Chapter 143

Agnes

I sat at one of the communal workstations in the design department, my fingers mechanically working the fabric as I remade the dress. The old one had been torn beyond repair, Olivia’s claws having shredded both the material and my pride in one fell swoop.

But maybe I could at least try to rebuild something beautiful from the ruins.

My shoulders ached from hunching over the table since dawn. I’d barely slept last night, reliving the nightmare of the fashion show over and over again. The memory burned in my chest like acid, and I channeled that pain into my work, stitching with a ferocity that surprised even me.

The new dress wasn’t at all like the old one. Elijah said that Thea wanted a different one, and honestly, so did I. So I had spent all morning—I’d even come to the design department a few hours early, arriving and getting to work before everyone else—sketching a design for something new and fresh, and now I was already working on the first prototype.

The gown would be far more dramatic than the last. It featured a long train that fanned out across the floor, long off-shoulder sleeves that came to harsh points at the top of each hand, and a metal-worked bodice.

It looked like armor. Something that I needed desperately right now.

But as I worked, my mind kept wandering. Not just to the disaster of a fashion show, but to the car ride after, too. Mason’s words of warning. The possibility that Elijah intended to get back with Olivia soon.

I didn’t want to believe it, not after Elijah had so gently told me that he wanted me to remake the dress, but… I supposed I didn’t know what to think anymore.

“Agnes?” Maria’s voice broke through my deep train of thought. I looked up to see her approaching with a tablet in her hands. “Have you seen this?”

“If it’s about yesterday, I’d rather not.”

Maria placed the tablet beside my fabric. “You need to read it. It’s Margot Chen’s review.”

My stomach dropped. Margot Chen—the most ruthless fashion critic in the territories. After everything, I had completely forgotten she was at the show.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” I asked, still not looking at the screen.

“Just read it,” Maria insisted, pushing the tablet closer.

With a deep breath, I reluctantly picked it up. The headline alone made me freeze:

“Fashion Show Delivers Explosive Commentary on Modern Motherhood.”

I blinked, certain I had misread it. But as I continued reading, my mouth fell open in shock:

“Yesterday’s Mother’s Day Fashion Show delivered more than just matching outfits—it offered a raw, unfiltered look at the complex dynamics of modern motherhood. What appeared at first to be a disruption turned out to be the most powerful performance art I’ve witnessed in years.”

Performance art? They thought it was… an act?

“When Luna Agnes burst onto the runway in her torn emerald gown, calling desperately for a child who was not biologically hers, she shattered the ‘evil stepmother’ archetype in real time. Her emotional display, followed by the public confrontation with the child’s biological mother after, created a visual metaphor too powerful to be staged.”

I scrolled down, my stomach turning into butterflies. Pictures of Olivia and I at the nail salon were attached to the article, depicting the two of us rolling on the floor, angrily ripping at one another. There were more pictures, too: me running from the salon, crying in the alley…

The critic thought it was all… a show. Even when Olivia and I had practically torn each other to shreds.

“Agnes showed us that motherhood isn’t about blood,” Chen went on. “It’s about the primal instinct to protect. The contrast between her muddied, tattered gown and former Luna Olivia’s pristine ensemble spoke volumes about the messy reality of raising children versus the polished facade some parents present.

“In one explosive moment, Luna Agnes managed to convey what her entire fashion line attempts to say: that family transcends biology, that love requires sacrifice, and that sometimes we must destroy beautiful things to protect what truly matters.”

I set the tablet down, my hands trembling. She thought it was…art? A performance piece? Not a humiliating breakdown?

“This has to be a joke,” I whispered, glancing around as if waiting for someone to burst out laughing, to tell me it was all an elaborate prank.

Maria shook her head. “It’s not just Margot. Everyone’s talking about it. Your name is all over social media.”

My chest tightened at those words. Social media—where I’d been crucified for weeks now, labeled as crazy, unhinged, delusional. I couldn’t bear to look, to see what fresh hell they’d concocted from yesterday’s disaster.

But Maria was already pulling out her phone, tapping the screen rapidly before handing it to me. “See for yourself.”

Reluctantly, I took the phone, bracing for the worst. But instead of hate and mockery, I was met with an avalanche of support. Post after post from people praising my “courage.” Photos of groups gathered in the town square holding signs that read “#FindAgnesDaughter.” Comments from strangers offering to help search, to spread the word, to keep hope alive.

My breath caught in my throat as I scrolled, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. After years of whispers and sideways glances, of being called crazy for believing my daughter was still out there—suddenly, an entire community was rallying behind me.

“People are organizing search parties,” Maria said softly. “They’re making posters. Women from all over are getting involved.”

I stared at a photo of a group of women I’d never even met, holding candles in the park. The caption read: “For Agnes and her daughter. We believe.”

The screen blurred as tears welled in my eyes. My hands trembled so badly I had to set the phone down before I dropped it. I pressed my palms against my cheeks, feeling the wet tracks of tears I hadn’t even realized I’d shed.

“I don’t understand,” I breathed, my voice cracking. “Why now? Why would they suddenly believe me after all this time?”

Maria placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Sometimes people need to see raw emotion to understand. You showed them yesterday. You made them feel what you’ve been feeling all these years.”

I couldn’t believe it. For seven years, I’d carried the weight of my daughter’s disappearance alone. Seven years of searching in secret, of being called delusional, of doubting my own memories. And now, in the wake of my most public humiliation, strangers were taking up my cause as if it were their own.

I turned back to my sewing, needing something to ground me as emotions threatened to overwhelm. The needle flashed in the light as I worked, my movements growing less precise as my mind raced with possibilities. What if this was it? What if this wave of support actually led to me finally finding my daughter?

What if…

No. I couldn’t let myself go down that road again. It would only lead to more heartbreak.

Just then, in the midst of my distraction, the needle slipped, and a sharp pain shot through my finger. I gasped, pulling back to see a bead of blood welling on my fingertip. Crimson against pale skin.

Before I could react, a shadow fell across my workstation, and it wasn’t Maria this time. It was taller, broader.

I looked up to see Elijah standing over me, his face dark. Without a word, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me to my feet, then led me out of the office.