Four years.
That's how long it took me to rebuild from the ashes of scandal and heartbreak.
Four years since I left New York behind—its glitzy skyline, the gossip columns, the whispers that followed me like a ghost.
There were nights I cried on my sketchpad, mornings when I almost gave up, and weeks where orders barely trickled in. But slowly, my designs caught eyes—first on the streets of Paris, then in Vogue, and finally on the backs of celebrities walking red carpets I used to only dream about.
My mother, now a permanent fixture in my life, never stopped cheering me on. Linda and Leni, my chaos twins, FaceTimed me every other day from their universities. And Becky—God, Becky—she moved to Paris six months after me and now ran my PR like a boss. We'd built something real. Tangible. Ours.
And then there were them—Adrian and Isabel.
My sun and moon.
Adrian was gentle, introspective, with Ian's stormy gray eyes. Isabel was the firecracker—loud, curious, and as bossy as Becky on espresso.
I had told them stories, but never about him. Not yet.
The golden morning sun streamed through the glass windows of Bianca's Parisian townhouse, painting warm patterns across the polished floors. I stood in the nursery, watching Adrian and Isabel wrestle with their tiny suitcases, giggling as they fought over who packed more plushies.
"Maman, j'ai pris mon doudou!" Adrian yelled, proudly holding up a stuffed tiger.("Mommy, I took my cuddly toy!")
"Moi aussi!" Isabel chimed in, her curls bouncing as she grinned.("Me too!")
I crouched down, adjusting the collar of Adrian's tiny blazer. "Good. We don't want Tiger and Miss Bunny missing their New York debut, do we?"
Adrian giggled and clung to my neck. "Are we going to be on the airplane again?"
"Yes, sweetheart. We're going to America for Mommy's big show," I said, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
The apartment buzzed with movement—Becky darted around in heels and a headset, muttering into her phone. Even in chaos, she looked fabulous in her navy-blue pantsuit.
"We land at JFK by noon. Your models are already in the city, the venue's secure, and I've got interviews lined up with Vogue and Elle before the main event," Becky rattled off.
"You're a machine," I muttered, tying my hair into a loose bun.
Becky paused and gave me a look. "No, babe. I'm your best friend and your PR miracle worker."
I smiled. God, what would I do without her?
Flashback
I thought back to the moment I decided to start RosePetal Couture—the way fabric felt under my fingers for the first time, not as something to wear, but something to mold and bring to life. It had been my dream, locked away behind the walls of corporate boardrooms and family obligations.
But now? Now I was flying to New York as the creative director of the world's most talked-about brand, with two babies I'd die for and the strength to walk away from everything that tried to break me.
"Okay, car's downstairs," Becky called. "Let's go turn the world on its head."
The city skyline came into view through the tinted glass of the car window. Adrian and Isabel pressed their little hands against it, marveling at the tall buildings and bustling streets.
"Mommy, is this where the tall man lives?" Isabel asked innocently.
I tensed for a second. The tall man. Ian. The father they didn't know about. I smiled softly. "Yes, but we're not here for him. We're here for us."
Becky shot me a knowing look but didn't say anything. She never pushed.
We pulled up to our Upper East Side penthouse—temporary, of course. The doorman opened the car door, gushing at the sight of the twins.
"Bonjour, mes petits!" he said, overdoing the French accent.
They giggled, their sweet laughter echoing in the lobby as we entered the building.
Three Days Until Fashion Week
We were in full prep mode. Models buzzed around the backstage area, fabrics were flown in from Milan, and fittings were endless. I didn't sleep much, but I didn't care. Every seam, every stitch mattered.
"Bianca," Becky said one afternoon, her hands on her hips, "if you don't stop obsessing over that hemline, I will drug you and throw you into bed."
"Fine, five more minutes," I said, not looking up from the embroidery. "This one has to sparkle just right under the lights."
Becky rolled her eyes but smiled. "I hate how sexy you look when you're focused."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, PR girl."
Despite the chaos, the twins were never out of reach. During slow moments, I'd bring them to the set, watching their eyes light up at the swishing gowns and glittering accessories.
"Can I be a model, Mommy?" Isabel asked, twirling.
"You already are, bébé," I replied, tucking a curl behind her ear.
Adrian pointed to one of the outfits. "I like the red one. It looks like superhero clothes!"
I chuckled. "It's called couture, sweetie. High fashion."
"Cootoor," he repeated, proud.
Their presence grounded me. They reminded me why I had to succeed, why failure wasn't an option.
Late one night, as we lounged in the penthouse living room sipping tea, Becky broke the silence.
"You think he'll come?" she asked.
I didn't have to ask who she meant. "I don't know. Maybe. But it doesn't matter."
"You still love him."
I looked out at the glittering skyline. "It's not about love. It's about choice. And I choose me now."
Becky nodded, and we sat in quiet understanding.
One day left.
The lineup was confirmed. RosePetal Couture would close the show. The final dress—a masterpiece of lace, silk, and bold elegance—was mine. The symbol of everything I had become.
As I looked at it, my heart beat faster.
Backstage, cameras flashed. Reporters milled. Whispers circulated about "the return of the Rosewood heiress." But no one knew the full story. Not yet.
Walking into the venue for final rehearsals, I could feel the buzz. People turned when I entered. Some whispered in awe, others watched with cautious admiration. I no longer feared their gaze.
I was Bianca Rosewood, CEO of RosePetal Couture.
And this was just the beginning.