The Maison Velluto building looked different at six in the morning. The lobby lights were still dim,
security guards half asleep behind the marble desk, the scent of overnight cleaning solution
lingering in the air like regret. Isabella stepped through the revolving doors with her head high
and her stomach in knots. She had reapplied lipstick twice in the taxi, smoothed her hair until it
hurt, buttoned her blouse to the throat. Every small ritual was armor.
The private elevator ride to the thirty eighth floor felt like ascending to judgment.
When the doors opened, Camille was already there, standing in the middle of the creative floor
surrounded by three seamstresses, two assistants, and the midnight blue gown hanging on a
dress form like a silent witness.
Camille turned the moment Isabella stepped out. Her expression was professional, but there
was a tightness around her eyes that had not been there the day before.
"You're early. Good." Camille gestured toward the gown. "The satin arrived forty minutes ago.
Customs must have had a change of heart in the middle of the night. We're doing the final fitting
now before the models arrive at eight."
Isabella nodded, forcing her voice steady. "I have the revised measurement charts from Milan."
She set her bag down and moved toward the gown, keeping her steps measured. The silk
caught the overhead lights and shimmered, reminding her too vividly of how it had felt sliding
over her skin in the archive room. How it had felt sliding off again in her bedroom hours later.
She swallowed the memory.
One of the seamstresses, a small woman named Marta with pins permanently tucked between
her lips, stepped forward. "We need to see it on a body. The mannequin is too perfect. We need
movement, breathing, real weight."
Camille looked at Isabella. "You're closest to the model's proportions. Would you mind?"
The question landed like a slap.
Isabella felt heat crawl up her neck. "I'm not sure that's appropriate."
Camille tilted her head. "It's only us here. No cameras. No audience. Just five minutes so Marta
can mark the hem and the shoulder seams. You've done fittings before."
Years ago. In another life. Before she learned how dangerous it was to let fabric become
memory.But refusal would draw more attention than compliance.
She exhaled slowly. "Of course."
The fitting room was a small glass enclosed space at the back of the floor. Floor to ceiling
mirrors on three walls, a low platform in the center, soft spotlights that left no shadow
unexamined.
Isabella stepped behind the folding screen and undressed quickly, folding her clothes with
military precision. When she emerged in the midnight blue silk, the room went quiet.
Marta let out a low whistle around her pins.
Camille stared.
For one terrible heartbeat Isabella thought her friend had seen something. A mark on her throat.
The faint redness where Ethan's stubble had grazed her inner thigh. But Camille only circled her
slowly, eyes narrowed in professional assessment.
"It fits like it was made for you," she said. Almost accusingly.
Isabella forced a smile. "Lucky coincidence."
Marta moved in, pincushion in hand. "Turn slowly, please."
Isabella turned. The silk whispered against her legs. Every movement reminded her of the way
Ethan had lifted the hem, the way his fingers had dug into her hips.
She kept her gaze fixed on the middle distance.
Camille watched from the doorway. "You look… different in it. More yourself somehow."
The words were soft. Too soft.
Isabella met her eyes in the mirror. "I haven't worn anything this beautiful in years."
Camille nodded once. "It shows."
Marta finished the pinning in record time. "We'll have adjustments ready by noon. The gala is in
six days. We cannot afford mistakes."
When Isabella stepped behind the screen again to change, her hands shook so badly she could
barely manage the zipper.She dressed in silence, listening to the low murmur of voices outside. Camille giving
instructions. Marta answering in rapid Italian.
When she emerged, Camille was waiting alone.
The others had scattered.
Camille crossed her arms. "You left your phone off last night."
Isabella's pulse spiked. "I was asleep."
"I called at four forty seven. It went straight to voicemail."
"I turn it off when I sleep. Doctor's orders. Insomnia."
Camille studied her for a long moment. "You look tired."
"I am."
Another pause.
Then Camille said, "Ethan didn't come home last night."
The statement hung between them like smoke.
Isabella kept her expression neutral. "He's twenty five. He doesn't have a curfew."
Camille's smile was thin. "No. But he usually texts. Even when he's out all night. This time
nothing."
"Maybe he was working late."
"Maybe."
Camille stepped closer. "I trust you, Isabella. More than almost anyone. You know that."
The words felt like a warning wrapped in velvet.
"I know."
"So if there's anything you need to tell me… anything at all… you would, wouldn't you?"
Isabella held her gaze. "Always."Camille searched her face for several seconds longer.
Then she nodded. "Good. I need you in my office at ten. We're finalizing the seating chart for the
gala. The mayor's office just confirmed attendance. This is our biggest night of the year."
"I'll be there."
Camille turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. "And Isabella?"
"Yes?"
"Whatever kept you up last night… try to get some rest. You look like someone carrying a secret
too heavy for one person."
She walked away without waiting for an answer.
Isabella stood in the empty fitting room, surrounded by mirrors that reflected a woman she
barely recognized.
She pressed her palm to her stomach and closed her eyes.
The secret was no longer only heavy.
It was growing.
She felt it in the faint nausea that had started two days ago. In the tenderness of her breasts
when she showered that morning. In the way her body seemed to hum with awareness even
now.
She had not taken a test yet.
She was terrified of what it would confirm.
The morning crawled forward. Meetings, emails, phone calls. Isabella moved through them like
a ghost. Every time she heard footsteps in the corridor she braced herself.
Ethan did not appear.
By ten o'clock she was in Camille's office, seated across the massive white desk, spreadsheets
open on her tablet.
Camille was on the phone with the events coordinator, voice crisp. When she hung up she
looked at Isabella with new intensity."You're pale."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
Camille reached into her drawer and pulled out a small silver case. She opened it, revealing a
row of individually wrapped mints and a pregnancy test.
Isabella's blood turned to ice.
Camille slid the test across the desk.
"Take it."
Isabella stared at the slim white box. "I don't need that."
"You do."
"Camille—"
"I've watched you this morning. The way you press your hand to your stomach when you think
no one's looking. The way you flinch at sudden noises. The way you haven't touched coffee
since you walked in." Camille's voice softened. "I've been there. I know the signs."
Isabella felt the room tilt.
She picked up the test with numb fingers.
Camille stood. "There's a private bathroom through that door. I'll wait."
Isabella walked to the bathroom on legs that felt detached from her body.
She locked the door.
Stared at her reflection.
Then she opened the box.
Three minutes later she sat on the closed toilet lid, staring at the two pink lines.
The world narrowed to the sound of her own heartbeat.She did not cry.
She simply sat there until the lines blurred.
When she emerged, Camille was standing by the window, back to the door.
Isabella set the test on the desk without a word.
Camille turned slowly.
She looked at the test.
Then at Isabella.
Then she crossed the room in three strides and pulled Isabella into her arms.
Not gently.
Fiercely.
"I'm here," Camille whispered. "Whatever happens. I'm here."
Isabella clung to her, the first real tears coming now, hot and silent.
They stayed like that for several minutes.
When they separated, Camille wiped her own eyes and straightened.
"Who is he?"
Isabella's throat closed.
Camille waited.
The silence stretched until it hurt.
Then Isabella whispered, "Your son."
Camille froze.
The color drained from her face so fast Isabella thought she might faint.
She took one step back.Then another.
"No."
"Camille—"
"No."
Camille turned away, hands pressed to her mouth.
Isabella watched the woman who had once been her closest friend unravel in front of her.
Camille spun back. "How long?"
"Three weeks."
"Three weeks." Camille laughed, a broken sound. "Three weeks and you're already…"
She couldn't finish the sentence.
Isabella wrapped her arms around herself. "It wasn't planned."
"Of course it wasn't planned!" Camille's voice cracked. "He's twenty five. You're… you're my
age. Almost. You were supposed to be my friend. My right hand. Not…"
She stopped.
Took a shuddering breath.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know. He left my apartment before dawn."
Camille's eyes narrowed. "He was with you last night."
"Yes."
The admission hung between them like smoke.
Camille closed her eyes. "Get out."
"Camille—"
"Get out of my office. Now."Isabella picked up her bag with shaking hands.
She walked to the door.
Before she could open it, Camille spoke again.
"Don't leave the building."
Isabella paused.
"I need time," Camille said. "But we're not done."
Isabella nodded once.
She left.
The corridor was empty.
She walked to the service stairwell and sat on the top step, head in her hands.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time had lost meaning.
Footsteps echoed below.
Climbing.
Fast.
She lifted her head.
Ethan appeared on the landing below, taking the stairs two at a time.
He stopped when he saw her.
"Isabella."
He climbed the last few steps slowly.
She looked up at him.
He saw her face and went still.
"What happened?"She held up her phone. The pregnancy test result photo she had taken in the bathroom stared
back at them both.
Ethan sank down beside her.
He stared at the screen.
Then he looked at her.
His voice was barely audible. "Is it…?"
"Yes."
He exhaled like he had been punched.
Then he reached for her hand.
She let him take it.
They sat in silence on the cold stairwell while the building hummed around them.
Finally he spoke.
"We tell her together."
"She knows."
He closed his eyes. "How?"
"She guessed. Then I confirmed."
He swore softly.
"She told me to leave her office."
"She'll come around."
"You don't know that."
"I know her."
Isabella looked at him. "She's your mother. And I just told her I'm carrying her grandchild after
sleeping with her son. In secret. For weeks."Ethan squeezed her hand. "We didn't plan this."
"No. But we did choose it."
He nodded slowly.
Then he stood and pulled her up with him.
"Come on."
"Where?"
"To my office. We wait there. Together."
They walked down the corridor like fugitives.
When they reached the creative floor, heads turned. Whispers started.
Ethan ignored them.
He led her into his glass walled office and closed the blinds.
Then he pulled her into his arms.
She let herself break then.
The sobs came hard and fast.
He held her through them, murmuring nonsense against her hair.
When the worst passed, he eased her onto the leather sofa.
He knelt in front of her.
"I'm not running," he said. "I'm not leaving. Not you. Not this baby. Not ever."
She touched his face. "Your mother might never forgive us."
"Then we'll live with that."
She closed her eyes.
He kissed her forehead.They waited.
At three seventeen the door opened without a knock.
Camille stood there.
She looked older than she had that morning.
She looked at them both.
Then she stepped inside and closed the door.
"I've spent the last five hours thinking," she said. "About what I want. About what this company
needs. About what my son needs."
She looked at Ethan.
Then at Isabella.
"I'm not okay with this. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
Ethan started to speak.
Camille raised a hand. "But I'm not going to lose either of you. Not if I can help it."
She walked to the window and looked out at the city.
"I'm giving you both two choices."
She turned back.
"First choice: you end this now. Quietly. Isabella, you resign. You disappear with a generous
severance. The baby… you decide what you want. I will support you either way. Financially.
Medically. Whatever you need. But Ethan and I continue here. Together."
Isabella felt the air leave her lungs.
"Second choice," Camille continued, "you stay. Both of you. You go public. Carefully. On our
timeline. We control the narrative. We spin it. Age gap. Second chance. Love that defies
convention. Whatever sells. But you do it with my blessing. Or at least my tolerance."
She looked between them."I will not have my son sneaking around like a guilty teenager. And I will not have my oldest
friend hiding in shadows because of something I helped build."
Ethan spoke first. "We choose the second."
Camille looked at Isabella.
Isabella met her eyes.
"We choose the second."
Camille nodded once.
Then she walked to the door.
Before she left she said, very quietly, "I need time. A lot of it. But I'm not turning my back on my
family."
The door closed.
Ethan pulled Isabella against him again.
They sat in silence while the city moved on outside the glass.
Neither of them spoke of the storm still coming.
The gala was in six days.
The press would be there.
The mayor.
The buyers.
The world.
And soon enough, the world would know.
But for now, they had this small pocket of time.
A breath between falling and landing.
Isabella rested her head on Ethan's shoulder.He kissed her temple.
They waited for the next wave.
Because it was coming.
And this time, they would face it together.