One Night in Valeria - Chapter 48: Chapter 48
You are reading One Night in Valeria, Chapter 48: Chapter 48. Read more chapters of One Night in Valeria.
The lights in the gallery were dimmed, the only glow coming from a series of backlit panels that cast the room in a soft gold haze. On display: ten pieces.
Ten silhouettes.
Ten truths.
It was Jessica’s most personal collection yet. No runway. No audience. Just fabric draped on still mannequins and raw poetry projected onto the walls.
> “Klara began it with silence.
I answer with color.”
Each dress was a bridge between past and present. Her mother’s bold lines, Jessica’s subtle layering. Edges stitched with thread dipped in crushed charcoal ink. One bodice hand-embroidered with a letter Klara’s words traced into cloth.
Celeste whispered, “It’s like a ghost is dancing.”
Jessica didn’t speak. Because Liam was standing across the gallery, watching her not the collection. Always her.
Later that night, she found him in the stairwell. He’d been standing in the dark, hands on the cold rail, as if weighing something heavier than he could name.
“I need to tell you something,” he said quietly.
She nodded, stepped closer.
“A sponsor reached out,” he said. “High-end. Global. They want to fund your work for a year. A world tour. Paris. Seoul. Vienna. New York.”
Jessica blinked. “What?”
“They saw the Summit. The response. They want to back you… completely.”
“But?”
He held out the contract. One clause highlighted.
> Artist must relocate for a minimum of twelve months to international hubs. Non-negotiable.
No dual representation or shared branding entities.
Jessica’s stomach dropped.
“They want me to leave.”
“They want to own what you’re becoming,” Liam said. “Without the history. Without me. Without Velaria.”
Silence again.
“I haven’t said yes,” she said.
“I wouldn’t stop you if you did.”
“You could.”
“I won’t.”
His voice was too even.
She looked at him, seeing the hurt carefully hidden in the corners of his eyes, and felt it spark something under her skin.
So she reached out.
Touched his jaw.
“You’re not my past, Liam.”
He leaned in, forehead brushing hers.
“Then don’t make me a footnote.”
She didn’t.
Not that night.
They didn’t kiss.
But they stood pressed against each other in the stairwell, breathing the same ache—neither ready to let go.
Not yet.
Ten silhouettes.
Ten truths.
It was Jessica’s most personal collection yet. No runway. No audience. Just fabric draped on still mannequins and raw poetry projected onto the walls.
> “Klara began it with silence.
I answer with color.”
Each dress was a bridge between past and present. Her mother’s bold lines, Jessica’s subtle layering. Edges stitched with thread dipped in crushed charcoal ink. One bodice hand-embroidered with a letter Klara’s words traced into cloth.
Celeste whispered, “It’s like a ghost is dancing.”
Jessica didn’t speak. Because Liam was standing across the gallery, watching her not the collection. Always her.
Later that night, she found him in the stairwell. He’d been standing in the dark, hands on the cold rail, as if weighing something heavier than he could name.
“I need to tell you something,” he said quietly.
She nodded, stepped closer.
“A sponsor reached out,” he said. “High-end. Global. They want to fund your work for a year. A world tour. Paris. Seoul. Vienna. New York.”
Jessica blinked. “What?”
“They saw the Summit. The response. They want to back you… completely.”
“But?”
He held out the contract. One clause highlighted.
> Artist must relocate for a minimum of twelve months to international hubs. Non-negotiable.
No dual representation or shared branding entities.
Jessica’s stomach dropped.
“They want me to leave.”
“They want to own what you’re becoming,” Liam said. “Without the history. Without me. Without Velaria.”
Silence again.
“I haven’t said yes,” she said.
“I wouldn’t stop you if you did.”
“You could.”
“I won’t.”
His voice was too even.
She looked at him, seeing the hurt carefully hidden in the corners of his eyes, and felt it spark something under her skin.
So she reached out.
Touched his jaw.
“You’re not my past, Liam.”
He leaned in, forehead brushing hers.
“Then don’t make me a footnote.”
She didn’t.
Not that night.
They didn’t kiss.
But they stood pressed against each other in the stairwell, breathing the same ache—neither ready to let go.
Not yet.
End of One Night in Valeria Chapter 48. Continue reading Chapter 49 or return to One Night in Valeria book page.