Threads and Needles

Chapter 1.3

Chapter One (Part 3)

Tailored Encounters

The fountain shimmered like liquid gold under the noonday sun. Most of the students had already drifted off to take more photos or explore the studios again. Aria was editing selfies. Elle had gone silent in her usual way — eyes distant, pencil sketching the ripples of the water.

For the first time since I’d arrived, I let myself breathe. Really breathe.

Everything around me buzzed — footsteps, laughter, the faint hiss of an espresso machine from the café nearby. It was the hum of new beginnings. Of dreams pressed and stitched and barely held together.

I stared at the DSFI logo embossed on my student badge.

Miles Penelope Bautista.

Somehow, it looked heavier in gold.

“I still can’t believe we’re here,” I said softly.

Elle smiled without looking up. “You worked for this, P. You deserve it.”

Aria grinned. “Exactly. You’re meant to be here. So am I. And Elle—”

“Is here to keep you both alive,” Elle interrupted gently.

We all laughed. The sound echoed off the marble.

That was when a voice cut through the air behind us — low, smooth, and entirely uninterested in matching our mood.

“Watch your step.”

I turned instinctively and nearly tripped over my own tote bag.

A tall figure was crossing the courtyard, a navy coat tailored to perfection, the kind of garment that made a statement just by existing. The sun hit his hair, catching streaks of bronze through deep brown. His stride was unhurried, confident — no, calculated. Every movement looked intentional.

“Whoa,” Aria murmured beside me, leaning close. “Someone woke up ready for a GQ shoot.”

The guy didn’t even glance at her. His gaze slid across the crowd, sharp and assessing, until it landed squarely on me. For a moment, I forgot how to blink.

There was something in his eyes — not warmth, not even curiosity. Just… evaluation. The way a designer looks at fabric before deciding whether it’s worth cutting.

“Group C!” Cassian’s voice broke the silence. He was waving from a few steps away, smiling like this was the best coincidence ever. “Perfect timing. Everyone, meet Lincoln Asher Delos Santos — senior student, lead designer of last year’s DSFI Gala collection, and…”

Cassian paused, lowering his voice a little, “…the son of the institute’s founder.”

I froze.

Delos Santos.

As in the Delos Santos. The name carved into every banner, every wall, every brochure.

Lincoln gave a polite nod, more of an acknowledgment than a greeting. “Welcome to the institute,” he said, voice smooth but edged. “If you’re here, it means someone thought you were worth the gamble.”

Aria’s smile dropped. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she muttered under her breath.

He ignored her. “You’ll learn quickly,” he continued, “that DSFI doesn’t care about how passionate you are, or how much potential people say you have. This place only remembers the results.”

A chill crawled up my spine. His tone wasn’t cruel — just… certain.

Cassian tried to lighten the mood. “Lincoln’s just being dramatic. He’s evaluating first-year portfolios next month, so don’t take it personally if he sounds intense.”

“Evaluating?” I repeated before I could stop myself.

Lincoln turned toward me. “You sound disappointed.”

“No,” I said quickly. “Just surprised.”

His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. “Good. Surprise means you still have expectations. You’ll lose those soon.”

Aria crossed her arms. “Wow. Motivational poster material right there.”

That made him glance her way, amusement flickering across his face. “You must be Marketing.”

“Why?” she shot back.

“Because you talk too much and believe charisma can fix everything.”

Elle coughed to cover a laugh. Aria glared at both of them.

Lincoln’s gaze returned to me, and I felt suddenly too seen. “You’re in Design, right?”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

“Show me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your sketchbook,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re carrying one. I want to see.”

Every instinct screamed no, but something in his tone — not rude, not kind, just unbothered, made refusal feel like cowardice. So, I handed it over.

He flipped through it silently, page by page. My sketches looked different in his hands — smaller, barer, almost childish. I watched his eyes flicker between designs: evening gowns, streetwear experiments, one delicate piece inspired by my grandfather’s measuring tape.

When he stopped on that one, his expression softened for half a second. Then his mouth tilted, sharp again.

“You’ve got potential,” he said finally, “but your lines mimic old couture too closely. It’s safe… predictable.”

Ouch.

Aria bristled. “She literally just got here. Maybe save the ego trip for—”

He cut her off with a calm glance. “This is an art school, not a therapy group. Critique is the job.”

Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned back to me and added,

“You design like a knockoff with ambition.”

The words hit harder than I expected. Sharp. Precise. The kind that left a mark.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged lightly, handing my sketchbook back. “You heard me. Ambition’s good. But originality, that’s rare. DSFI has enough copycats chasing couture ghosts.”

I felt something flare inside me — anger, embarrassment, pride. I couldn’t tell which burned hotter.

“Thanks for the feedback,” I managed. My voice was steadier than I felt.

Lincoln studied me for a beat longer, then simply said, “You’ll need thicker skin if you want to survive here.”

And with that, he walked away. Just like that — no apology, no goodbye. His silhouette cut through the sunlight until the crowd swallowed him whole.

Aria stared after him. “Unbelievable. If arrogance were fabric, he’d be haute couture.”

Elle gave a small laugh, though her voice stayed gentle. “Don’t let it get to you, P. You know your worth.”

I tried to smile. “Yeah. I just wasn’t expecting to be insulted before lunch.”

Aria threw an arm around my shoulder. “Ignore him. Guys like that think confidence is a personality.”

“Maybe it’s armor,” Elle murmured thoughtfully.

I didn’t respond. My eyes drifted toward the path Lincoln had taken, his words echoing louder than I wanted them to.

Knockoff with ambition.

The fountain’s rhythm filled the silence, steady and sure, a heartbeat made of water and light. I looked up at the DSFI banner fluttering above the courtyard, the gold letters catching the wind.

He might have seen a copy.

But I knew better.

Because this time, I wasn’t just dreaming of fashion.

I was ready to stitch my name into it, one thread, one risk, one heartbreak at a time.