Chapter 4 ~ Night And Morning

{Noelle’s POV}

Night

My apartment smelled like rain and paint thinner.

The storm had started sometime after midnight, smearing the skyline of Milan-Pari City into a watercolor of gold and grey. Down below, the traffic lights blinked like weary eyes.

I set my keys on the counter, kicked off my heels, and stood still for a moment, listening to the silence that always followed days like this.

I had survived the first encounter. That should have been a victory.

Should have.

The kettle hissed on the stove now, a small, domestic noise that felt absurdly normal and I went to attend to it. I poured the water, watched the steam curl upward. Even that looked odd tonight.

My laptop was still open on the desk and a new message blinked in my inbox with a notification sound.

From: Leonard Saint-Claire

Subject: Velvet Campaign Outline

My pulse didn’t quicken— at least, I told myself it didn’t.

I clicked.

Ms. Duval,

It was good to reconnect today. I look forward to collaborating on the Velvet campaign. I’ve attached preliminary sketches and thematic notes for your review. I trust you’ll provide input before Thursday’s session.

— Leonard Saint-Claire <<

Cold. Polite; Exactly what I’d expected from him.

I scrolled to the attachment. His sketches filled the screen: long figures in motion, fabrics swirling like captured fire. Beneath one drawing, in neat script, a single word was pasted— Rebirth.

I smiled faintly at that but the smile didn’t last.

I closed the file, pushed the laptop away, and leaned back into my desk chair. The citylight spilled through the rain-slicked window, painting silver bars across my floor.

With the persistent silence, the word “rebirth” kept circling in my head like a moth.

Rebirth from what, Leonard?

From the girl you burned?

Or from the guilt you buried?

I sipped my tea. It had already gone cold.

The night stretched thin and long. I drifted through my apartment like a ghost, straightening papers that didn’t need straightening, and brushing invisible dust from the frames on the wall.

One photo caught me off guard: an old shot from university. I wasn’t even supposed to be in it— just blurred in the background, holding sketchbooks, and watching the others pose.

He was in the center— of course.

Leonard Saint-Claire, already golden, already adored.

A flicker of memory hit me then.

>> The courtyard lights had been strung across the oaks that night with tiny stars trembling above a sea of perfume and laughter.

Someone handed me a drink I didn**’t want. And someone whispered, “Go on, he likes you.”**

And then the dare was born <<

I pressed the picture frame facedown on the table, and with my heart thudding too loud, I left that area at once.

Reaching the desk again, I sat down and opened a blank document.

Old habit: when the noise in my head became too much, I wrote; Fragments, phrases, half-sentences that never saw daylight.

And tonight, the words came jagged:

“He walked past me as if I were transparent. The crowd saw, and their laughter filled the space I left behind. I wanted to disappear but couldn’t— so I learned to convert the pain and silence into armor.”

I stopped typing and stared at the blinking cursor.

Somewhere in the apartment, the radiator clicked now— a slow, steady rhythm, like an anxious heart, and with that, I thought about replying to his email. Something crisp and efficient like:

Thank you, I’ll review your notes — N.D. (Noelle Duval)

Instead, I closed the laptop.

The rain softened near dawn. I sat by the window, chin resting on my knees, watching the city rinse itself clean.

From here, the headquarters building looked almost peaceful, a tall silhouette against the pearl-colored sky. Inside that building, he’d already be awake, sketching and sipping espresso like the world owed him its beauty.

And soon, I’d walk back in— composed, smiling, professional and the past would stay buried where it belonged.

At least, that was the lie I’d keep telling myself until the timing is just right… because beneath all the poise and the practiced smiles, something was waking again.

Definitely not love.

Not hate.

Something quieter.

Something patient.

The echo between us.

{Leonard’s POV}

It was morning.

And it found me before I was ready for it.

The Atelier smelled like coffee, starch, and silk— the perfume of creation. Assistants moved in a quiet rhythm, their chatter low and their movements efficient. Every morning here was the same: light pooling over marble floors, sketches taped to walls, fabrics draped like dreams half-caught.

And yet, something was different.

She was here.

Noelle.

Standing near the design table, her hair tied back, a pair of thin glasses balanced on the bridge of her nose. She was reviewing fabric swatches with Celeste, her fingers trailing lightly across each one and her expression unreadable.

The room had shifted around her without her realizing it. And even the light seemed to fall differently. It felt softer.

I should have been sketching, or at least pretending to. Instead, I was watching her.

She’d chosen black again today— a fitted turtleneck, high-waisted trousers, and a faint glint of gold at her wrist. The clothes didn’t shout; they whispered in a way that was still audible— too audible.

“Leonard?” Celeste’s voice tore through my thoughts now and called my attention. I turned to look at her. “We’re finalizing the tones for the editorial shots. You’re sure you want crimson for centerpiece?”

“Yes,” I said automatically. “Crimson and pearl. Contrast.”

Noelle looked up then, eyes catching mine. Grey, cool, and very unreadable.

She tilted her head slightly, like she was measuring the sound of that word— crimson.

“Too expected,” she said softly. “Everyone does red for rebirth and it is stupid.”

The assistants froze at her utterance. Even Celeste paused, a fraction of a second too long.

My lips curved. “And what would you suggest instead, Ms. Duval?”

“Something quieter,” she said. “Something that earns its respect instead of demanding it.”

She picked up a scrap of velvet— deep wine, almost black unless the light kissed it. “This shade bleeds into shadow. It doesn’t shout. It lingers.” She said. Her tone was even and detached but I felt the echo under it. It lingers.

A line I suddenly couldn’t shake.

“Noted,” I said, too evenly.

She placed the swatch down, her movement too gentle, and then she resumed her notes.

Celeste cleared her throat. “Excellent. I’ll.. I’ll adjust the palette.” She confirmed and then she was gone, sweeping the assistants out with her like a tide.

Which left us, just the both of us in the room.

The air in the studio seemed to thicken the moment the door shut but Noelle didn’t look up. Her pen scratched softly against her notebook.

I tried to focus on my own sketchbook of half-formed silhouettes and ideas still bleeding at the edges, but every time I drew a line, I heard her voice.

“Something quieter.”

“Something that earns its respect instead of demanding it.”

It was absurd how easily she’d slipped into my head. I didn’t like it.

I closed the book now. “You’re not here to redecorate my work, are you?”

She looked up slowly. “No.” She responded. “I’m here to make it better.”

There was no arrogance in her tone, just quiet certainty. The kind that cut deeper because it didn’t need to rise to be heard.

I stood and started toward the window, hands in my pockets. My desk area suddenly felt uncomfortable. “You’ve changed.”

“I had to.”

That stopped me. And I turned. “Because of me?”

Her gaze didn’t flinch. “Because of what happened.”

The difference was surgical.

Not you, but what happened— as if detaching the knife from the hand that held it could erase the cut.

“You still think it was my fault,” I said.

“I don’t think about it at all.”

A lie, clean and beautiful. I almost admired it.

“Funny,” I said, smirking faintly. “You talk like you’ve already forgiven me.”

“I don’t forgive people who don’t ask,” she replied, packing her notes into her leather folio. And with that, she walked away calm and saying nothing else afterward, her perfume ghosting in the air behind her.

The door closed.

I exhaled.

The silence she left behind pressed strongly at the edges of the room and just then, Julian appeared from the corner entrance again, sipping espresso like the nuisance he was.

“Still pretending you don’t care?” he asked.

“Go away,” I muttered.

“She’s good,” he said. “Better than you expected.”

I didn’t answer.

“Maybe you should apologize,” he added casually but there was also a hint of amusement. “Just for sport. See what happens.”

“Apologize?” I turned toward him, offended. “For what? Mere college theatrics? Everyone’s done worse.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not everyone’s built an empire out of guilt.”

“Watch it,” I warned.

But he only laughed. “I’m watching, Saint-Claire. And so is she.”

He left, leaving his words like cigarette smoke in the air— sharp, and very hard to dismiss.

This annoyed me

I sat back at the table, eyes on her empty chair.

The deep wine velvet swatch still lay there, folded neatly, waiting. It looked almost alive— dark, soft, infinite.

It lingers, she’d said.

And she was right.

It did.