part of her that had been stolen.

She thought of her mother's cold dismissal. Her father's silence. The wedding that never was. The name she bore now.

Melanie Westwood.

The name didn't feel borrowed anymore.

It felt earned.

Melanie's hand paused mid-stroke.

She whispered to the paper, "I won't lose myself again."

Because even if the world tried to reduce her to someone's ex, someone's mistake, someone's wife by contract—

She was going to rise.

And this design?

This would be the first stitch in sewing herself back together.

And as the car pulled up to the manor gate, her eyes burned, but her heart steadied.

Because maybe for the first time since it all fell apart—

She was ready to begin again.