Chapter 8: She Wore My Design
Ilone's POV
The line went dead without an answer.
When I tried calling her back, no one answered. The silence sat with me all day, an unease I couldn't shake.
By evening, the butler arrived with an entire styling team, wheeling a long rack of couture gowns into my room. Each piece was stunning in the way only truly expensive things can be — the kind of garments you'd expect to find in the editorial spreads of high fashion magazines, flawless and untouchable.
"Mrs. Voss," the butler said, his head slightly bowed, "these are the current season's haute couture, sent by Mr. Voss. If nothing suits, please let me know and I'll arrange additional options."
I ran my fingers slowly along the fabrics, then drew my hand back.
The gowns were beautiful, but they had never been designed with a body like mine in mind. Even if the atelier had rushed overnight alterations, the original pattern blocks simply hadn't accounted for my proportions. Wearing one of them tonight would only make me look like I was trying too hard — and failing.
After a moment's thought, I reached into my old travel bag — the worn one I'd brought from the countryside — and pulled out a deep moss-green velvet gown.
I had designed it six months ago, the first piece from a plus-size formal collection I'd been working on. Everyone I'd spoken to at the time had said the same thing: the plus-size market was too niche, no serious luxury brand would commit to it. So I'd locked the dress away in my suitcase, and until tonight, I hadn't even had the courage to try it on.
Then my grandmother's voice came back to me. My Ilone, you don't need to wait until you've become someone else before you're allowed to wear something beautiful.
I put on the dress and stood in front of the mirror for a long time.
The woman looking back at me still had the same round face, the same broad shoulders — but the deep green velvet held her curves with quiet confidence, making her look composed and at ease. I had always assumed my grandmother was just trying to comfort me.
Standing there now, I understood that she hadn't been offering comfort at all. She had simply been telling the truth. She had never needed me to be anyone different. The person she loved had always been exactly this.
Coming down the curved staircase, I heard Kyle speaking with Ethan below. He was in a black tailored suit — understated but commanding in the way that only truly well-cut clothes can be, the kind that makes a man look like he belongs on the cover of every financial magazine you've ever passed without stopping to buy.
He looked up at the sound of my footsteps. His gaze found me, and for a moment it simply paused there, taking me in.
My palms were already damp. I tightened my fingers around the velvet skirt and made myself speak.
"Does it look strange? If you think it's not appropriate, I can—"
"Ilone." He cut me off gently. "It's beautiful. That dress suits you."
He crossed the room toward me, his expression warm and unhurried, his eyes moving over the gown with what I could only describe as genuine appreciation.
"Did you design this yourself?" His voice was low, close enough that I could feel the warmth of it.
I nodded, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. "I drafted the pattern six months ago. Cut and sewed it myself."
"Why haven't you worn it out before?"
My fingers tightened slightly. I didn't answer.
Kyle was quiet for a moment, then said, "Ilone, if the designer herself refuses to let her work be seen, that's a loss — for the work, and for the designer."
I looked at him.
"Wasn't the whole point of this dress to tell people they don't have to hide?" He held my gaze, his voice steady and certain in a way that left no room for argument. "Ilone, you were always meant to shine like this."
The heat rose in my face before I could stop it, but the tension I'd been carrying all day loosened, quietly and almost completely, somewhere in the space between his words.
By the time the car pulled up to the Voss private estate winery, the sky had gone fully dark. The main doors opened, and I stepped into a world I had only ever encountered in headlines.
Everyone in that banquet hall was someone I recognized from the front pages of financial publications — the head of a major international investment group, the chairman of a European arts foundation, the board director of a global luxury conglomerate. They filled the room with the kind of easy authority that comes not from effort but from inheritance. When Kyle appeared, conversations paused. People turned toward him.
"Mr. Voss."
"Kyle — it's been too long."
"Glad you could make it tonight."
He acknowledged each greeting with a brief, composed nod and moved on without lingering. Watching him, I finally understood what Gideon had meant by "old money." Wealth was only the surface. What I was feeling in that room — the weight of it, the invisible architecture of power — that was the real distance between Kyle's world and mine.
The awareness of being watched settled over me, and my instinct was to shrink back.
"Ilone." Kyle noticed the shift almost immediately. Without hesitation, he raised his hand and wrapped it around mine, which had gone cold without my realizing it. He leaned slightly toward me, his voice dropping low near my ear.
"The agreement never required you to suffer through this for the sake of appearances. If you want to leave, we can go right now."
The warmth from his hand moved through me like something solid and steady. I shook my head and held on.
A young woman approached us then, moving with the effortless poise of someone who had spent her whole life in rooms exactly like this one. She was wearing a silver couture gown from the current season, her features striking, her manner impeccably measured.
"Kyle," she said, with a slight smile. "I heard you backed out of the Geneva summit last week. I was curious what could possibly be important enough to break that habit."
Her gaze dropped briefly to our joined hands, and one eyebrow rose with elegant precision.
Kyle introduced her as Seraphina Vera — one of those names that carried its own gravity even before you'd looked it up.
"My wife," Kyle said. "Ilone Thorne."
Seraphina's attention shifted to my dress. She studied the silhouette for a moment, then the drape of the fabric at the hem.
"What a distinctive cut," she said. "The way the fabric falls is genuinely masterful. Mrs. Voss, which independent house is this? In a season full of minimalism, a design that actually celebrates the body is almost impossible to find."
I opened my mouth to answer — and then a familiar voice cut across the room.
"Kyle. Ilone."
My entire body went rigid. Gideon was making his way toward us, Mara and Ophelia close behind him. He reached out with the easy familiarity of someone who assumed physical contact was always welcome — and Kyle stepped smoothly to the side, intercepting the gesture without a word.
Gideon retrieved his hand without embarrassment and turned to address the group around us, his voice carrying easily across the room.
"This is our eldest daughter, Ilone — she spent years with her grandmother in the countryside, studying art. Quiet, thoughtful. Her mother and I couldn't be more proud."
I looked at him and said nothing.
Mara didn't seem to notice, or didn't care. She adjusted one of her diamond earrings and drew Ophelia half a step forward.
"Ophelia just opened for a major runway show last season," she announced. "Every top house has been reaching out to her."
A nearby executive from one of the luxury brands glanced at Ophelia, then turned to me with genuine friendliness. "And Mrs. Voss — I understand you're a designer as well? The Thorne family certainly has an eye for fashion."
Mara gave a short laugh and let out an audible sigh.
"Ilone's situation is a bit different," she said, pausing just long enough to make sure everyone was listening. "With her figure… she doesn't really fit the industry in the traditional sense. She keeps trying to push her way in, but honestly — it just ends in embarrassment."
The warmth drained from the air around us.
I felt the breath leave my lungs. The familiar sting of it — the way those words always landed in exactly the same place — moved through me before I could brace for it.
Kyle set down his glass.
"Why doesn't she fit?" he asked.
Mara's smile froze.
"Kyle, I didn't mean it like that — I just meant those clothes can't really—"
"Clothes exist to serve the person wearing them." His tone didn't rise. The room got quieter anyway. "When did it become the person's job to conform to the clothes?"
Mara opened her mouth. Kyle didn't give her the opening.
"Besides," he said, "my wife is worthy of anything in this world." He let that sit for exactly one beat, then looked directly at her. "Wouldn't you agree, Mrs. Thorne?"
Gideon stepped in quickly, his voice warm and conciliatory. "Kyle, Mara speaks her mind — no harm intended. We're all family here, no need to make a big thing out of—"
Kyle didn't look at him. He simply shifted half a step to the side, and the movement was enough — it brought me fully into the light.
Then he turned and looked at me. His eyes were calm and unhurried, asking nothing, only waiting.
I looked back at him, and something settled in my chest. I let go of the fistful of velvet I'd been gripping, straightened my spine, and spoke.
"Mom, I've never expected every brand to accept me, and I've never needed every person to approve of my body." Mara's eyes slid away from mine. "But there are a lot of women in this world who look like me. They've always existed. They've just always been ignored."
I looked around at the people standing near us.
"Fashion shouldn't only serve one kind of body, and it shouldn't be defined by one kind of body either. Clothes are meant to make people feel beautiful — not to give them new reasons to feel like they're not enough."
A brief silence followed. Then, from somewhere nearby, Alexander laughed — a real one, unguarded — and raised his champagne glass toward me with undisguised appreciation.
Seraphina stepped forward. She glanced once at Mara, then brought her attention back to me, and reached into her clutch.
"Well said, Mrs. Voss." She held out a card. "When your studio releases a new collection, please send me the lookbook. I'll be watching."
"Thank you." I took the card, and the pressure that had been sitting on my chest since we walked in finally began to ease.
I turned slightly, and found Kyle already looking at me. His expression was as composed as ever, but there was something in his eyes — quiet and warm — that hadn't been there before. In the angle where no one else could see, he reached over and pressed his fingers lightly around mine.
The evening continued. I did my best to find my footing in a room full of people whose world I was only beginning to understand. Kyle stayed beside me throughout — when a conversation moved into territory I didn't know, he'd lean in and explain quietly; when someone directed a question at me unexpectedly, he never rushed to answer on my behalf, only stepped in if I needed him to.
At some point I picked up another glass of champagne, and he covered my hand before I could drink it.
"Don't drink on an empty stomach."
The way he said it — entirely serious, completely matter-of-fact — made me smile before I could help it.
"Kyle."
"Mm?"
"Are you treating me like a child right now?"
"No."
"Then what?"
He paused for just a second. "My wife."
My heart skipped — I felt it clearly, that brief missed beat — and before I had a chance to look away, the lights in the banquet hall dimmed.
A host walked onto the stage at the far end of the room.
"Thank you all for being here tonight. To celebrate the new partnership between the Voss Arts Foundation and Croft Company, we've arranged a special preview of an upcoming haute couture collection."
I listened without much attention — until the host announced the name of the series.
Body Freedom: Refuse to Hide.
Applause filled the hall. I barely heard it.
Because those were my words. That was the theme I had written for the collection I was still preparing to launch.
The lights dropped entirely, a single spotlight cutting through the dark toward the end of the runway. Music began, and a tall, slender figure emerged from the shadows — twelve-centimeter stilettos striking the stage floor with clean, deliberate precision.
Ophelia's face caught the light, and she was luminous.
The room erupted.
Mara stood at the front of the crowd, applauding with everything she had, her expression radiant with pride. Gideon moved through the room with his glass raised, toasting anyone within reach.
Everyone was watching Ophelia. Everyone was watching the gown.
Heavy silk moved with each step she took — an asymmetric structure that broke from the traditional waistline, layered folds gathered at the right side and then unfurling completely as she walked. Every seam, every deliberate deviation from convention, every decision about where the fabric should fall and why.
I knew every single one of them.
Because that dress was mine — work I had never shown to anyone.
