MILAN
1468 Words
Chapter Seven
Milan
Three weeks after Adrian Vale acquired the company, I was standing in front of a mood board covered in photographs of Milan, wondering whether I had just made the best decision of my career or the most expensive mistake.
Around me, the creative team was in various stages of panic.
“We're going to need another photographer.”
“We don't have another photographer.”
“Then find one.”
“Where?”
“Preferably Milan.”
“That would have been helpful before we booked the flights.”
I looked up from my laptop.
“Everyone breathe.”
Nobody did.
I couldn't blame them.
The campaign had grown considerably since Adrian's acquisition. What had started as a relatively modest launch had turned into the first major international campaign under Vale Holdings, which meant everyone suddenly had an opinion.
Marketing wanted one thing.
Finance wanted another.
The client wanted something “timeless but disruptive,” which was apparently corporate language for we don't know what we want, but we'll know when we see it.
And Adrian had approved Milan.
That was the one thing I hadn't expected.
He hadn't liked the idea when we'd first presented it. He'd questioned the budget, challenged the location, and made it very clear that if the campaign failed, he would remember exactly who had convinced him to spend the money.
So I had spent the last three weeks making sure he had no reason to regret it.
The trip to Milan was finally here.
And for once, Adrian wasn't coming.
I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
Mostly relieved.
He had a business conference in London and several meetings immediately afterward, which meant I could do my job without having the intimidating billionaire standing behind me every time I made a decision.
The thought should have made me happy.
Instead, I found myself wondering whether he would even notice if the campaign succeeded.
I immediately dismissed the thought.
Why would I care?
He was my employer.
That was all.
At least, that was what I kept telling myself.
The Milan shoot was exhausting.
It was also incredible.
We spent the first day moving between locations, trying to capture the contrast I'd envisioned—the old architecture against the modern silhouettes, the warmth of the city against the sharpness of the collection.
Nothing went perfectly.
Of course it didn't.
Our original location fell through.
One of the models arrived late.
The weather changed halfway through the afternoon.
And our photographer nearly lost his mind when one of the lighting assistants accidentally damaged a piece of equipment.
But somehow, it worked.
By the third day, everyone had stopped complaining.
Even the client was impressed.
“This is exactly what we wanted,” she said as we reviewed the first set of photographs.
I smiled.
“Good.”
She looked at me.
“No. Not good.”
She pointed at the screen.
“This is excellent.”
That word stayed with me.
Excellent.
I'd worked hard for it.
Maybe harder than I realized.
That evening, after everyone had gone back to the hotel, I stayed behind with the photographer to review the final shots.
Milan was quiet outside the studio.
The city lights reflected against the windows, and for the first time in days, I had nothing that needed fixing.
I leaned back in my chair.
“We did it.”
He laughed.
“You did it.”
“We did.”
He shook his head.
“Fine. We did.”
I smiled.
For the first time since the acquisition, I felt completely certain that I belonged where I was.
Not because Adrian Vale owned the company.
Not because I'd somehow become connected to the strangest mystery of my life.
Because I'd earned my place.
The campaign launched two weeks later.
And it exploded.
The response was almost immediate.
Fashion magazines picked it up.
Industry accounts shared the photographs.
The client extended the campaign internationally.
Orders exceeded projections.
The company gained new contracts.
And, to my surprise, my name began appearing alongside the campaign.
Not just the company's.
Mine.
Sophie called me at seven in the morning.
“You're famous.”
I groaned.
“I'm not famous.”
“You're in three fashion publications.”
“That's not famous.”
“Four.”
I sat up.
“Four?”
“Exactly.”
I smiled despite myself.
Then she said, “You know who hasn't congratulated you?”
I didn't need to ask.
“Don't.”
“Adrian.”
“He's busy.”
“He owns the company.”
“Which means he's probably busy owning it.”
She laughed.
“You're defending him now?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Goodbye, Sophie.”
I hung up.
Twenty minutes later, my assistant knocked on my office door.
“Lilian?”
“Yes?”
She held out an envelope.
“This came for you.”
I took it.
There was no name on the front.
Just my initials.
I opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Mr. Vale would like to see you at four.
I stared at it.
Apparently, he had noticed.
At four o'clock, I walked into the executive office.
Adrian was behind his desk, reading through a report.
He didn't look up immediately.
“Sit.”
I sat.
He finished the page, closed the file, and finally looked at me.
“I've reviewed the Milan numbers.”
I waited.
“They're excellent.”
I smiled faintly.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
There was a pause.
“You were right.”
I blinked.
“About?”
“Milan.”
I couldn't help smiling.
“I'll make a note of the date.”
His expression remained completely serious.
“Don't push your luck.”
I laughed.
Something in his face softened for a moment.
Then he looked back at the report.
“The campaign exceeded the projected returns by thirty-two percent.”
“I know.”
“I assume you're pleased.”
“I am.”
“You should be.”
He slid a document across the desk.
“There's a new proposal.”
I picked it up.
He continued, “I'd like you to lead the next international campaign.”
I looked up.
“Personally?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds like trust.”
His expression changed.
“Professional trust.”
I smiled.
“Of course.”
He leaned back.
“Don't misunderstand me, Lilian. My opinion of your work has nothing to do with what happened before.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
“Elena.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
I looked down at the proposal.
“I'm glad.”
He frowned slightly.
“Why?”
“Because I'd rather be judged on what I do now.”
He was quiet.
For a second, I thought he might say something.
Instead, he nodded.
“Good.”
I stood.
As I reached the door, he spoke again.
“Lilian.”
I turned.
His expression was unreadable.
“You really don't remember anything?”
The question caught me off guard.
I looked at him.
“No.”
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
“That's all.”
I left.
The elevator doors closed behind me.
Only then did I let out the breath I'd been holding.
I should have felt relieved.
The campaign was a success.
Adrian trusted my work.
My career was moving forward.
Everything was finally beginning to make sense.
So why did one question keep following me?
You really don't remember anything?
I pressed the button for the lobby.
I remembered plenty.
My childhood.
My education.
My career.
My friends.
My life.
But there was one period I couldn't quite reach when I tried.
Five years ago.
The more I thought about it, the stranger it became.
I knew where I had been living.
I knew what I'd been doing.
At least, I thought I did.
But there were no photographs from that year.
No messages.
No keepsakes.
No clear memories.
Just fragments.
Nothing I could hold onto.
The elevator doors opened.
I stepped out.
My phone buzzed.
An email.
I glanced at the sender.
Medical Records Department.
My steps slowed.
I opened it.
There was a message waiting for me.
Dear Ms. Brooks,
We are contacting you regarding an old medical record that has recently been requested in your name.
I stopped walking.
My heart began to beat faster.
I read the next line.
Please contact our office at your earliest convenience to verify your identity.
I stared at the screen.
I hadn't requested any medical records.
And suddenly, the five-year-old question I'd been trying not to ask myself became impossible to ignore.
What exactly had happened to me five years ago?
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