For one glittering evening, Elena felt untouchable. Her words at the museum spread across headlines, not as scandal but as spectacle. “Elena Marquez Declares Love, Defies Critics,” the magazines screamed. Clips of her unveiling the gown were replayed with reverence, her poise compared to that of queens and revolutionaries.
But as dawn broke, reality crept back in—slowly, quietly, like cracks forming in glass.
At her office, the first blow came from her board. They sat around the long oak table, their expressions grave. Her public stand had been courageous, yes—but investors did not value courage. They valued stability.
One director, a thin man with gold-rimmed glasses, leaned forward. “You turned the scandal into a love story. Admirable. But love doesn’t guarantee sales. Several of our European accounts remain suspended, and the Paris showcase committee is considering removing Marquez Couture from the upcoming program.”
Elena folded her hands tightly in her lap. “They’ll return,” she said. “Clients respect honesty. They’ll see strength in this.”
But their silence told her they were unconvinced.
You Pick, You React
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Later that afternoon, her phone lit up with messages from clients she once called friends. Some congratulated her—brief, lukewarm notes of support. Others were harsher: “Elena, I cannot associate my name with this drama. I hope you understand.” One patron who had worn her gowns for decades sent a curt message: “We expected discretion from you. This is not the Elena we believed in.”
Each word cut deeper than Regina’s venom ever had.
That evening, she sought refuge at her mother’s house again. The warm light of the dining room should have offered comfort, but her brother was waiting, his arms crossed. “So this is your grand stand? Announcing to the world that you’re in love like a schoolgirl? Do you think clients care about romance? They care about reputation.”
Her mother sat silently, her hands folded, eyes shadowed with worry. At last she whispered, “Elena… I want to believe in you. But the world is cruel. And I fear it will not forgive.”
Elena’s throat tightened. She wanted to scream, to insist that she was more than their fears, more than her board’s calculations. But all she could manage was, “Then let them not forgive. I will not apologize for love.”
When she left that night, Daniel was waiting in her apartment, arms open, ready to shield her from the storm. She let him hold her, but in the back of her mind, she could not silence the question that gnawed at her:
How long could love alone carry the weight of an empire crumbling beneath her feet?
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