Episode-2
745 Words
The late afternoon sun filtered through the lofty windows of Liselle’s Atelier, gilding the dust motes that danced in the air. Freyda Liselle stood before her masterpiece: the emerald-green gown she’d been commissioned to create for Frostbite MC’s gala. She traced a fingertip along the bodice’s golden vines, each stitch a breath of her own soul.
The fabric rippled like liquid forest shade, layers of silk chiffon cascading in gentle waves. Golden embroidery—so fine it might have been spun from moonlight—wound around the waist and shoulders. Tiny pearls nestled in each leaf’s curve, catching the light like captive stars. The sleeves floated free, tethered only by gossamer threads that shimmered when she moved.
It was the most beautiful thing she had ever made. And Frostbite MC would pay her in scraps.
She pressed her palm to her chest, stifling the ache. The mob’s lieutenant had promised a generous fee; instead they’d deducted “material costs” until her paycheck was nearly nothing. An orphan scraping by, she had no choice but to accept.
When deadlines crushed her, she baked—honey cakes, fig tarts, chocolate swirls. Desserts soothed her mind like lullabies. Today she carried a single cup of fig-and-honey ice cream from the corner shop, savoring its sweet tang as she crossed the street to the small park.
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The park was nearly empty. A tired swing creaked in the breeze. Freyda sat on her favorite bench beneath an old oak, spooning ice cream slowly. The figs were fragrant; the honey wove warmth through each bite.
A soft sniffle drew her attention. A little girl knelt in the dirt, trying to salvage a fallen cone. Freyda stood and approached.
“Need some help?” she asked, offering a tissue.
The girl looked up, big brown eyes glistening. She nodded.
Freyda knelt, gently cleaning the sticky mess. “There you go.”
The girl’s face brightened. “I’m Elara.”
“Freyda,” she replied, brushing grass from the girl’s dress.
Elara sniffed. “You smell like sugar.”
Freyda laughed. “I was making desserts.”
Elara’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “My mommy was an actress—she performed on TV and big stages—but I was too little to remember her. Grandma says she’s off being famous somewhere.”
Freyda’s heart tightened. She squeezed the girl’s hand. “She sounds wonderful.”
Elara nodded, then eyed Freyda’s cup. “Fig-and-honey? My favorite!”
Freyda held it out. “Want to share?”
Elara grinned and climbed up. They ate side by side, legs swinging, sharing stories: Elara’s dragon drawings, her stubborn dislike of spinach, her kindergarten adventures.
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When Freyda’s phone buzzed—a curt reminder from Frostbite MC: “Gown due midnight. No delays.”—she stiffened.
“I have to finish work,” she told Elara.
Elara pouted. “Okay. Be safe.”
Freyda ruffled her hair. “See you soon, promise.”
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Back in the atelier, Freyda worked through the night. The golden vines blurred as she hemmed and stitched, reattached pearls, and smoothed every seam. At 11:59 PM, she stepped back. The gown was perfect—ethereal, alive, a forest’s whisper in silk.
She collapsed into a chair, heart racing, as a black SUV idled outside. A courier collected the dress. Freyda watched it go, chest heavy.
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The next morning, she awoke in her silent apartment. She flexed aching fingers, then descended to the atelier. The sign above the door felt like a promise she had yet to fulfill.
Inside, Zion Havoc stood waiting. His leather jacket in hand, rain-dark hair still damp. He watched her with curious intensity.
“Morning,” he said.
Freyda startled. “You—how did you—”
He lifted a hand. “I follow deliveries. Frostbite MC doesn’t treat talent well.”
Her pulse quickened. “They…they pay me.”
“Barely,” he finished. “I can offer you better.”
Freyda’s breath caught. She looked at the empty mannequin stand. “Why?”
“Because art like yours shouldn’t live in fear. And because I can protect you.”
She thought of Elara’s bright smile, the hush of her apartment, the stolen beauty of her gowns.
“I want freedom.” she whispered.
He nodded. “Then let mehelp you find it.”
Between them hung a promise more dangerous—and more hopeful—than any stitch she’d ever sewn.
- Writer
