The knock at the door was sharp. Precise. Familiar.
Eleanor glanced up from her sketchpad, her pencil stilling mid-curve. She wasn't expecting anyone—Daniel had left for Threadbare hours ago, and Clara had taken the day off. For a moment, she considered ignoring it.
But the knocking came again.
Three times.
Measured.
Commanding.
She stood and crossed the marble floor of the penthouse. The moment she opened the door, her spine straightened involuntarily—an old reflex, stitched into her bones like muscle memory.
"Hello, Eleanor."
Her mother.
Vivienne Whitmore.
Still elegant in a cream wool coat and pearl earrings, her silver-blonde hair pinned in a French twist that hadn't changed in two decades. Her eyes swept over Eleanor's bare feet, the loose T-shirt, and messy bun.
"I see comfort has taken precedence over composure," Vivienne remarked, stepping inside without being invited.
Eleanor closed the door slowly. "I wasn't expecting a visit."
"I thought it was time."
Vivienne's eyes landed on a photograph of Daniel on the side table. She raised an eyebrow. "The man from the papers. The American."
"His name is Daniel."
Vivienne's lips pressed thin. "You've built a brand on exclusivity, precision, mystery. And now you're parading around like some kind of tortured artist's muse. Are you truly so desperate to rebel?"
Eleanor's hands curled into fists.
"This isn't rebellion," she said quietly. "It's freedom."
"Freedom?" Vivienne scoffed. "You sound like your father."
At that, Eleanor flinched.
"You mean the man you pushed out of our lives because he wasn't polished enough for your dinner parties?" she shot back.
Vivienne turned, sharp eyes flashing. "He was weak."
"No," Eleanor said, her voice rising. "He was kind. He believed in me when I wanted to draw instead of model. He taught me that love didn't have to be earned."
The silence that followed cracked with tension.
Vivienne moved to the window, gazing out over the city. "You think you've escaped, Eleanor. But you're still mine. Everything you have—the boutique, the recognition, the name—it was built on discipline and sacrifice."
"Your sacrifice," Eleanor said. "Not mine. I inherited your rules, your image, your voice in my head. But none of it ever belonged to me."
Vivienne turned to face her, suddenly looking older than Eleanor had ever seen her.
"Then who are you now?" she asked softly.
Eleanor inhaled.
"I'm a woman who loves deeply. Who cries and creates. Who builds not just with thread and silk—but with emotion. With truth."
Her mother was silent.
Then, for the first time in Eleanor's memory, Vivienne's voice faltered. "And are you happy?"
Eleanor paused. The question pierced deeper than the criticisms ever had.
"Yes," she said. "Because I no longer need your approval."
Vivienne's jaw clenched.
She turned, walked toward the door, then hesitated.
"I came to warn you," she said. "The Cavendish family is pushing for a vote to restructure your board. They want you replaced."
"I figured as much."
"They'll use the scandal. The relationship. Your 'emotional volatility.'"
Eleanor nodded. "Let them."
Vivienne opened the door, light spilling across the threshold. "Then I hope—for your sake—that he's worth everything you're about to lose."
Eleanor looked her straight in the eye.
"He already is."
The door closed.
And Eleanor, for the first time in years, didn't tremble.
---
That night, Daniel found her sitting in bed, curled under the covers with her sketchpad resting on her knees.
"Hey," he said, leaning against the doorframe. "You okay?"
"My mother came by," she replied.
Daniel frowned. "That bad?"
"She tried to remind me of everything I was supposed to be."
"And?"
She held up the sketchpad. On it, a design—raw, fluid, unlike her usual structure. A flowing silk gown with one side completely open, revealing the curve of a hip and spine. No corset. No seam restrictions. Just freedom.
"She reminded me who I wasn't," she said.
Daniel walked over, slipping into bed beside her.
"You're becoming a woman who tells the truth through fabric," he said, kissing her temple. "And that scares people who've never worn their own skin honestly."
She leaned into him.
"She said the board wants me out."
Daniel's jaw tightened. "What do you want to do?"
Eleanor closed the sketchpad and set it aside.
"I want to burn it all down—if it means I never have to wear someone else's design for my life again."
Daniel smiled.
"Then let's start with fire."