Scarlet Lies

Chapter 12: Elena's Growth

Six months had passed since the courtroom lights dimmed on the trial that exposed Jonathan Cade and his associates. Six months since Callum Ashford disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind a life of wealth, a crumbling firm—and Elena.

The buzz of cameras and reporters, once ever-present at the entrance of her studio, had died down. But Elena had grown used to the silence. It allowed her to work. To think. To breathe.

Her father’s portrait hung in the new wing of the Reyes Atelier, a sunlit showroom now graced by pieces from her latest collection, Resilience. Each design bore the fingerprint of her journey—delicate embroidery echoing grief, sharp tailoring speaking of betrayal, and sweeping silhouettes symbolizing freedom. She poured her pain into silk and strength into every stitch.

And the world noticed.

Fashion magazines called her the phoenix of the industry. Paris invited her to open couture week. Milan begged for her name on billboards. Buyers from Tokyo and Seoul reserved her pieces a season in advance. Her brand, once hanging by a thread, now bloomed across continents.

But success was a double-edged sword.

Because when the world quieted—when the lights dimmed and the sketches were tucked away—Callum still lingered.

She hated it.

She hated how he stayed in the corners of her mind. How she caught herself sketching his eyes into a male model’s silhouette. How his voice—steady, low, with a British calmness she once found charming—still echoed when she doubted herself.

And perhaps worst of all… she hated how she missed him.

She never told Levi that. Levi, who now visited her studio every Wednesday like clockwork, carrying lunch from a new restaurant he discovered or some specialty coffee she couldn’t find on her own.

“Grilled salmon with lemon butter,” he said one afternoon, placing the takeout on her desk without waiting for thanks. “You skipped lunch again, didn’t you?”

Elena smiled faintly. “You’re not my assistant, Levi.”

He leaned on the edge of the table. “No. But I’m your friend.”

She didn’t correct him. Levi had proven loyal in ways she hadn’t expected. He never pushed. Never spoke ill of Callum unless she brought it up first. Instead, he filled in the silent spaces—bringing food, listening to her brainstorms, helping navigate some press scandals that followed the Cade fallout.

Sometimes, she wondered what his intentions were. Other times, she already knew.

“You’re working on the father collection again?” he asked, nodding at the fabric swatches she’d laid out.

Elena nodded. “The Tribute line. I want it ready for the winter show.”

Levi tilted his head. “Does it still hurt?”

Her hand paused on the silk. “Yes. But not in the way it used to.”

There was a long silence.

Levi finally asked, “Do you ever think of him?”

She didn’t flinch. She could lie. But what was the point?

“Sometimes.”

His gaze lowered. “Do you think he thinks of you?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But it doesn’t matter.”

"I'm jealous for a man who doesn't show up". He muttered but she didn't heard it.

Levi nodded, but his eyes told another story. He wanted to be more than the friend who brought food. He wanted to be the man who made her forget.

But Elena… Elena wasn’t ready to forget. Not yet.

Instead, she immersed herself in work. She mentored young designers. Donated to grassroots art schools. Launched a charity project under her father’s name to help fashion students who couldn’t afford tuition.

Her growth wasn’t just on the runway. It was internal. Hard-earned. Quietly powerful.

In her private journal, she had once written: I am the daughter of a man who lost everything to trust, and a woman who learned to rebuild with nothing but thread and fire.

That line became the tagline of her next campaign.

One evening, as she stood backstage at a charity gala—dressed in her own design, surrounded by rising stars in the fashion world—her assistant tapped her on the shoulder.

“There’s someone asking for you in the courtyard. He didn’t give his name.”

Elena stiffened. For one foolish second, she thought: Callum.

But it wasn’t.

It was Levi.

Standing under the archway, holding a bouquet of wildflowers—not roses, not lilies. Wildflowers. The kind that grew through cracks in sidewalks.

“I thought you’d prefer something less expected,” he said with a sheepish smile.

She accepted them wordlessly.

“You look…” he swallowed. “Incredible.”

Elena looked past the compliment. “Why are you here, Levi?”

“I’ve been here,” he said. “And I’ll keep being here. Unless you tell me to stop.”

She studied him. Good man. Safe man. Honest. Reliable.

But not the man she had stitched into the hems of her heartbreak.

“I don’t know what I want,” she said.

He nodded. “Then I’ll wait. Just… don’t shut me out.”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t walk away either.

That night, when she returned home, she opened her journal again. Wrote nothing. Just stared at the last line she’d penned weeks ago:

Some people are storms. Some people are shelters.

And she wondered, for the first time, if she had to choose.

The spring sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains of Elena’s office, casting golden rays across sketches, fabric swatches, and pinned notes that adorned the walls like a living mosaic. The hum of machines and the soft buzz of her team working down the hall were steady reminders of how far she had come.

And now?

Elena was untouchable.

Her latest fashion line, MEMENTO, debuted in Paris to a standing ovation. Inspired by her father’s original designs—clean lines, rich textures, heritage patterns—it paid tribute without falling into nostalgia. The critics called it bold. Powerful. Grieving, but unbroken.

Just like her.

She stood in front of a long table lined with fabric samples, fingers grazing a deep navy velvet her father once favored. The shade reminded her of home, of a simpler time when ambition was still wide-eyed and innocent. A faint smile played on her lips.

“Elena?” her assistant, Cara, peeked in. “There’s a delivery. Again.”

Elena raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess—kimchi rice, extra spicy?”

Cara smirked. “And a latte. He’s consistent, I’ll give him that.”

She walked to the doorway, her arms crossed. “Tell Levi I’m not hungry.”

“You told him that yesterday. And the day before.”

“I’ll tell him myself.”

Outside the building, the sun was warmer than it looked. Levi Kim leaned against his matte black car, holding a paper bag and a cup tray like it was an offering to a goddess who might still smite him. His smile was casual, but his eyes lit up when she approached.

“Didn’t I say you didn’t have to keep doing this?” Elena asked, arms crossed.

“You did,” he said, holding out the bag anyway. “But I’m stubborn.”

“Persistent, you mean.”

“That too.”

She took the food, trying not to smile. Levi had shown up with meals, backup chargers, even umbrellas on rainy days. He never pushed. Never asked for anything. Just quietly… showed up.

“You know you don’t need to win me over,” she said, looking up at him.

He shrugged. “Maybe I just want to be around.”

“You were gone for years.”

“I made mistakes,” he admitted. “And I’m not pretending to be a saint now. But I’m here if you want someone who’s real. No hidden motives. No firm breathing down my neck.”

Elena sighed. “I don’t need a man to save me.”

“I know,” Levi replied gently. “But maybe you deserve someone who walks beside you. Not in front.”

She said nothing, but she didn’t leave either. Eventually, she took the latte from him and walked back inside without another word. Levi smiled to himself, quietly counting that as a win.

Back in the studio, the atmosphere hummed with productivity. Her creative director, May, waved her over to a design pinned on a board.

“This—this one,” May said. “It has your father’s silhouette, but your edge. The contrast stitching? Genius.”

“Thanks,” Elena said. “It’s for the Seoul exhibit. I want something personal.”

May nodded. “Are you… okay, by the way?”

Elena looked at her. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been quieter lately. Even with the success, you look… I don’t know. Thoughtful.”

Elena hesitated.

It was true.

Her days were filled with meetings, designs, launches. But her nights? Those were haunted by the quiet echo of a man she’d almost believed in.

Callum.

He had disappeared after testifying—really disappeared. His name was nowhere in the news. His face never showed up in the usual business feeds. It was as if he had vanished from the world entirely.

But not from her mind.

She remembered the way he looked at her like she was more than just a stepping stone. The way his voice trembled the night he said, “I didn’t mean to fall for you, Elena.”

And the night he left.

That final text.

You saved me. Even if I didn’t deserve it.

She had never replied.

She probably never would.

Three weeks later, Elena flew to Seoul for the unveiling of MEMENTO’s South Korea line. Her name was on banners, the press swarmed the exhibit hall, and international buyers whispered her name like it was sacred. But beneath the glamour, she felt something shift.

At the afterparty, Levi found her on the rooftop, looking out over the Han River.

“You’re glowing,” he said, offering her a glass of ginger soda.

“I’m exhausted.”

He chuckled. “You’re allowed to be. But tonight’s yours. You made history.”

Elena exhaled slowly. “You ever think about what you’d do if things had been different?”

“All the time.”

“I mean really different. If my father had lived. If I’d never met Callum. If you and I had… tried.”

Levi’s expression softened. “I think we’re always exactly where we’re supposed to be. Even when it hurts.”

“You really believe that?”

“I believe you survived. And you turned pain into art. Into fire. Into a brand the world can’t stop watching.”

Elena looked at him. “Why are you still here, Levi?”

“Because I still believe in you. Even if you don’t believe in me.”

There was something almost poetic in that answer. She stepped closer, resting her head lightly against his shoulder.

Just for a moment.

Not love.

But comfort. Warmth. Familiarity.

The next morning, she received an envelope.

No name.

No return address.

Inside: a pressed camellia flower, a torn piece of the MEMENTO show invitation, and a note in handwriting she could never forget.

I watched from the crowd. I never stopped cheering for you.

Stay brilliant, Elena. That’s all I ever wanted.

– C

She sat in silence for a long time.

Callum hadn’t vanished, not completely.

He was just watching from the shadows, proud from a distance.

Elena pressed the flower between the pages of her father’s old journal. She didn’t cry.

She smiled.

Then stood.