~{Chapter 12} TLEA Year 2~
The rest of my presentation passed in a blur.
Somehow, I'd found my voice again. Somehow, I'd finished describing the craftsmanship, the symbolism, the vision behind Phimrada Lavandin. Somehow, I'd answered the judges' questions with composure I didn't feel.
But I don't remember any of it.
All I remember is Liya.
Sitting in the Chai Luxury Atelier section. Those doe eyes locked on mine. That expression I couldn't read.
When I finally stepped off stage, my lead designer rushed over.
"That was amazing, Ms. Chantasiri! The judges looked impressed!"
I nodded mechanically.
"Thank you."
"Are you okay? You seemed out of it for a moment there—"
"I'm fine," I cut in. "Just... adrenaline."
She looked uncertain but didn't push.
"Alright. We'll be backstage if you need anything."
I watched her walk away, then found a quiet corner and tried to steady my breathing.
She's here.
Liya is here.
Four years of silence. Four years of nothing. And now she just... shows up?
_________
I forced myself to watch the remaining presentations on the backstage monitor.
Eighth brand. Ninth. Tenth.
Each one blurred together.
My mind kept replaying that moment. The way her eyes had widened when she saw me. The way her lips had parted, like she wanted to say something but couldn't.
Or wouldn't.
Eleventh brand. Twelfth. Thirteenth.
I checked my watch. Nearly 2 PM.
Fourteenth brand was next.
Chai Luxury Atelier.
I sit up straighter, my eyes fixed on the screen.
The presenter walks onto stage, but it isn't Santa, as I'd expected. It is Liya.
My breath caught.
She looked completely composed. Confident. Professional. Like she hadn't just walked into a room and turned my entire world upside down.
Two assistants wheeled out their display case.
Inside was a garment.
Even on the monitor, I could see it was exquisite. A traditional Thai silk ensemble, but reimagined. The sabai, a shoulder cloth, was crafted from hand-woven silk in deep indigo that seemed to shift between navy and violet depending on the light. Gold thread formed intricate patterns along the edges, reminiscent of temple murals but with clean, contemporary lines. The matching sinh—wrapped skirt—featured a complex supplementary weft technique that created a subtle geometric pattern, the kind that takes master weavers months to complete.
It was both timeless and completely modern.
Liya stepped up to the microphone.
"Good afternoon,"
she began, her voice soft, clear and steady.
"My name is Naliya Wongchai, Creative Director for Chai Luxury Atelier. Today, I'm honored to present our entry for Heritage Craftsmanship: Ratri Sawan—Heavenly Night."
Ratri Sawan. Of course.
She gestured to the ensemble.
"This piece represents over eleven months of collaboration with master weavers from the Surin province. The silk is hand-dyed using natural indigo from plants cultivated specifically for this project. The depth of color you see requires thirty-seven separate dye baths—a technique that dates back centuries but is rarely practiced today due to its complexity."
Her voice was confident, practiced. She'd clearly done this before.
"The gold threadwork references motifs found in Ayutthaya-period temple architecture,"
she continued.
"But we've abstracted them—simplified the forms while maintaining their spiritual essence. The result is something that honors our past while speaking to our present."
She paused, letting the words settle.
"The supplementary weft pattern on the sinh took three master weavers four months to complete. Each thread placement is deliberate, creating a design that reveals itself slowly, different angles, different light, different meanings."
The judges were scribbling notes, nodding thoughtfully.
"Chai Luxury Atelier has always believed that true luxury isn't just about beauty,"
Liya said.
"It's about preservation. About honoring the hands that create. About ensuring these techniques survive for future generations."
She let that hang in the air for a moment.
"That is what Chai Luxury Atelier represents,"
Liya concluded.
"That is what Ratri Sawan embodies."
Polite applause.
She bowed slightly, then stepped back as the judges asked their questions.
I watched her answer each one with grace and precision. She was good. Really good.
Of course she was.
When her presentation ended, she walked off stage with the same composed confidence she'd entered with.
And I felt something twist in my chest.
She's not the same person who left four years ago.
But neither am I.
_______
Five more brands presented after Chai Luxury Atelier.
By the time the twentieth and final brand stepped off stage, it was nearly 4:40 PM.
The head judge stood and approached the microphone.
"Thank you to all of our presenters today,"
she said.
"The level of craftsmanship we've witnessed has been truly exceptional. We will now take a twenty-minute break to deliberate. Results will be announced at 5:00 PM. The top twelve finalists—three from each category—will advance to the final round."
Twenty minutes.
The ballroom erupted into conversation as people stood, stretched, headed toward the refreshment tables or restrooms.
I stayed in my corner backstage, trying to process everything.
Then I saw her.
Liya.
Pushing through the crowd, heading toward the restrooms near the back exit.
My heart lurched.
Before I could think, my feet were moving.
I followed her through the crowd, weaving between clusters of people, keeping her grey suit in sight.
She turned down a hallway away from the main ballroom, quieter, less crowded.
I quickened my pace.
"Liya—"
The word died in my throat.
She stops walking.
Slowly, she turned around.
And we stood there, face to face, for the first time in four years.
Up close, I could see the small changes. Faint lines at the corners of her eyes that hadn't been there before. A small scar on her left eyebrow, new. Her hair is really long, styled differently. She wore subtle makeup that makes her look older, more sophisticated.
But her eyes.
Her eyes were exactly the same.
Those big brown doe eyes that had haunted every dream I'd had for the past four years.
"Liya,"
I said again, softer this time.
She didn't say anything.
Her expression was completely neutral. Not cold, not warm. Just... blank.
Like she was looking at a stranger.
My throat tightened.
"I... I didn't know you were back."
Nothing.
"When did you... how long have you been..."
I trailed off.
She just stared at me.
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
"Liya—"
I whispered
For a moment—just a moment, I saw something flicker in her eyes. Something that looked like pain.
But then it was gone.
She took a breath, adjusted the strap of her bag, and turned away.
"Liya, please—"
I reached out, but my feet wouldn't move.
They were rooted to the floor, frozen, just like on stage.
I watched her walk away.
Down the hallway.
Around the corner.
Gone.
Again.
________
I don't know how long I stood there.
Eventually, someone walked past and gave me a strange look, and I realized I needed to pull myself together.
I went to the restroom, locked myself in a stall, and tried to breathe.
Four years.
Four years, and that's all I got.
Silence.
A blank stare.
Nothing.
I pressed my hands against my face, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill.
Not here.
Not now.
I could fall apart later.
Just not now.
At 5:00 PM, the head judge returned to the stage.
The ballroom had filled again, everyone back in their seats, the air thick with anticipation.
I stood with my team in the Sĩrĩ Navari section, my hands clasped behind my back, my face carefully neutral.
My father sat in the front row, expression unreadable. My mother beside him, looking equally impassive.
Across the ballroom, I could see the Chai Luxury Atelier delegation. Liya sat near the front, her posture perfect, her face calm.
Like nothing had happened.
The judge cleared her throat.
"Thank you all for your patience,"
she began.
"After careful deliberation, we are pleased to announce the twelve finalists who will advance to the final round of TLEA Year Two."
She opened an envelope.
"In the Heritage Craftsmanship category, the top three finalists are..."
My heart started pounding.
"Third place: Rattana Gems."
Polite applause.
"Second place: Sĩrĩ Navari."
The room erupted.
My team cheered. People shook my hand, congratulated me.
But I barely registered it.
Second place.
We'd made it to the finals.
But we weren't first.
"And first place in Heritage Craftsmanship,"
the judge continued.
There was a slight pause, then.
"Chai Luxury Atelier."
My stomach dropped.
I looked across the ballroom.
Liya was standing, smiling graciously as her team celebrated around her.
She didn't look my way.
Not once.
The rest of the results were announced, three finalists each for Contemporary
Design, Sustainable Innovation, and Market Leadership.
Twelve finalists total.
But I barely heard any of it.
All I could think about was Liya.
And how she'd looked at me like I was nothing.
The drive home was silent.
I sat in the back of the company car, staring out the window at the city lights, replaying the day over and over.
Her eyes meeting mine on stage.
Her blank expression in the hallway.
Her walking away.
Again.
When I got home, I went straight to my room, pulled out my phone, and opened Instagram.
Still blocked.
Facebook.
Blocked.
Twitter.
Blocked.
I tried searching for her number—maybe she'd changed it, maybe I could text her, explain, apologize, something.
But I didn't have her new number.
I had nothing.
It finally hit me then, with a clarity that felt like a punch to the chest.
She didn't just block me.
She cut me off.
Intentionally.
Completely.
Four years ago, when she left, I'd told myself it was her parents. That they'd forced her to go, forced her to stay away, forced the distance between us.
But that wasn't true.
She could have reached out.
She could have sent one email. One text. One message through Santa.
Anything.
But she didn't.
Because she didn't want to.
The realization broke something inside me.
I sank onto my bed, my phone slipping from my hands, and the tears came.
Not the quiet, dignified tears I'd been holding back all day.
These were raw, gasping sobs that tore through my chest like something was being ripped out of me.
I cried for the girl I used to be, the one who'd believed that love was enough.
I cried for the four years I'd spent waiting, hoping, believing she'd come back.
I cried for the look in her eyes today, blank, empty, like I meant nothing.
I cried until my throat was raw and my eyes were swollen and I had nothing left.
And when the tears finally stopped, I just lay there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, feeling hollowed out.
Empty.
I woke up the next morning to sunlight streaming through my window.
For a moment, I just lay there, my body heavy, my mind blank.
Then I remembered.
Liya.
The competition.
Second place.
I sat up slowly, my head pounding from crying.
My phone was on the floor where I'd dropped it. I picked it up and checked the time.
7:23 AM.
I had messages from my team. Congratulations. Excitement about making the finals.
I scrolled past them.
Then I opened my notes app and looked at the list I'd made four years ago.
Goals:- Graduate with honors ✓- Complete Executive Leadership Track ✓- Lead Sĩrĩ Navari to TLEA victory- Take over the company- Build power. Build stability.- Be ready when Liya comes back.- Be strong enough to fight for us.
I stared at the last two lines.
Then I deleted them.
And I added one new line:
- Win first place. No matter what.
I set my phone down and got out of bed.
Second place wasn't good enough.
Not anymore.
Liya had made her choice four years ago.
And yesterday, she'd made it again.
Fine.
If she wanted to pretend I didn't exist, I'd show her exactly what she was up against.
I wasn't that weak girl anymore.
I was Kamaya Chantasiri. Project Leader of Sĩrĩ Navari. And I was going to win this competition.
Not for her.
But for me.