One Night in Valeria - Chapter 62: Chapter 62
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The gallery buzzed like a beehive of power and wealth.
Velvet ropes lined the main hall. Cameras flashed as the elite of the fashion world sipped champagne and murmured in anticipation. Every screen displayed her name now.
Jessica Hale: Daughters of Silence.
And standing beside her, finally and unmistakably present Liam.
He looked sharp in a slate suit, no tie, just enough edge to stay honest. He hadn’t let go of her hand since they arrived.
“You nervous?” he asked.
“I’m too tired to be nervous,” she said. “I’ve been awake for thirty hours, I’m running on espresso and spite, and I just bought out a sponsorship contract from a woman in designer war-paint.”
Liam laughed, low and proud. “That’s my girl.”
That made her smile.
Until Celeste appeared beside them, face grim.
“Problem,” she whispered. “A blogger in the crowd. From L’Archive Brisé. They’re posting already. Someone fed them details.”
“Details about what?” Jessica asked, pulse spiking.
Celeste turned her phone to show the article.
“Insider sources suggest Liam Vance former design restorer and current ‘plus-one’ to Jessica Hale used his ex, Alyra Vance, to bankroll Hale’s rise in Paris. Has Jessica Hale’s revolution always been stitched in privilege?”
Jessica’s mouth went dry.
Liam went still.
“Someone’s twisting it,” he muttered.
Jessica looked around the crowd. She spotted Alyra near the champagne fountain, speaking to a cluster of investors. Calm. Radiant. Calculated.
“It was her,” Jessica said coldly. “She wants to turn me into the very thing I fought to destroy. Another puppet on borrowed power.”
Liam’s jaw tightened. “Then we speak. Tonight. To the press. Together.”
Jessica blinked. “You sure?”
“If we don’t, she gets to write the story for us.”
The exhibit began with dimmed lights and silence.
A voice echoed through the space—it was Klara’s, recorded from a forgotten interview:
> “Fashion isn’t just fabric. It’s rebellion sewn into skin. It’s memory draped in form. And sometimes, it’s the only way a woman learns to scream.”
The crowd held its breath.
The first piece lit up a floating frame wearing a reconstructed version of Daughter, its red stitching pulsing under a spotlight. One by one, Jessica's collection came alive, each design telling part of her story: pain, grief, resistance, rebirth.
The final piece?
An empty frame.
The plaque beneath read:
“Still Becoming.”
Jessica stepped onto the small stage at the center of the gallery.
Flashbulbs burst.
She didn’t flinch.
“I was never supposed to be here,” she began. “And maybe I still shouldn’t be.”
The room stilled.
“But I am. Not because I inherited a name. But because I reclaimed it.”
She paused. Then added:
“And I did not do it alone.”
She turned toward Liam, extended her hand.
He stepped forward.
Took it.
The audience murmured.
“I stand beside someone who has seen every crack in me and didn’t walk away,” she said. “Yes, we’ve made mistakes. But we built this on truth. Not convenience. Not sponsorships. Not secrets.”
Liam leaned toward the mic.
“And for the record,” he added, “anyone who thinks my ex bought this space clearly hasn’t met Jessica Hale. If she wanted this gallery, she would’ve burned it down and built her own.”
Laughter broke out across the crowd.
Even Eden Rowe smirked in the corner.
But Alyra?
She stood frozen, glass half-raised, her expression unreadable.
Jessica met her gaze.
And smiled.
Not vindictively.
Just clearly.
Like a woman no longer haunted by anything that could hurt her.
Later that night, after the gallery emptied, Jessica and Liam walked along the quiet Seine. The city glittered around them. But they weren’t thinking about Paris.
Only each other.
“Did I ruin it?” Liam asked quietly.
“No,” Jessica said, stopping to face him. “You just… reminded me that love isn’t supposed to be clean. It’s messy. It asks for grace. And you gave me that more times than I deserved.”
He touched her cheek.
“And you’ve always been the bravest person I know.”
She leaned into him, the air cool against her skin, but his arms warm.
“I’m scared sometimes,” she admitted. “That one day you’ll wake up and realize I’m still just the girl who got drunk in a club and unraveled everything.”
Liam pulled her closer.
“You’re the girl who remade everything,” he whispered. “And I loved her the moment I didn’t even know her name.”
She kissed him then—soft, deep, certain.
And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she was standing on the edge of a fire.
She felt like she was finally walking through it.
And surviving.
Velvet ropes lined the main hall. Cameras flashed as the elite of the fashion world sipped champagne and murmured in anticipation. Every screen displayed her name now.
Jessica Hale: Daughters of Silence.
And standing beside her, finally and unmistakably present Liam.
He looked sharp in a slate suit, no tie, just enough edge to stay honest. He hadn’t let go of her hand since they arrived.
“You nervous?” he asked.
“I’m too tired to be nervous,” she said. “I’ve been awake for thirty hours, I’m running on espresso and spite, and I just bought out a sponsorship contract from a woman in designer war-paint.”
Liam laughed, low and proud. “That’s my girl.”
That made her smile.
Until Celeste appeared beside them, face grim.
“Problem,” she whispered. “A blogger in the crowd. From L’Archive Brisé. They’re posting already. Someone fed them details.”
“Details about what?” Jessica asked, pulse spiking.
Celeste turned her phone to show the article.
“Insider sources suggest Liam Vance former design restorer and current ‘plus-one’ to Jessica Hale used his ex, Alyra Vance, to bankroll Hale’s rise in Paris. Has Jessica Hale’s revolution always been stitched in privilege?”
Jessica’s mouth went dry.
Liam went still.
“Someone’s twisting it,” he muttered.
Jessica looked around the crowd. She spotted Alyra near the champagne fountain, speaking to a cluster of investors. Calm. Radiant. Calculated.
“It was her,” Jessica said coldly. “She wants to turn me into the very thing I fought to destroy. Another puppet on borrowed power.”
Liam’s jaw tightened. “Then we speak. Tonight. To the press. Together.”
Jessica blinked. “You sure?”
“If we don’t, she gets to write the story for us.”
The exhibit began with dimmed lights and silence.
A voice echoed through the space—it was Klara’s, recorded from a forgotten interview:
> “Fashion isn’t just fabric. It’s rebellion sewn into skin. It’s memory draped in form. And sometimes, it’s the only way a woman learns to scream.”
The crowd held its breath.
The first piece lit up a floating frame wearing a reconstructed version of Daughter, its red stitching pulsing under a spotlight. One by one, Jessica's collection came alive, each design telling part of her story: pain, grief, resistance, rebirth.
The final piece?
An empty frame.
The plaque beneath read:
“Still Becoming.”
Jessica stepped onto the small stage at the center of the gallery.
Flashbulbs burst.
She didn’t flinch.
“I was never supposed to be here,” she began. “And maybe I still shouldn’t be.”
The room stilled.
“But I am. Not because I inherited a name. But because I reclaimed it.”
She paused. Then added:
“And I did not do it alone.”
She turned toward Liam, extended her hand.
He stepped forward.
Took it.
The audience murmured.
“I stand beside someone who has seen every crack in me and didn’t walk away,” she said. “Yes, we’ve made mistakes. But we built this on truth. Not convenience. Not sponsorships. Not secrets.”
Liam leaned toward the mic.
“And for the record,” he added, “anyone who thinks my ex bought this space clearly hasn’t met Jessica Hale. If she wanted this gallery, she would’ve burned it down and built her own.”
Laughter broke out across the crowd.
Even Eden Rowe smirked in the corner.
But Alyra?
She stood frozen, glass half-raised, her expression unreadable.
Jessica met her gaze.
And smiled.
Not vindictively.
Just clearly.
Like a woman no longer haunted by anything that could hurt her.
Later that night, after the gallery emptied, Jessica and Liam walked along the quiet Seine. The city glittered around them. But they weren’t thinking about Paris.
Only each other.
“Did I ruin it?” Liam asked quietly.
“No,” Jessica said, stopping to face him. “You just… reminded me that love isn’t supposed to be clean. It’s messy. It asks for grace. And you gave me that more times than I deserved.”
He touched her cheek.
“And you’ve always been the bravest person I know.”
She leaned into him, the air cool against her skin, but his arms warm.
“I’m scared sometimes,” she admitted. “That one day you’ll wake up and realize I’m still just the girl who got drunk in a club and unraveled everything.”
Liam pulled her closer.
“You’re the girl who remade everything,” he whispered. “And I loved her the moment I didn’t even know her name.”
She kissed him then—soft, deep, certain.
And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like she was standing on the edge of a fire.
She felt like she was finally walking through it.
And surviving.
End of One Night in Valeria Chapter 62. Continue reading Chapter 63 or return to One Night in Valeria book page.