The shattered watercolor was a declaration. Elara didn’t tell Kaelan. Telling him would make it his fight, and this was hers. The ruined painting was a piece of her history, not just a trophy in their war. She buried the white-hot rage, letting it solidify into a cold, focused core. The next forty-eight hours were a blur of manic creation. She barely slept, communicating with the specialized team Kaelan had assembled through a storm of video calls and schematics. The guest cottage became a war room, papered with sketches and light studies.
On the morning the concepts were due, a package arrived at the cottage. Not a threat. A dress. A column of severe, elegant black silk, with a single, sharp asymmetric seam. A note in Kaelan’s handwriting: “Wear this when you present to the design commit
