MISS CLASSIC

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"It has been finalized. The new CEO of BRUVZE fashion empire will report to the office first thing tomorrow morning, and I hope all of you will be there to welcome her. She might be young, but she's very intelligent, so I would love it if you all can let her lead the way, then you follow. Remember—she's the daughter of Lorenzo after all."

The aged voice of a woman seated at the head of the conference table boomed with pride as she signed some documents with a sharp flick of her pen. The rest of the officials seated around chorused, "Of course," with fake smiles plastered on their lips. Their eyes darted to each other, silent conversations passing between them.

Seated at the left side of the old lady—known as Mrs. Brontë—was the former CEO of BRUVZE fashion empire, Bruce Hudge. A deep frown clouded his face, his jaw tight, his knuckles white where they gripped the armrest.

He didn't know why that little witch had to come back this early. He thought he would have sold this dead place before she came, but all his plans had gone down the drain. He'd lined up buyers. He'd cooked the books. He'd been ready.

She ruined everything.

He scoffed under his breath before standing up so abruptly his chair scraped loudly against the floor. He burst out of the conference room in anger, not bothering to close the door behind him.

"For f**k's sake, why didn't that b***h die with her parents that damn day?" he scoffed under his breath again, brushing his fingers through his hair in frustration. His footsteps echoed down the empty hallway as he marched toward his office, already dialing a number on his phone.

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"Mrs. Brontë, Miss Dîrä has just arrived at the airport, but she went to the cemetery. Her assistant just called and filled me in on where they've been," Avary, Mrs. Brontë's personal assistant, told her as she walked out of the conference room with her head held high and her chin straight with pride.

Mrs. Brontë paused mid-stride, her hand gripping the doorframe. The cemetery. Of course. Her granddaughter would go there first. She felt a pang in her chest but swallowed it down.

"Alright, let's get back home. I want to welcome my little angel myself," she muttered as she started walking towards the exit of the huge building of BRUVZE fashion empire. Her heels clicked against the polished marble floor with authority.

Avary trailed behind her, tablet in hand, already texting the security team to prepare the mansion. They walked into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft hiss, and descended into the underground parking lot.

Arriving there, they walked towards a black shining Jeep, got in, then drove speedily out of the gigantic building. The city blurred past them—skyscrapers, traffic, pedestrians—but Mrs. Brontë's mind was elsewhere. She was already picturing her granddaughter's face.

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The gigantic gates of the Brontë magnificent building were flung open, and five flashing cars drove wildly into the compound. The security guards snapped to attention as the convoy rolled through.

A Porsche at the middle of four red Jeeps—they moved in a decent and commanding way, like a queen surrounded by her army.

The five cars parked at the glorious porch of the magnificent building. The doors of the red Jeeps were pushed open, and hefty bodyguards poured out and jogged towards the Porsche.

Before the guards could open the door, it was pushed open from the inside, and a feminine figure jumped from the car and bounced into the main building. Her heels barely touched the ground as she sprinted.

As she made her way towards the entrance, the pleasant aroma of homemade French cookies filled the whole building, making her heart flutter in delight. The scent was warm, buttery, and sweet—so familiar it almost hurt.

"Grandma..." she roared as she made her way towards the kitchen, her voice echoing through the grand foyer. The portraits on the walls—generations of Brontës—watched her pass.

Nothing much had changed since she left. The same chandeliers, the same marble floors, the same grand staircase. Everything was just the same way she left them. Her eyes welled up when she spotted her grandma close to the oven, wearing that same floral apron she'd worn since Dîrä was a child.

They usually made video calls over the years, but finally seeing her grandma in person was everything she needed. The years melted away in an instant.

"Miya," her grandma whispered, her eyes glassed with tears, as she pulled her arms wide open. Dîrä wasted no time in rushing into her arms, enveloping her in a tight hug. She buried her face in her grandma's neck, inhaling that familiar scent—lavender, vanilla, and something uniquely grandma.

With her hands still clutching tightly onto her grandma, "I knew you would be making my cookies. f**k, I miss my cookies," she whispered as she slowly disengaged the hug.

Her grandma didn't want to let her go. She gently placed a kiss on her forehead, then on both her cheeks and both her knuckles, her cheeks already stained with tears. Her hands were trembling slightly.

"Grandma, I miss you so much," Dîrä muttered as she blessed the back of her grandma's palms with kisses after wiping the tears on her cheeks.

"I miss you too, mon amor," her grandma replied as she gently removed the cookie tray from the oven and placed it on the kitchen table. The cookies were golden brown, perfectly round, still steaming.

She picked up a piece and brought it closer to Dîrä's lips, which were already drooling just at the mere sight of the cookies. Dîrä's mouth watered.

Dîrä slowly bit from the cookie and moaned. The warmth spread through her, the sweetness melting on her tongue.

Gawd, it had been ages since she last had homemade cookies, specially made by her grandma or her mom...

She was actually a model, and eating cookies was out of her dictionary—but when it came to her grandma's cookies, nobody alive could reject them.

And that included her.

"How was your flight?" Grandma asked as they made their way into the widely opened sitting room. The room was bathed in afternoon light, the grand piano in the corner untouched, the family photos on the mantle covered in a thin layer of dust.

"It was smooth as always. I was actually rushing home just for these cookies," she chuckled as they took their seats facing each other. Dîrä curled her legs beneath her, clutching the cookie tray like it was treasure.

Her grandma crossed her legs elegantly and smirked at what she had just said. That familiar glint was in her eyes—the one that said she knew everything.

"Come on, sweetheart, you know Grandma has eyes all around New York City, and nothing passes her eyes."

"Grandma, would you ever stop spying on me?" she groaned with a pout on her lips. But she was smiling now. For the first time since she landed, she was actually smiling.

Then the smile faded.

"I visited them today. Today actually marked thirteen years since they've been gone," she muttered, her eyes gazing at the cookies on her thighs. The warmth in the room suddenly felt cold. "I miss them so much," she added as a tear dropped from her eyes down to the tray of cookies on her thighs.

Her grandma quickly stood up from where she was seated and pulled Dîrä up on her feet, after placing the cookies on a side table close by. She cupped Dîrä's face in her weathered hands.

She placed a long and lasting kiss on her forehead after wiping away her tears. Her thumb stroked Dîrä's cheek gently.

"If tears could bring them back, trust me, angel, we could have raised the whole dead Americans," her grandma muttered, and she laughed dryly. It was a broken sound, but it was something.

"Please cheer up now, Dîrä. Cassandra won't be happy to see her daughter in tears after returning to her hometown," her grandma continued consoling her, her voice steady but cracking at the edges.

Dîrä slowly wiped away her tears and sighed softly. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

Even just by thinking about them, she could feel their presence. Lorenzo's booming laugh. Cassandra's gentle hands. The way they'd dance in the kitchen on Sunday mornings.

Fuck!!!

WHY was it so hard to live without either of your parents? You could imagine the amazing things they could have done if they were here with her. Her mom would have been her best friend. Her dad would have walked her down the aisle.

She sniffed softly, then smiled as she nodded towards the staircase. "I will be upstairs, Grandma. I need to freshen up and get some rest. I'll be down for dinner," she muttered as she took the stairs, rushing towards her room. She needed to be alone.

"Dîrä..." Her grandma called, but she had already disappeared into the staircase. Her footsteps faded down the hallway.

Her grandma sighed before sitting back on the couch with her eyes tightly shut as hot tears rolled down her eyes. She let them fall—she didn't wipe them away.

She didn't even want to think about it. It had been thirteen solid years since she had spoken to or set eyes on her only son. She still remembered the last time she saw him—waving from the driveway, promising to call.

She missed him day and night. She longed to have her daughter-in-law in the kitchen with her again. The crazy things they used to do whenever she came visiting. The laughter. The chaos. The love.

"Oh, dear God. Give me the strength to console my granddaughter, even if it's just a little. She's hurt every single day," she whispered under her breath, her eyes still tightly shut. Her hands clasped together in prayer.

Outside, the sun was setting over the Brontë mansion, casting long shadows across the grounds. Somewhere in the distance, a car engine roared to life. Bruce Hudge was already scheming.