The venue was electric. The grand hall of the Metropolitan Pavilion pulsed with anticipation, its transformation nothing short of magic. It looked like something out of a dream—floral installations dripping from the ceiling like spring rain, soft golden light casting a warm glow on the crowd below, and a runway that shimmered like moonlight caught on water.
The air buzzed with expensive perfume and whispered names—editors, influencers, celebrities, critics. All waiting. All watching.
Bianca stared into the mirror, her fingers lightly brushing the fabric of her tailored ensemble—one of her own creations, of course. Soft cream silk and sharp lines, just enough edge to say I'm here, I've arrived. Her heart thundered in her chest, but on her face? Cool composure.
Behind her, Becky popped in, slightly frazzled, a headset askew and a clipboard tucked under one arm.
"Bianca," she said, breathless but beaming. "It's time."
Bianca nodded. Her voice was low, steady. "Let's show them who we are."
The Show Begins
The lights dimmed.
The room quieted like a held breath.
Then the music began—strings and synth, old world and new, rising together like a heartbeat. The first model stepped onto the runway in a gown that caught the light and twisted it, turning every step into a ripple of gold.
The crowd leaned in.
Dress after dress followed, each one a whisper of Bianca's journey. Strong shoulders and soft fabrics. Sharp tailoring and tender embroidery. Power wrapped in beauty, stitched with rebellion. Her voice was in every hemline.
People didn't just watch. They felt it.
Somewhere in the second row, an editor from Vogue was already drafting a headline in her head. A producer from Milan mouthed, "My God." A stylist snapped photos like her life depended on it.
But Bianca didn't see any of that. Not yet.
The final model walked off, and the music changed—slower now, almost intimate. That's when Bianca stepped onto the runway.
But she wasn't alone.
Adrian and Isabel walked beside her, each holding her hand, their tiny faces glowing under the lights. The twins wore miniature versions of her designs—Adrian in a crisp ivory suit with embroidered lapels, Isabel in a soft pink tulle dress dotted with rose-gold petals.
Gasps swept the room, followed by a wave of applause. Then the standing ovation hit—unmistakable, thunderous, heartfelt.
Bianca paused mid-runway, eyes glistening. Not from nerves. Not even from pride. But from something deeper—vindication, joy, and the fierce love of a mother who had clawed her way out of heartbreak and scandal to stand exactly here.
The applause was still thundering in my ears when I stepped backstage, heart racing faster than the stilettos I strutted in. The RosePetal Couture show had been a resounding success. I had barely caught my breath, a whirlwind of models, fabric, and flashing lights behind me, when Becky threw her arms around me, squealing.
"You killed it, B!" she cried. "That final piece? Ugh. Perfection!"
I smiled, but I wasn't fully present. There was a strange pulse under my skin… like someone had peeled open time and let the past breeze in.
Adrian and Isabel came running up to me from the lounge Becky had set up for them backstage.
"Maman!" Isabel chirped, her dress flaring around her legs as she hugged me tight. "Everyone said your clothes were sooo pretty!"
Adrian nodded seriously. "You were like a queen, Mommy."
My heart clenched. "Merci, mes amours," I whispered, kneeling down to kiss both their cheeks. "I'm so proud of you for being good."
"Can we have ice cream now?" Adrian asked with the solemnity of a philosopher.
Becky laughed from behind me. "Already on its way."
But before I could respond, something shifted. The air. My breath.
A presence.
I stood slowly, turning my head toward the curtain that separated backstage from the runway floor—and froze.
There he was.
Ian Stone.
Standing just beyond the velvet rope, the crowd dispersing around him like he was the eye of a storm. He looked… wrecked and regal at the same time. A navy suit tailored to his powerful frame, salt-and-pepper stubble lining his jaw, and those goddamned eyes—stormy, conflicted, and locked on me like they hadn't looked away in four years.
For a heartbeat, I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.
Adrian tugged my hand. "Mommy…"
I knelt again. "Yes, darling?"
"Why does that man… look like me?"
And there it was. No filters. No padding. The raw truth in a child's innocent voice.
Isabel tilted her head. "And me too. His eyes are like ours."
I swallowed, my throat tight. "We'll talk later, chéris. Okay?"
Becky, to her credit, stayed quiet, though her eyes widened with panic. She leaned in and whispered, "I didn't tell him you'd be here. I swear."
"I know," I said, forcing myself to rise.
"Do you want me to get security?"
"No," I said, voice tight. "But keep the twins close. Please."
I squared my shoulders and walked toward the velvet curtain, heart thudding with every step. I felt the years, the distance, the scars. But I also felt the pull—that damn, magnetic current that never left.
When I stepped through, he was already waiting, eyes devouring me.
"Bianca," he breathed. "You're here."
I crossed my arms, deflecting with steel I didn't feel. "Observant as always, Mr. Stone."
A muscle jumped in his jaw. "You… You look amazing."
"You look tired," I replied, flat.
He gave a breathy laugh, pained. "I haven't slept properly in four years."
I blinked. God. The weight of that.
He took a cautious step closer. "You didn't tell me. About them."
"I didn't owe you that," I said coolly.
"You didn't owe me anything," he agreed, "but they… they're my kids."
My throat closed, but I stood tall. "And I raised them. Alone."
"I wanted to find you—"
"Did you?" My voice cracked. "Because I was right there, Ian. For a long time. But you let me go."
He faltered. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought… maybe you'd be happier without the chaos."
"You were the chaos."
We stood there, heavy silence buzzing between us. The sounds of the event faded to a distant hum.
"I never stopped thinking about you," he finally said. "Every damn day. Every night. I tried to let you go. I buried myself in work. I destroyed myself with guilt."
I didn't respond.
He looked down, then back up at me. "The moment I saw you walk that runway, I knew. I knew I couldn't live another day without trying again."
I felt the words settle inside me like a match dropped in oil.
"And the twins?" he asked. "Can I… Can I know them?"
I hesitated. My body was screaming no, but my heart… it faltered.
"They're not just yours, Ian," I whispered. "They're mine. Mine to protect."
"I don't want to take them," he said. "I just want to be in their lives. I want to be the father they deserve. Please, Bianca."
My eyes welled up. Damn him. Damn those eyes. Damn the ache that hadn't dulled in four years.
I turned slightly, just enough to see the twins peeking at us from behind Becky's skirt. They were watching us. Watching him.
And he was watching them, too.
He took a slow breath. "They're beautiful. Just like their mother."
I pressed a hand over my mouth, emotion breaking free.
He reached out instinctively, brushing a tear from my cheek. The touch scorched. Familiar. Intimate. Wrong. So right.
"I should go," I murmured, retreating.
"Don't," he said quickly. "Not yet."
I looked up at him, heart a warzone.
"You left me once, Bianca. Please… don't do it again."
"Ian…"
He stepped closer, voice softer. "I love you. I always have."
The words slammed into me like a wave. I felt my defenses crack, just a little.
But I wasn't ready. Not yet.
"I need time," I whispered.
"I'll wait," he said instantly. "As long as it takes."
I gave him one last look, the father of my children, the man I'd both hated and loved.
Then I turned and walked back into the crowd of my life, leaving him standing alone.
But this time, for the first time in four years, hope walked beside me.