One Night in Valeria - Chapter 33: Chapter 33

The invitation was digital. Minimalist. Elegant.
> Lineage: Reclaimed Private Preview
An intimate unveiling of three pieces from the upcoming Hale Collection.
For press, patrons, and the uninvited alike.
Attendance is limited. Legacy is not.
— J.H.
Jessica hit “send” with a calm breath.
It was time to make them watch.
The venue was a refurbished art gallery tucked into an old quarter of Velaria raw walls, steel beams, high windows with golden light flooding in at just the right angle. Intimate, architectural, and impossible to ignore.
Only fifty people were invited.
But two hundred tried to get in.
By dusk, the entrance was flooded with influencers, fashion editors, columnists, and stylists whispering the same name:
Jessica Hale.
Inside, soft jazz curled through the air. Champagne flowed, quiet and cold. Liam moved among the guests like smoke greeting those who mattered, ignoring those who didn’t. Beside him, Celeste handled press tags, keeping photographers out of the shadows.
Jessica stood in the center of it all, back straight, nerves silent.
She wore black no jewels, no color just a silhouette so clean it made people forget how to speak. Her presence didn’t shout. It whispered and made you lean closer.
When the music softened, the lights dimmed, and the first model stepped onto the gallery platform, the room froze.
Piece One: “Inheritance”
A high-collared sleeveless gown in crimson silk, structured at the shoulders, the hem embroidered with black threads unraveling like roots. Klara’s lines lived in its shape. But Jessica ’s rage lived in its stitching.
Gasps followed.
Then whispers.
Then silence.
Piece Two: “Elegy Reborn”
A revised version of the slashed design. Now darker. The gown flowed like ink, with velvet boning wrapped in gold leaf threadwork. Every seam had been hand-stitched by Jessica in a single night of fury and resolve.
Piece Three: “Heirloom”
A two-piece suit. Brutal in its tailoring. The jacket cut to the ribs, open at the back, lined with pale satin that shimmered like hidden scars. It was the most modern of the three designed not to remember Klara, but to proclaim Jessica.
When the final model left the platform, the lights stayed dim. And Jessica stepped forward, her voice low but clear:
“I was raised in the shadow of a woman who was never allowed to speak loudly. Tonight, I speak for her and for every designer who was told to fade quietly. This is not a collection.”
A pause.
“This is reclamation.”
The applause didn’t come immediately.
It cracked. Then surged.
Reporters scrambled for quotes. Flashbulbs fired like sparks. And across the room, in the far back—uninvited, unannounced—August Hale stood.
Expression unreadable.
Watching.
Waiting.
Burning.
Backstage, Jessica sat on the edge of a crate, heels kicked off, the adrenaline draining.
Liam entered quietly, setting down a glass of still water beside her.
“No press questions,” he said. “Celeste’s already spinning the reviews. You’ve got three standing features coming out tomorrow.”
Jessica looked at him.
“Did he show?”
Liam nodded. “Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. But yes.”
She smiled faintly. “Good. Let him see how it begins.”
“You sure you’re ready for how it ends?”
Jessica took a breath.
Then stood.
“Let’s find out.”