~{Chapter 11} Four Years Later~
Time has a really strange way of moving.
Sometimes it crawls, each minute stretching into an eternity. Sometimes it flies, entire weeks disappearing in what feels like a blink. And sometimes, most times, it does both at once.
Slowly, before my eyes, hours bled into days.
Days folded into weeks.
Weeks compressed into months.
And before I knew it, months had stacked themselves into years.
Four years.
Four years since that video destroyed everything. Four years since Liya left. Four years since I decided to stop waiting for someone else to fix my life. I'm grown now, in a couple months, I'd be celebrating my 23rd birthday.
The transformation didn't happen overnight.
It started with graduation, top of my class, magna cum laude, a degree in Business Administration with a specialization in Strategic Management. My father attended the ceremony. He watched me walk across the stage, accept my diploma, shake hands with the dean. He said nothing. But a couple days later, I received an email summoning me to Sĩrĩ Navari headquarters.
I showed up in a black blazer and heels, my hair pulled back, looking every bit the professional I'd worked so hard to become.
My father didn't waste time on pleasantries.
"You'll start as Assistant Project Manager,"
he said, not looking up from his desk.
"Shadow the current team. Learn the operations. Prove you're capable."
"Yes sir."
Within six months, I'd identified inefficiencies in our supply chain that were costing millions. Within a year, I'd restructured our vendor contracts and increased profit margins by 8%.
My father noticed.
When TLEA registration officially opened, my father called me into his office again. This time, there was a folder on his desk.
"The Thailand Luxury Excellence Awards,"
he said, sliding it toward me.
"This is our chance to prove Sĩrĩ Navari is the best."
I opened the folder. Design concepts. Budget projections. Timelines.
"I'm making you Project Leader."
I looked up sharply.
"Sir?"
His expression was unreadable.
"You'll oversee everything. Design, production, presentation. The senior executives will report to you."
My hands tightened on the folder.
"If you want to prove yourself, Kamaya,"
he continued.
"Here is an opportunity. Don't waste it."
"I won't sir."
"We're entering Heritage Craftsmanship,"
he said.
"I want pieces that honor our legacy while pushing boundaries. You have one year to prepare. Make it count."
"Yes sir."
As I stood to leave, he spoke again.
"Kamaya."
I paused. "Yes sir?"
"Chai Luxury Atelier is entering too."
His voice was quiet, measured.
"Don't disappoint me."
"I won't sir."
What he didn't say—what neither of us couldn't say, was that competing against Chai Luxury Atelier meant competing against Liya's family.
Against Santa.
And against everything we used to be.
________
The first year of TLEA consumed me entirely.
I assembled a team of Sĩrĩ Navari's best designers and craftsmen. We worked sixteen-hour days, sometimes longer. We experimented with materials, pushed traditional techniques to their limits, created pieces that were both timeless and revolutionary.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, Santa and I stopped talking.
Not all at once. It happened gradually.
Coffee meetups became less frequent. Text conversations grew shorter, more formal. Eventually, they stopped altogether.
The last time we actually spoke was about six months into Year One.
I ran into him at an industry event, one of those mandatory networking galas where everyone pretends to be civil while quietly sizing up the competition.
"Maya,"
he said when our eyes met across the room.
"Santa."
We stood there, awkward and tense, two people who'd once been close now standing on opposite sides of an invisible line.
"How's your night going?" he asked.
"Good. Yours?"
"Good."
Silence.
"You look, ugh. There's no words to describe your beauty."
"Aw thank you. You look amazing yourself."
"Thanks."
Another awkward silence. Then he sighed.
"I miss you," he said quietly. "I miss this. Us being friends."
"I know."
My throat felt tight. "I miss you too."
"But we can't—"
"No." I shook my head. "We can't."
He nodded slowly.
"Just know I'm on your side though. May the best brand win."
"Me too. And may the best brand win also."
We shook hands, smiled, formal, professional, and walked away from each other.
_______
Year One concluded with the announcement of the Top 20 finalists.
The results were broadcasted live on national television. Industry leaders, fashion journalists, influencers, everyone was watching.
I sat in my office at Sĩrĩ Navari headquarters, my team crowded around the screen, holding our collective breath.
When our name appeared on the list, the room erupted.
"We did it!"
someone shouted.
"Top 20!"
"We're moving to Year Two!"
I smiled, shook hands, accepted congratulations. But inside, my mind was already moving ahead.
Top 20 meant nothing if we didn't place in the top three.
I checked the full list of finalists.
Chai Luxury Atelier was there too.
Of course they were.
My father called me into his office the next day.
"Well done,"
he said. It was the closest thing to praise I'd ever received from him.
"Thank you sir."
"Year Two begins in three weeks,"
he continued.
"The competition will get harder. The judges more critical. Chai Luxury Atelier along with the other brands, will be fighting just as hard."
"I understand sir."
He studied me for a long moment.
"You've done well so far, Kamaya. You've exceeded my expectations."
Something in my chest loosened.
"Thank you sir."
"But don't let it go to your head."
His tone sharpened.
"We haven't won yet. So Prepare your team. Year Two starts soon."
________
2024 had been a hell of a year. I fought and I won. And now, in January 2025, as I sit in my corner office overlooking Bangkok's glittering skyline, I can't help but marvel at how much has changed.
And how much hasn't.
Year Two of TLEA begins next week. Six months per category. Four categories total. By the end of this year, first, second, and third place winners will be announced across Heritage Craftsmanship, Contemporary Design, Sustainable Innovation, and Market Leadership.
My team is ready.
I'm ready.
But as I stare out at the city lights, one thought keeps circling back, persistent and painful.
Liya.
Four years, and I haven't heard from her once.
No calls. No texts. No emails.
Nothing.
I don't know if she's still in the U.S. If she graduated. If she's working for Chai Luxury Atelier now. If she ever thinks about me.
If she ever thinks about us.
My phone buzzes, pulling me back.
Noon: Ms. Chantasiri, the design team meeting has been moved to 3 PM. Your father wants to see you at 4 PM.
I text back a quick reply and set my phone down.
Then I open the bottom drawer of my desk.
Inside, tucked beneath files and documents, is a worn piece of paper.
Liya's letter.
I haven't read it in months. But I've never thrown it away.
I unfold it carefully, the creases soft from years of being opened and closed.
Maya,
I'm leaving. My parents are sending me back to the United States tomorrow morning—early, before sunrise.
I wanted to see you. To tell you in person. But they won't let me near you.
I don't know when I'll be back. I don't know what happens next.
I just needed you to know that I'm leaving.
I'm sorry.
Liya
I trace my fingers over her handwriting, the only piece of her I have left.
"I'm ready now,"
I whisper to the empty office.
"I'm strong enough now."
But even as I say it, I wonder if it's true.
Because being strong enough to run a company is one thing.
Being strong enough to face Liya again, if she ever comes back, is something else entirely.
I fold the letter carefully and tuck it back into the drawer.
Then I stand, smooth down my blazer, and head to my meeting.
Year Two of TLEA starts next week.
And I have a competition to win.
_______
One week later.
The morning of the competition was a hectic one.
I woke up at 5 AM, even though my alarm was set to go off at six.
My mind wouldn't let me rest. It kept running through the presentation, every word, every gesture, every possible question the judges might ask.
I got up, made coffee, and went through my notes one more time.
By 6:30, I was in the shower, letting the cold water ease the tension in my shoulders.
By 7:15, I was dressed in a tailored black suit with sharp lines, cream blouse underneath, black heels. Professional. Confident. Commanding.
I pulled my hair back into a sleek bun, applied minimal makeup, just enough to look polished under the stage lights.
When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. I looked stunning. I took a deep breath, grabbed my bag, and headed out.
The drive to Siam Paragon Convention Center took about 20 minutes.
I sat in the back of the company car, reviewing my presentation notes one last time, while my assistant ran through the schedule.
"Your presentation slot is at 12:00 Noon."
she said.
"You're seventh in the Heritage Craftsmanship category. The piece has already been transported and is secured backstage. Security team confirmed everything is in place."
"Good."
I replied without looking up from my tab.
The Grand Ballroom at the Siam Paragon Convention Center was packed.
Industry leaders, investors, journalists, influencers, everyone who mattered in Thailand's luxury market was here. The air buzzed with anticipation, expensive perfume, and barely concealed competition.
I stood backstage, my hands clasped behind my back, watching the presentations unfold on the monitor.
We were seventh in the lineup for Heritage Craftsmanship. Seven brands had already presented. Thirteen more to go after us.
My team was gathered nearby, doing last-minute checks on our display case.
Inside, resting on black velvet, was our entry, a necklace unlike anything I'd ever seen.
Lavender jade. Impossibly rare. We'd sourced it from a small mining operation in Myanmar after months of searching. The stones were perfectly matched—each one a soft, ethereal purple that seemed to glow from within.
The design was both traditional and modern. Intricate gold filigree work that referenced ancient Thai craftsmanship, but with clean, contemporary lines. The centerpiece was a single large lavender jade pendant, carved into a lotus flower, suspended from delicate chains that draped like water.
It had taken us eight months to create.
It was perfect.
"Ms. Chantasiri,"
one of the event coordinators called.
"You're up in five."
I nodded, smoothing down my suit. I looked every inch the executive I'd become.
"Ready?" my lead designer asked.
"Ready."
The stage lights were blinding.
I walked out to polite applause, my heels clicking against the polished floor. Behind me, two assistants wheeled out the display case.
The judges sat at a long table in front of the stage, five of them, all renowned figures in the luxury industry. Their expressions were neutral, professional, giving nothing away.
Beyond them, the audience filled the ballroom. I could see my parents in the front row, my father's face impassive. My mother beside him in an elegant burgundy dress, her face carefully neutral.
She hadn't spoken to me directly in three years. Beside them sat members of the board, investors, industry colleagues.
And somewhere in that sea of faces was the Chai Luxury Atelier delegation.
I didn't look for them.
I couldn't afford to.
I stopped at center stage, waited for the assistants to position the display case, then stepped forward to the microphone.
"Good afternoon,"
I began, my voice calm, smooth and steady.
"My name is Kamaya Chantasiri,
Project Leader for Sĩrĩ Navari. Today, I'm honored to present our entry for Heritage Craftsmanship: Phimrada Lavandin."
I gestured to the necklace.
"Lavender jade is one of the rarest gemstones in the world. Finding stones of this quality, perfectly matched in color and clarity, is nearly impossible. It took our team eight months of sourcing, negotiations, and careful selection to acquire these pieces."
I moved closer to the display.
"The design draws from Thailand's rich history of gold filigree work, a technique that dates back centuries, but reimagines it with contemporary sensibility. The lotus, our centerpiece, represents purity and enlightenment in Thai culture. But more than that, it represents transformation."
My voice grew stronger.
"The lotus grows in mud, yet blooms untouched by it. It represents the ability to rise above circumstances. To create beauty from struggle. To honor tradition while embracing evolution."
I paused, letting the words settle.
"That is what Sĩrĩ Navari represents. That is what Phimrada Lavandin embodies."
The judges scribbled notes. The audience was silent, attentive.
I was about to continue when something caught my eye.
Movement in the back of the ballroom.
A figure entering, trying to move quietly through the crowd.
At first, it was blurry, just a silhouette backlit by the entrance lights.
But as she moved closer, weaving between the seated rows, the light shifted.
And I saw her.
Liya.
The world stopped.
Everything—the judges, the audience, my presentation, my carefully prepared words, all of it disappeared.
There was only her.
Four years.
Four years of no contact. Of absolute silence. And now she was here.
Her hair was longer and fuller now, falling past her shoulders in soft waves. She wore a grey-colored suit that fit perfectly, elegant and professional. She looked older, more refined, but unmistakably her.
Still her.
Always her.
My breath caught in my throat.
My hands went numb.
She was moving toward the Chai Luxury Atelier section, her eyes scanning for an empty seat, not looking at the stage yet.
But I was looking at her.
I couldn't look away.
She found a seat near the front of her section, smoothing her skirt as she sat down, murmuring an apology to the people she had to pass.
Then, as if she could feel my gaze, she looked up.
Our eyes met.
And time fractured.
Four years collapsed into a single moment.
Her eyes widened. Her lips parted slightly.
She looked exactly the way I remembered, those big brown doe eyes that had haunted my dreams for the past four years.
And I stood there, frozen on stage, in front of hundreds of people, the most important presentation of my career half-finished.
Completely, utterly frozen.
Someone in the audience coughed.
A judge shifted in their seat.
I could feel my team backstage, probably panicking.
But I couldn't move.
Couldn't speak.
Couldn't breathe.
All I could do was stare at Liya.
And she stared back.