Chapter 135 Threads of Her Own

Chapter 135 Threads of Her Own


Isabella hadn’t planned to stop.

The taxi slowed only because of traffic, the hum of the city folding into a restless pause, and that was when she saw it glass windows flooded with morning light, mannequins draped in unfinished silhouettes, students bent over drafting tables with the kind of focus that made the world disappear.

The Bellview Design Academy.

The name sat on the building like a quiet promise.

“Wait,” Isabella said suddenly, leaning forward. “Can you pull over?”

The driver glanced at her in the mirror. “Here?”

“Yes. Please.”

She stepped out onto the sidewalk, the city noise rushing back in as the taxi drove off. Isabella stood there longer than she meant to, staring through the glass like someone peering into a life that might have belonged to her if she’d made different choices.

She pressed her palm against the window.

Fabric scraps lay scattered like confetti. Sketches were pinned crookedly to corkboards. Laughter spilled out when someone dropped a roll of muslin and cursed under their breath.

It felt… alive.

Isabella hadn’t felt that way in a long time.

For years, she had lived on autopilot defined by who she dated, who disappointed her, who she was expected to be. She’d learned to look polished even when she felt hollow, to smile through envy and regret, to convince herself that wanting more was childish.

But standing there, something stirred.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Isabella pushed the door open.

The smell hit her first fabric starch, coffee, ink, something warm and human. The lobby buzzed with movement. A girl with purple braids hurried past carrying a bolt of fabric. A boy argued animatedly about sleeve construction near the staircase.

Isabella swallowed.

She felt out of place in her tailored coat and heels, like she’d wandered onto the wrong set.

“Can I help you?”

The voice was kind, curious.

Isabella turned to see a woman in her late forties, silver hair pulled into a messy bun, measuring tape draped around her neck like a badge of honor.

“I” Isabella hesitated. “I’m just looking.”

The woman smiled. “That’s how it usually starts.”

Isabella blinked. “Really?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “Dreamers wander in all the time. Some stay.”

There was no judgment in her tone. No pressure. Just an open door.

“I’m Mara,” the woman added. “Dean of the academy.”

Isabella’s eyes widened. “Oh I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” Mara said easily. “Tell me what caught your eye?”

Isabella glanced back at the studio beyond the glass. “The work. The… energy.”

Mara nodded. “That’s purpose you’re sensing. Or the search for it.”

Isabella felt her chest tighten. “I don’t know if I belong here.”

“Most people who do don’t think they do,” Mara replied. “Come. Let me show you around.”

Isabella followed her down the hall, heart pounding in a way that felt unfamiliar.

They passed classrooms filled with students hunched over sewing machines, others sketching furiously, tongues poking out in concentration. One room was a riot of color textiles dyed by hand, draped across forms in bold defiance of symmetry.

“This is our experimental wing,” Mara said. “Where rules go to be questioned.”

Isabella smiled faintly. “I’ve spent my life following rules.”

Mara glanced at her. “And how did that work out?”

Isabella didn’t answer.

They stopped in front of a wall covered in student profiles faces of different ages, backgrounds, styles. Beneath each photo was a short statement.

I wanted to tell stories without words.

I grew up fixing clothes because we couldn’t afford new ones.

Design saved me.

Isabella’s throat tightened.

“I used to sketch,” she said suddenly, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “When I was younger. Dresses. Coats. Shoes. I’d redesign outfits from magazines, imagine how they’d move.”

Mara’s eyes softened. “Why did you stop?”

Isabella swallowed. “Life happened.”

Mara studied her for a moment. “Life happens to everyone. Not everyone listens when it asks for more.”

They returned to the lobby, and Isabella felt like she’d crossed a threshold she couldn’t uncross.

“Do you… take older students?” Isabella asked quietly.

Mara laughed. “We take curious ones.”

The paperwork felt surreal.

Isabella sat at a small desk filling out an inquiry form, hands trembling slightly as she wrote her name. The questions were simple background, interests, goals but they felt enormous.

What do you hope to gain from this program?

Isabella paused, pen hovering.

She wrote slowly.

I want to find myself again.

When she left the academy, the sun felt warmer.

Her phone buzzed as she stepped onto the street. A message from someone she hadn’t spoken to in weeks. Someone from her old life.

Isabella stared at the screen, then slid the phone into her bag without replying.

That evening, she stood in her apartment surrounded by things that suddenly felt unnecessary. Designer bags she’d bought to feel important. Dresses worn once for events she barely remembered.

She pulled an old sketchbook from the back of her closet.

Dust puffed into the air as she opened it.

The pages were filled with confident lines, imaginative cuts, notes scribbled in the margins like secrets. She traced one with her finger.

“Hi,” she whispered to the girl she’d been.

The next weeks were a blur of beginnings.

Isabella enrolled in foundational courses, her schedule suddenly full in a way that energized rather than exhausted her. She traded heels for flats, her polished wardrobe for clothes she didn’t mind getting chalk on.

The first day of class, she sat among students nearly a decade younger, nerves buzzing under her skin.

A girl beside her smiled. “First day?”

Isabella nodded. “Is it obvious?”

“Only because you look like you care,” the girl said. “I’m June.”

“Isabella.”

The instructor a sharp-eyed man with ink-stained fingers wasted no time.

“Design is not about being liked,” he said. “It’s about honesty. If you’re here to impress, you’ll fail. If you’re here to express, you might survive.”

Isabella felt something click into place.

Her first assignment was simple: create a piece that represented where she was in life.

Isabella stared at the blank page for hours.

Then she began to draw.

She sketched layers—structured on the outside, fluid beneath. Sharp lines giving way to soft folds. A garment that looked composed until it moved, revealing vulnerability.

When she finished, her hands were shaking.

Critique day was brutal.

Students tore into each other’s work with a frankness that stung but clarified. When it was Isabella’s turn, she braced herself.

“This feels… restrained,” one student said.

“Yes,” Isabella replied before she could think. “Because I’ve spent years holding myself together.”

The room went quiet.

The instructor nodded slowly. “There’s truth here. Push it further.”

For the first time in a long while, Isabella felt seen not as someone’s ex, or someone’s mistake, but as a creator.

Days turned into weeks.

Isabella stayed late in studios, learning techniques she’d never mastered, unlearning habits that had nothing to do with design but everything to do with fear. She made friends. She failed. She tried again.