Eloise
The fabric samples were spread across my dining table, chaotic but beautiful. Layers of chiffon, velvet, silk blends with textured patterns, each one holding a story I hadn’t told yet. I ran my fingers across a swatch dyed deep plum, the color of healing bruises. It reminded me of how I’d felt the day Jennifer’s first stolen collection debuted, wounded but still surviving.
This wasn’t jewelry. Not entirely.
I had taken a risk and followed a different thread, literally. Sketches that once started as necklace pendants grew into abstract patterns, evolving into textiles, eventually blooming into a capsule collection of garments. The irony wasn’t lost on me; I wasn’t just dressing women anymore, I was dressing their pain, their resilience, their rebirths.
My name wasn’t attached to
