Chapter 4

Two weeks later, SOHO district.

I stood before a cramped studio, clutching the newly signed lease. Staring at this windowless, dimly lit space of barely 160 square feet, I almost regretted it. But remembering the chunk of savings I'd just handed over, I knew there was no turning back.

"Young lady, are you sure you can afford $3,000 a month?" Mr. Garcia, the landlord, eyed me skeptically. "It's small, but this is SOHO. Location is everything."

"I'll pay on time." I made the promise through gritted teeth, while my mind frantically calculated my remaining cash.

The money I'd brought from D.C. would last three months, tops. If I couldn't turn a profit fast, I might not even make next month's rent. What then? Go back? Crawl to Alex?

No. Absolutely not.

After Mr. Garcia left, I stood alone in the empty studio. On the wall hung my brand logo—"Liberty & Stone"—simple yet elegant. This was my brand. More than that, it was my dream.

"I have to succeed," I told my slightly haggard reflection in the mirror. "There's no going back."

In the days that followed, I practically lived in the studio. I wouldn't fall asleep until 3 AM each night, then dragged myself up at seven to keep working. Design sketches covered every surface, my workbench cluttered with gemstones and metals I'd bought with the last of my savings.

Madison was right—I couldn't do anything. I couldn't cook, couldn't do laundry, lacked even the most basic life skills. But I could learn. I had to learn.

I started eating the cheapest takeout, figured out the laundromat's self-service machines, even started buying discounted bread at convenience stores for dinner.

Every night, Alex messaged me.

"Did you eat?" "It's cold today, stay warm." "How's the studio going?"

I always replied with brief "Yeah" or "Good." I was afraid if I said more, I'd break down crying, couldn't stop myself from saying "I miss you."

But I couldn't. Things between us had changed.

The night I crafted the first batch of my "Declaration of Independence" collection, I'd been working sixteen hours straight. My eyes felt like they were on fire, my hands trembling violently.

While engraving the most delicate lettering, the file slipped, slicing deep into my right hand.

Blood instantly stained the workbench. The pain made me gasp.

I stared at the wound, tears streaming down. Not from the pain, but from suddenly remembering how Alex would always bandage me up when I got hurt as a kid, clumsily trying to comfort me.

If only he were here.

"Pain is temporary," I muttered while treating the wound, wiping away tears. "But giving up is forever."

After three days and nights without sleep, the first five pieces were finally complete.

I held these jewels that contained all my heart and soul, tears filling my eyes. They might not be perfect, but they were absolutely made with everything I had.

I photographed each piece and posted them on Instagram.

No likes. No comments. Just a pathetic 127 followers, mostly classmates from school.

It's okay. I'll build this slowly.

But what happened a month later completely blindsided me.

"Congratulations, Isabella." Sarah Mitchell, senior editor at Vogue's jewelry section, said over the phone. I almost thought I was dreaming. "We've decided to feature your 'Declaration of Independence' collection in our next issue. The concept of merging political history with modern aesthetics is quite innovative."

My hand holding the phone trembled. How was this possible?

"But, may I ask how you found us?" I asked, confused, my voice shaking.

"Oh, one of our partners recommended you. They saw your work on social media and thought it showed real potential."

After hanging up, I collapsed into my chair.

Everything was happening too fast, too smoothly. I'd only posted a few photos on Instagram with barely 500 followers. How did an industry-leading magazine discover me?

This wasn't normal.

The changes over the next few days were even more unbelievable.

A new name began circulating in New York social circles—Liberty & Stone. Upper East Side socialites were asking how to purchase my work. Orders came flooding in. I went from worrying about rent to stressing over fulfilling orders.

But the more successful I became, the deeper my doubts grew.

This was all too surreal.

I started having insomnia, staring at the ceiling each night, asking myself over and over: Was this my own doing, or was someone pulling strings?

If someone was pulling strings, what did this month of struggle mean? What did proving my independence even mean?

Then one night, as I was organizing the backlog of orders, my computer pinged with an email notification.

From: E.D. Subject: I think we should meet and talk

"Hello, I've been following your work. Your design philosophy and craftsmanship are excellent, but I'm sure you've noticed—this success came rather... unexpectedly? Perhaps we should meet to discuss your future, and certain truths you might want to know. Tomorrow at 3 PM. Blue Bottle in SOHO. I'll be wearing a sapphire brooch. —E.D."

I stared at the email, my heart pounding like a drum.

Who was E.D.? Why meet me? More importantly, did this person know the secret behind my sudden success?

My finger hovered over the reply button, hesitating about whether to go. One voice warned me this could be a trap, but another urged me to seek the truth.

As I debated, a strange feeling suddenly washed over me.

As if someone far away was watching, caring about my every move. I unconsciously looked up at the small security camera in the corner of my studio.

Could it be Alex?

I shook my head hard, telling myself not to overthink. Alex was busy with family business in D.C., Eleanor had just returned—how could he possibly have time to monitor my every move?

But that look of possession in his eyes that day...

I finally clicked reply, typing four simple words: "I'll be there."

Tomorrow, I'd know the truth. Whatever E.D. told me, whatever secrets lay hidden behind this, I had to face it head-on.

I picked up my phone, looking at my chat history with Alex.

The last message was from this morning: "Work going well?"

I hadn't replied.

I wanted to tell him about Vogue, about the mysterious email, to ask if it was him helping me.

But I couldn't.

If it really was him, why hide it from me? If it wasn't, wouldn't asking make me look foolish?

I turned off my phone and lay on the studio's makeshift bed.

This entire month, I'd thought about him every day. His voice, his embrace, that kiss that almost happened.

We're siblings, Bella. I kept reminding myself. But my heart never listened.

Closing my eyes, all I could see was his face. That pained look when I left, that voice saying "You're all I care about."