The entrance to the Elora Grand buzzed with activity. Inside the lobby, high ceilings echoed with voices—PR leads, brand directors, and powerhouse strategists from the biggest fashion houses in the region. Banners for The Fashion Futures Conference hung from the chandeliers, bold serif fonts declaring innovation, creativity, and disruption.
Zoe stepped out of the passenger seat of Nichole's car, smoothing her coat with one hand as her heels met the curb. The junior associates followed from the back seat, eyes wide as they took in the scene.
"Looks like most of the industry's already here," Zoe murmured, scanning the crowd as flashes from cameras lit up the entrance.
"Exactly," Nichole replied, sharp and calm. "Let's get inside and find our reserved seats before the room fills."
They walked into the main function area, the ambient hum of designer chatter and clinking glasses already filled the air. A soft instrumental track played in the background—something elegant and forgettable. Onstage, a large LED screen cycled through logos of the participating brands.
But just as they stepped through the double doors, another group entered from the far end of the hall.
Zoe's feet stilled.
For a moment, it was like the air forgot how to move.
A cluster of sharply dressed creatives parted around the woman at the center—tailored black pantsuit, hair swept cleanly behind one ear, every inch of her effortless.
Zoe's breath hitched, her heart stalling for a beat.
Stacy.
Of course it was Stacy.
The woman who'd shattered her, piece by piece.
And beside her? Of course.
Alexandra.
Polished. Poised. Draped in that brand of minimalist ivory that whispered wealth but shouted calculation. Her hand was looped around Stacy's arm with a kind of quiet entitlement—like she belonged there. Like she'd won.
And maybe, in her way, she had.
The image was too perfect. Of course it was.
Stacy and Alexandra—composed, pristine. Like they'd stepped out of a lifestyle feature titled "Elegance Under Control."
We're a unit now. That's what it said.
And once upon a time, Zoe had worn that message like skin.
Now it wrapped around someone else—and it fit her a little too well.
She swallowed the ache that bloomed quietly under her ribs.
It had been months. No messages. No calls. Not even a half-hearted explanation.
Just silence—sharp and final—like a door slammed in her face.
And now here she was—unbothered, radiant, and moving through the world like she hadn't left her behind in pieces.
The two groups slowed as they neared one another—an unplanned, inevitable collision of past and present.
Zoe's breath caught, but she didn't let it show. Not yet.
Beside her, Nichole clocked the woman at the helm of the approaching group and let a razor-sharp smile curl at the edge of her lips.
"Stacy Holloway," she said, voice cool as polished steel. "Looking as crisp as ever."
The words hung there, heavy and deliberate.
For a moment, time stretched—every second dragging across Zoe's skin like heat from a slow burn.
Stacy turned her head. Her gaze touched briefly on Nichole... then, finally, found Zoe.
For the first time in what felt like years, their eyes met.
For a fleeting moment, something raw and unspoken flickered in Stacy's—recognition, regret, a fracture of old wounds.
But just as quickly, the look vanished.
Stacy looked right through her.
Not like she didn't care.
Like she didn't even know her.
And somehow, that hurt more than anything else ever could.
Alexandra's hand tightened subtly on her arm, as if sensing it. Her smile—polished, practiced—didn't falter. It didn't need to.
"Nichole Stanford," Stacy replied, tone cool, controlled. "And so do you."
It should've ended there.
But Zoe didn't move. She couldn't.
She stood rooted, spine taut, shoulders squared, her jaw locked so tightly it ached. She said nothing. Not rage. Not kindness. Not the echo of all the nights she'd stared at the ceiling wondering what she'd done wrong. Wondering if Stacy ever looked back.
Her face betrayed nothing.
But inside?
It was a war.
Because part of her wanted to scream. Part of her wanted to run.
And the worst part—the most dangerous part—just wanted to reach out.
She nodded—once, barely—and turned slightly toward Nichole.
"We should go. They're probably starting soon."
Her voice came out smooth. Flat. Perfectly even.
But her pulse was hammering, loud and frantic in her throat.
No one needed to know that. Not here. Not now.
Nichole's gaze lingered on Stacy for a beat too long, then she gave a low, unreadable hum and motioned for the team to move.
As they passed, Zoe felt it—
Stacy's eyes—sharp and aching—pressed against her back.
And Alexandra's too.
Cool. Calculated. Possessive.
It wasn't a glance.
It was a claim.
Still, Zoe didn't turn.
Not once.
She didn't trust herself to.
-
Zoe sat down in the front row alongside Nichole and the others, her posture straight, hands folded carefully on her lap. She exhaled through her nose—quietly, deliberately—as if that could steady the rising noise in her chest.
From the moment she sat, she felt it.
That familiar pull. That presence.
Zoe's eyes remained locked on the stage ahead, but her peripheral vision betrayed her. She could sense them just a few rows to the side—Stacy and Alexandra. The magnetic wrongness of them being in the same room. The wrongness of them being together.
She didn't look.
Not at first.
Instead, she crossed one leg over the other, adjusted the hem of her blazer, and nodded at something Nichole murmured beside her—something about the panel schedule. Her mouth moved, but her mind was somewhere else.
It wasn't until the applause died down after the first speaker that she allowed herself to glance.
Just once.
It was enough.
There they were. Stacy, with her signature composed stillness, like nothing in the room could shake her. And Alexandra, smiling easily, her body angled toward Stacy like she'd done it a thousand times. Her hand rested briefly on Stacy's forearm, just a soft touch—and Zoe's stomach flipped.
She looked away too fast.
Her fingers dug slightly into the side of her tablet. No one noticed, but her nails left crescent-shaped imprints along the plastic edge.
She's just a person.
Just a person who walked away, leaving your world in pieces.
But you will not fall apart here. Not in front of them. You'll survive this — even if it means pretending you're okay.
Zoe blinked slowly, inhaled once, and gave herself a full minute of staring at the center of the LED screen. Her pulse throbbed in her throat.
A moment later, she glanced again. Slower this time.
Stacy wasn't looking at Alexandra.
She was looking at her.
And for a second—just a second—the rest of the room slipped away.
But Zoe didn't give her anything. Not a reaction. Not a shift. Not a trace of what was unraveling beneath the calm surface of her face.
She turned back toward the stage and straightened in her seat.
In ten minutes, she would be on that stage, speaking for her company—for everything she'd rebuilt after being left behind.
But right now, all she could do was breathe through it.
And not look back again.