ASHES OF HER NAME: THE RETURN OF A FASHION ICON

Threads Unraveling

Zaria’s POV

Room 914 smelled like bergamot and money. My hands tightened on the cart as I knocked once, already regretting not calling in sick. I couldn’t afford that kind of luxury, not with Mum's next prescription waiting to be filled and no confirmation email from Vettores in sight.

The door swung open, and a tall man filled the frame. Barefoot. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Auburn hair, a little too messy to be styled. His eyes landed on me, gray, unreadable and held there for a second too long before he stepped back without a word.

I rolled the tray into a suite that looked like it cost more per night than my entire internship stipends. Another man lounged on the couch, blond, legs crossed, scrolling through his phone with smugness carved into his cheekbones.

“Finally,” he said, without looking up. “I was about to eat the minibar. Are you guys always this slow or just keeping the suspense?”

I didn't respond. I kept my eyes on the cart, lifting the silver lid off the plates, arranging the cutlery like it mattered.

“No offense,” he added, “but service is slower than Vettores recruitment process. Speaking of, did you see the winter preview?”

I stilled.

“They’re going all-in on this gold-and-black look. Apparently some intern submitted sketches for documentation, and now it’s the whole direction. Classic Vettores, right?.”

A fork scraped ceramic. My heartbeat rose to my ears.

“She said the designs are technically theirs. Company rights and all that. Clean transfer. But man, the stuff’s good. Dramatic. Real ‘emergence from darkness’ vibe.”

The cart slipped forward an inch and I absentmindedly dropped the teapot. The tray rattled. The man on the couch didn’t notice.

But the quiet one, the one with the storm-gray eye, looked up from where he’d been leaning by the window. Our eyes locked for a second, and I saw something shift in his gaze. A spark. Nothing more.

I muttered something about needing a signature, fumbling to hold the pen steady. I didn’t recognize the name scribbled onto the order sheet, didn’t care. I just needed to leave.

The door clicked shut behind me and I didn’t stop walking until I hit the back corridor. Their voices replayed in my head. Gold and black. Company rights. Intern.

Then I leaned against the wall and tried to breathe. I pressed my palms to the wallpaper until my nails left half-moons. Gold and black. Company rights. Intern. The words carved themselves into my ribs, each repetition a stitch pulled too tight.

My designs.

Emergence.

I hadn’t named it lightly. That coat was a bleeding heart sewn in silk. Winged shoulders, high collar, golden lining bursting through the black like light cracking through grief.

The last thing I’d drawn before everything turned to ash.

My hands trembled.

It was the exact same way in London. Brew & Bloom. A tiny café that smelled of sour milk and burnt ambition. I was wiping tables when Mr. Collins called me into the back office. His eyes didn’t meet mine.

“We’re letting a few people go,” he’d said.

Not you’re fired. Not I’m sorry. Just business.

I didn’t fight him. Not after the last incident, the shattered cup, the customer’s complaint, the way my body locked when a hand brushed my waist. What would I say? That I needed the job because hospital bills didn’t wait? That my body froze every time someone touched me unexpectedly, like time rewound and stitched the fear into my spine? That I’d been assaulted as a child and hadn’t known how deep it ran until it started affecting my shifts? They called it ‘unreliable.’ I called it survival.

He wouldn’t care, so I left.

I didn’t cry until I got home. Sugar cubes in my apron pocket. My last twenty pounds folded into a notebook I could no longer afford to dream in.

I used it for the train to Edinburgh. I told myself it was for Mum’s sake. It was. But it was also to run from the way London had closed its doors on me.

I sold my father’s watch a few days after arriving. Then my sewing scissors. They were the last gift he gave me before he died. I told myself objects didn’t matter, but when the pawnshop man took them without blinking, something cracked.

A cancer-based NGO answered one of the hundreds of emails I’d sent. Two thousand pounds. Enough to register Mum for the trial program at Ardent Hills Clinic. Enough to breathe, at least, for a while.

Then the internship listing for Vettores showed up. I applied. It had lasted three months. Three months of unpaid labor for a sliver of hope.I gave it everything, every stitch, every skipped meal, every quiet night at the clinic holding Mum’s hand. They gave stipends, barely enough, but I saved what I could. It helped keep her medicines coming, helped keep Leah from worrying too much.

The internship was brutal. The pressure, unbearable but I loved it and I was desperate.

So when Ivanna asked for my sketchbook “for documentation,” I didn’t hesitate. She said she saw potential. She said I had a rawness the industry lacked. She liked me or pretended to. She called my designs “fresh,” said I wasn’t yet corrupted by the rot of the industry. She smiled at me like she meant it.

I should’ve known better. But when someone offers you a ladder while you’re drowning, you don’t check if it’s attached to anything.

The internship ended quietly. No applause. No certificate. Just a whispered hope that I’d get a job offer after review.

Two days after the program ended, it aired.

Edinburgh Fashion Festival. Closing night.

I was ironing one of Leah’s blouses near the doorway, the ironing board wedged at an angle that gave me a clear view of the kitchen TV. Leah was in the kitchen sipping her third cup of tea. I wasn’t paying much attention until I heard the name Vettores.

I turned toward the screen.

Ivanna Moritz stood beneath bright lights, graceful and glowing. Behind her, a model stepped onto the runway in a coat that pulled the breath right from my chest.

My coat.

They hadn’t changed the title. Emergence.

The crowd’s applause swelled, a wave of sound that drowned the iron's hiss. Cameras flashed. Ivanna walked out like a queen, waving to an audience that didn’t know the crown was stolen. I didn’t say a word.

The iron I was using slipped, scorched the towel. The smell of burnt fabric curled through the room. I stared at the screen like it might apologize. But it didn’t. No one did.

No credit. No mention. Not even a footnote in the digital brochure. The confirmation email never came.

Instead, I received a brief, polite rejection later that same evening.

“We regret informing you…”

The same night I realized I’d been used, erased, and discarded.

I spent the next week in silence, applying to every place that would let me stand behind a counter, fold sheets, or carry trays.

The Radcliffe Royale needed a room attendant. Night shifts. No questions asked.

I took it.

And now here I was. In a hotel uniform delivering food to men who spoke about my dreams like they were cocktail chatter.

One of them silent while the other too loud.

I could still feel the gray-eyed one’s stare when I left. Like he saw something but didn’t know what to name it. Not guilt. Not suspicion.

Just pause. A flicker maybe. He looked like he saw something that didn’t belong to him and for a moment too long, he looked like he wanted to keep it anyway.

He didn’t know me but part of me hated him anyway.