Chapter 33

Chapter 33
The soft hum of industrial sewing machines mingled with the distinct scent of new, still-sealed fabric, filling the Kencana Mode studio, which now felt crowded by two large egos. The workbench, usually covered with Elara's abstract sketches, was now divided in two: one side neat with Adrian's laptop displaying projection charts and cost estimates, the other vibrant with piles of colorful fabric scraps and scattered measuring tapes. A dress on a mannequin showcased their initial collaborative design: a classic silhouette recognized as Mahesa's touch, yet with asymmetric details and layered textures clearly hinting at Kencana's spirit. That inaugural design, ironically, had won initial praise from the board, an unspoken "small victory" that felt like an oasis in a desert of animosity.

Elara stood before the mannequin, twisting a maroon silk fabric between her fingers. “We need something that ‘pops’ at the back,” she said, her gaze sweeping over every curve of the design. “Not just an accent, but a statement. Something that makes people want to see it from behind.”

Adrian, who had been intently staring at his laptop screen for the past few minutes, looked up. One eyebrow rose. “Pops? Elara, this is a charity fashion show, not a fireworks display,” he retorted flatly, his tone devoid of emotion, yet with a suppressed glint in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “We need a functional elegance. Something digestible by a broad audience, not just avant-garde art critics.”

Elara rolled her eyes, a faint smirk gracing her lips. “Precisely because it’s charity, we must be bold. Attract attention. ‘Functional elegance’ is cliché, Adrian. We’re not just selling clothes; we’re selling dreams. Donors want to feel they’re buying something unique, not just a recycled collection.” She stepped closer, her finger pointing at the back of the mannequin. “Imagine, tiered drapery flowing like waves. Or maybe micro-sequins forming a geometric pattern, but not overdone. Inviting the eye to experiment.”

Adrian rose from his chair, also approaching the mannequin. They now stood very close, their shoulders almost touching, Elara’s fresh perfume mingling with Adrian’s faint masculine scent. Elara’s heart beat faster, but she forced herself to remain calm. Adrian leaned in, his eyes tracing the details Elara pointed out. “Tiered drapery could be too complex and time-consuming to produce. Micro-sequins? Our budget is limited, Elara. Unless you plan to cover the cost from your personal pocket?”

“Oh, so now you care about the budget, Mr. Mahesa?” Elara tilted her head, a corner of her lips slightly lifted. “I distinctly remember someone wanting to make a wedding dress out of pure gold thread just for show.”

Adrian snorted. “That was an investment, not a show-off. And we’re talking about designing a dress for a charity collection, not a private party. Focus, Elara.” There was a brief pause, Adrian’s gaze met Elara’s, and for a fraction of a second, an undeniable romantic tension filled the air, overriding all their disagreements. Adrian was the first to look away, refocusing on the mannequin. “What if we use the same fabric, but with pleating techniques that create an illusion of volume? Or perhaps, subtle hand-embroidered details that add texture?”

Elara bit her lower lip, considering. “Pleats? That could work. But they must be ‘living’ pleats, not stiff pleats like a school uniform. And hand embroidery… that could add artistic value. But not all our tailors have that skill quickly.”

“Mahesa’s team has tailors with excellent hand-embroidery skills. We can train them for the specific techniques you want,” Adrian offered, without looking at Elara. “We can also combine pleats and embroidery. Pleats as a base, embroidery as an accent.”

An idea suddenly sparked in Elara’s mind. “I have an idea,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “What if we create spiral pleats at the back, from shoulder to waist? Then, on one of the pleats, we embed extremely fine, almost invisible thread embroidery, forming the hidden initials ‘EK’ and ‘AM’. As a symbol of our unexpected collaboration.”

Adrian fell silent. He turned his body to face Elara completely. “Initials?” There was a surprised tone in his voice. “That’s… quite personal. And didn’t you say clichés should be avoided?”

“It’s precisely because it’s personal that it’s interesting! This isn’t for the general public, Adrian,” Elara explained, her passion burning. “This is for us. A reminder that behind all the tension and differences, we truly can create something beautiful together. And who knows, maybe this will become an ‘Easter Egg’ that fans will seek out later.” She took a step forward, looking Adrian directly in the eyes. “What do you say? Dare to take a small, personal risk, or do you want to stay safe in your comfort zone?”

Adrian looked at Elara intently. He saw the burning passion in her eyes, the sparkle of ideas that always both attracted and frustrated him. A small, almost imperceptible smile played on the corner of his lips. “A small, personal risk, you say?” he repeated, his voice softer than usual. “Alright. But we’ll change the initials. Mahesa has to come first.”

Elara let out a crisp laugh, a sound Adrian rarely heard, and he realized how much he missed it. “No way. Kencana Mode was founded first, so ‘EK’ comes first. A tribute to chronology.”

“And Mahesa Group existed long before Kencana Mode was born, so ‘AM’ is a tribute to history,” Adrian retorted, his eyes narrowed, yet with a hint of amusement.

That silly little debate felt like a breath of fresh air. It was their debate, familiar and somehow comfortable. They both fell silent, looking at each other, a small smile still gracing Elara’s lips, while Adrian struggled to maintain his poker face, though his eyes betrayed his feelings.

“Alright,” Adrian finally conceded, raising both hands in surrender. “We’ll use ‘AM’ and ‘EK’ with an elegant dividing line. Deal?”

Elara nodded in satisfaction. “Deal. But I’ll design the dividing line.”

“Of course,” Adrian replied with a return to sarcasm, “because only you possess the ‘artistic vision’ required for a dividing line, isn’t that right?”

“At least I can draw a line without a ruler,” Elara quipped, returning his sarcasm.

They returned their focus to work, modifying patterns and sketching the details of the dress’s back. The room fell silent again, punctuated by their quiet whispers during discussions and the scratch of pencils on paper. Several hours passed unnoticed. The setting sun’s rays began to seep through the window, painting the studio with a golden hue. Adrian occasionally stole glances at Elara, observing her focus, the faint furrow in her brow when she thought, and the way her hair fell to cover part of her face. He found himself admiring this side of Elara, the side completely immersed in her creation.

“We also need to think about accessories and makeup for the upcoming fashion show,” Elara broke the silence, stretching her back. “What concept do you want to highlight, Adrian? Minimalist elegance, or bold and dramatic?”

Adrian turned. “I envision something clean, yet with an element of surprise. Perhaps simple jewelry, but with a striking sparkle. And makeup that emphasizes the eyes, but isn’t overdone.” He grabbed a blank sheet of paper and began to sketch roughly. Instead of a clothing design, he sketched a model’s face with a particular makeup style.

Elara leaned closer, examining the sketch intently. “This… these are good details, Adrian. I didn’t know you had a talent for sketching like this.” The praise was genuine, and Adrian felt a little warmth spread through his chest.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Elara,” Adrian replied, his gaze shifting from the sketch to Elara’s eyes. Again, their gazes locked, and this time, the silence between them felt different, heavier, more laden with unspoken things. The shadow of that night, the night they both tried to bury, hovered between them, almost palpable.

Elara felt her cheeks flush. She quickly looked away, returning to her work. “Alright, I’ll compile a list of potential partners for accessories. I have some contacts in the jewelry industry who might be interested in collaborating.”

Adrian nodded, also returning to his laptop, but his eyes occasionally still stole glances at Elara. A strange feeling began to grow within him, a disconcerting sense of comfort when near Elara, even though they still often exchanged taunts. As the charity project progressed, as each design discussion, initially filled with tension, now began to find an odd rhythm, the wall between them slowly thinned.

The night deepened. Baskara sent Adrian a text message, asking about his progress. Adrian replied curtly, “Good.” Rina also called Elara, asking how she was and laughing at the brief elevator story Elara had told her.

“We need a venue for this exhibition,” Adrian suddenly said, breaking the long silence. He flipped his laptop screen, displaying several location options. “There are several galleries and multi-functional halls available. I’ve filtered them based on capacity, accessibility, and of course, reputation.”

Elara shifted her chair to see the screen more clearly. Her fingers pointed to several photos. “Some of them are too modern, Adrian. This needs a classic feel, but also an artistic touch. Not too rigid. And not too flashy.” She scanned the list. One image caught her eye. An old building with magnificent colonial architecture, yet with modern touches in its spacious, light-filled interior. There was a sculpture garden at the back, and several abstract paintings hung on its tall walls.

“What about this one?” Elara pointed to one of the images, her index finger touching the screen. “Pustaka Rasa Gallery. I’ve heard of this place, but never been there. It seems to have character.”

Adrian stared at the image Elara pointed to. His face suddenly froze. The faint smile that had briefly appeared on his lips vanished. There was an unreadable glint in his eyes, a mixture of recognition and something deeper, more bitter. His hand, which had been pressing the mouse button, stopped moving. “Pustaka Rasa Gallery,” he murmured softly, his voice almost a whisper, as if the name evoked a buried memory. He didn’t look at Elara, his gaze fixed on the image on the screen.

Elara noticed the change in Adrian’s expression. Her brows furrowed. “What’s wrong? Do you know this place?” she asked, her intuition screaming that there was something significant behind it. The ensuing silence felt heavy, laden with unspoken history. Adrian remained silent, his breath held slightly, as if the image on the screen had pulled him back into a distant past. His usually cold eyes now seemed darker, as if trapped in a powerful memory. He swallowed, then slowly raised his gaze, now looking back at Elara, and in his eyes, Elara saw her own reflection, surprised, curious, and—for the first time in a long time—a little afraid of the truth that was about to be revealed. What made this gallery so special, so much so that it could make the always-composed Adrian Mahesa lose his composure?