Chapter 17: Velvet and Steel

Chapter 17: Velvet and Steel
The sallow yellow light fell across the faded floral wallpaper, its cracks like broken seams on an old cloth—the battlefield of long-gone parties. Fashion magazines leaned askew on a shelf, a scratched, dim photo frame tilted nearby. Cigarette smoke curled and dissolved into the tired perfume lingering in the air, a silk scarf wrung dry. The ceiling bulb swayed in the draft, flickering like the heart of a cornered animal. The whole room felt like a thread about to snap, artificial and waiting to burst.

I could hear my own breath rasp dryly, a metallic taste in my mouth like a needle piercing skin. My fingers clenched the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening, nails scraping at the velvet to pin myself down. My voice tore out, slicing the air like a blade through a seam:
“Tomorrow… I’m going to that press conference.”

Kristine froze. The delicate porcelain cup in her hand tilted slightly, the liquid trembling, steam fogging her silver-rimmed glasses. She closed her fingers tighter around the handle, nails pressing marks into the porcelain. Under the light, a thin scar at her wrist showed like an old stitch, her eyes flashing, her voice low but hissing:
“You can’t. Are you going to let the press, the media… let Kael know you’re alive and back? What if he makes a move?”

I tilted my head, lips curling. The sneer on my face was like a scratch on a freshly cleaned mirror. Something colder than metal glinted in my eyes. My voice was velvet-soft but steel-cored:
“Don’t forget… by now I’ve gathered enough evidence against Kael. He won’t dare touch me.”

Kristine blinked, her gaze wavering, the light in her eyes like falling droplets. She hunched a little, hair sliding down to veil a tremor at the corner of her mouth:
“But if you already have enough evidence, why not hand it to the police? Why keep it as something to threaten him with?”

I didn’t answer. My eyes slipped from Kristine to the tall windowpane. Beyond it, Paris stretched out in silver gray. Roofs wet with dew glimmered like blades. A tram glided past below, dragging a silver streak like a needle across cloth, stitching the city into dawn. I stood still, my shadow merging with the frame, my hand trembling slightly on the wood, and my voice came out slow and deep:
“I… want to make him live worse than dead. To taste every single thing I endured.”

Kristine closed her eyes, her breath thin as cigarette smoke breaking between us, the space thick as before a storm.

Morning. The clock had only struck five. Outside, garbage trucks rattled, sparrows touched the eaves, the city starting to stitch its first bright threads. The apartment was hushed except for the heater ticking like a countdown. Gray-ash dawn light slipped through the curtains, falling in mottled streaks on the wooden floor like cinders. Kristine still lay on her side across the room, hair spilled over the white pillow like ink strokes, chest rising and falling softly with each breath.

I lifted the blanket, bare feet meeting the icy floor, goosebumps prickling up my arms. The boards creaked under my steps. The bathroom door closed, warm steam spilling out like a cloud embracing skin. Water rolled over my shoulders like a hand soothing me, but my mind was strung tight as a bow, blood thudding at my temples. Every detail of the plan surfaced—the place, the hour, Kael’s face—like red dots on a pattern sheet. Three years I’d honed myself into a blade; today was the day the blade would flash.

I emerged when the clock passed six. The slanted morning light reflected off the wardrobe door like a mirror, splitting my shadow in two. My hand skimmed each hanger, silk sliding under my fingertips, the rustle sounding like whispers of thread. When my fingers reached the body-hugging dress—black with a faint sheen, cut as cleanly as an engraving—my heart thumped once more. This was the new shell.

I slid into it like cold, proud armor and sat at the dressing table. Round bulbs cut my face into angles. The comb drew through my hair, its scent recalling lost luxuries. Foundation settled like mist; eyeliner traced a needle-sharp line; mascara deepened my eyes. A final blush swept across cheeks hardened by years, each stroke a silent vow.

Finally, the red lipstick lay in my hand. I twisted it up, the color rising like fresh blood under the light. The tip glided across my lips slowly, each centimeter steeped in power. In the mirror, the woman looking back at me had eyes calm yet cold, lips crimson like a seal. Power radiated from the straight shoulders, from the unblinking gaze, without a word spoken.

Three years—from a fragile young lady to a woman who built her own fashion empire in France and Italy. Now I had everything, and only one task left: to unmask Kael.

I stood, high heels clicking on the floor—a sound sharp as a period at the end of a sentence. The chill of the boards pierced through the soles, running up my spine to my nape, making me shiver.

Kristine had been awake for some time. She sat on the sofa, the blanket wrapped around her, hands gripping its edge, the glow of the TV flickering over her pale face. When she saw me step out, her eyes widened, surprise spilling into words:
“Today you look like a queen, Elysa.”

I arched a brow, a smile flicking across my face like a blade:
“I’ve always been a queen, Kristine.”

I moved closer, sat beside her. Kristine turned, her voice low and soft, fingers tapping the rim of her cup as if to find a beat:
“Wait for me to get ready, I’ll go with you to the press conference.”

I shook my head, reaching for her hand, holding it tight. The warmth from it was the last time I allowed myself to lean:
“No. Let me go there alone.”

Kristine frowned, shoulders drawing in, her voice trembling like a thread about to snap: “But what if…”

I cut her off, my tone soft yet hard as velvet wrapped steel:
“I don’t want anyone to know you’ve been with me these three years. I won’t drag you into this.”

My gaze locked into hers, deep as a pit:
“Thank you for helping me all this time. But now it’s time for me to walk on my own.”

Kristine suddenly wrapped her arms around me. The smell of tea and soap from her body poured over me, her breath shaking at my ear:
“If anything goes wrong, just tell me. I’m always here.”

I didn’t answer. My fingers pressed lightly into the back of her shirt, feeling each heartbeat of ours fall out of sync. Staring far off through the window, the light threaded in like gold strands, my head crowded with thoughts swarming like black birds beating their wings inside my chest.