Chapter 5 Threads of power

Helen Ross stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror of Élan's new flagship boutique, adjusting the collar of a slate-grey silk blouse on the mannequin. The fabric shimmered in the soft morning light that poured through the arched windows, bathing the space in warmth and possibility. The boutique was breathtaking-marble floors, brass accents, exposed beams softened by cascading chiffon curtains. It was old Manhattan meets modern art.

Helen is now a CEO. She wore a sleek ivory pantsuit tailored to perfection, her chestnut waves falling effortlessly over her shoulders. A delicate gold pin-Élan's emblem, a stitched feather-rested over her heart. Her eyes, once dulled by heartbreak, now carried the steady gleam of purpose.

And the world had noticed.

Fashion blogs praised her collections: soulful couture, power in minimalism, grief turned into grace. She designed both women's and men's lines now-sleek tuxedo jackets, crisp mandarin-collared shirts, hand-stitched evening gowns. Every thread carried her name. Every stitch, her rebirth.

More than two dozen employees now worked under her. Designers. Stylists. Seamstresses. Interns from Parsons who called her boss with admiration. Her name, once lost behind Steven Ross's, was now etched in storefront glass, whispered in style circles, and printed in black ink across magazine covers.

But success didn't silence the ache.

Every time Sebastian smiled at her-tenderly, sincerely-Helen felt it again.

Doubt.

The words Jennifer had planted weeks ago echoed like distant thunder. Berlin. Celeste Quinn. People aren't always who they seem. Helen had never asked Sebastian. She feared what she might hear. And the fear made her withdraw-slightly, but enough for him to notice.

Sebastian had become part of her routine. Late-night dinners at her brownstone. Coffee delivered with a handwritten note. He often watched her work, quietly fascinated by her sketches. He listened more than he spoke, but when he did speak, his words cut deep-always honest, always present.

But the wall inside Helen was building again. Quietly.

One afternoon, as the boutique buzzed with staff preparing for a press visit, Sebastian arrived. He wore a charcoal wool coat over a deep navy sweater that hugged his broad frame. His greying stubble made him look older than usual-seasoned, not tired. There was a softness in his expression reserved only for her.

He handed her a box-flat, black velvet.

"I saw it and thought of you," he said simply.

Inside was a brooch-a silver feather, delicate and hand-crafted. A symbol of flight. Freedom.

Helen blinked. It was beautiful. Thoughtful. Too much.

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"Sebastian," she said slowly, "why didn't you ever tell me about Berlin?"

The words cut the room into silence.

Sebastian's eyes darkened slightly-not with guilt, but wariness. "What about it?"

She held his gaze. "Someone left documents. And someone else-Jennifer, I think-said there was a woman. Celeste Quinn."

He didn't speak for a long time. His jaw tensed.

"That was years ago," he said finally. "Celeste was a mistake. We were business partners. It ended badly. She accused me of fraud when she lost money she gambled away herself. The case was sealed because I paid the settlement-to avoid dragging my company through mud."

Helen stared at him, heartbeat unsteady.

"And Berlin?"

He hesitated. "I lived there for two years. After I left my family's firm. I was angry, reckless. I made enemies. But I'm not that man anymore."

She nodded slowly-but her heart remained guarded.

"I believe you," she whispered. "But I'm scared of being wrong again."

Sebastian stepped closer. "Then let me help you prove yourself right."

He reached out, gently cupping her cheek. For a brief second, the world slowed. But the wound Steven left still pulsed inside her, and now, Jennifer's venom had only deepened it.

"I need time," Helen murmured.

Sebastian nodded. "I'm not going anywhere."

But the sadness in his eyes said he feared she might.

---

Across the city, Steven Ross sat alone in his penthouse-once their palace, now a mausoleum of silence and undone power. His once-bustling office was now filled with empty desks and growing tension. Investors were pulling out. His board had begun to question his decisions. Contracts fell through. Rumors circled.

And he knew exactly when the unraveling began.

When Helen left.

She had always seen the cracks before they spread. She smoothed deals with a word, disarmed enemies with her grace, spotted the false promises his executives missed. Without her, he was just another ambitious man with sharp suits and thinning control.

He watched her on a live-streamed interview, glowing in a rich teal dress, poised as she discussed Élan's second store opening. Her voice-measured, calm, proud-spoke of confidence rebuilt. She mentioned her team. Her designs. The new vision.

But not him.

Never him.

The regret burned more with each passing day. He no longer checked for Valerie's texts. Her name barely registered now. There was only Helen.

Steven poured himself a drink, staring at the muted television screen.

"You were always more than I deserved," he whispered.

And outside the glass walls of his empire, Helen's light only grew.

---

The rain lashed hard against the penthouse windows, grey sheets blurring the glittering skyline. Once, this view had inspired Steven Ross-his domain spread beneath him like a kingdom of lights. Now, it looked like a graveyard of fading promises.

Steven sat alone in the den, the fire crackling low, the scent of scotch clinging to his breath. The tailored navy suit he wore looked rumpled, his tie abandoned, shirt collar open. His once-sharp features had begun to sink-eyes red-rimmed from restless nights, lines deepening at the corners of his mouth. His hand trembled as he reached for the glass again.

His company that deals with selling products like books, electronics and other things that shipped to other countries as customers make orders online was crumbling.

The online website was not really functioning properly, shipping of products took more time ,which made more customers to pull out, Trusted partners pulled out. A scandal involving misappropriated funds-minor, but enough to shake confidence-made headlines for days. The markets began whispering. Board members began to talk.

Steven wasn't a fool. He knew what was happening.

It had started the day Helen walked out.

She had been more than a wife-she was the balance behind his ambition, the one who caught the errors, softened the sharpness in his speeches, and foresaw the consequences of his pride. Without her, his empire had no heart. Without her, the cracks widened, and now everything was falling through.

He leaned forward, burying his face in his hands.

Tears-real, hot, bitter-slipped down his cheeks.

God, Helen... what did I do?

He thought of her laugh in the early days. How she stayed up with him during his first failed pitch, encouraging him with coffee and calm words. How she smiled even when he forgot anniversaries, brushing it off with grace. How she had shielded him from his own recklessness again and again.

And how he threw it all away for a younger woman who now barely returned his calls.

He opened his phone, stared at her name in his contacts for what felt like hours. Then-hands shaking-he typed:

Steven: Helen. I know I'm the last person you want to hear from. But I miss you. God, I miss you. Everything's falling apart here. And I can't stop thinking about how much of me-of this-was because of you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have fought for you, not failed you.

He stared at the blinking cursor, then added:

Steven: You always believed in me. I didn't deserve it. I just... wish I could see you. Talk to you. Just once.

He hit send before he could stop himself.

The message was marked "delivered."

But no reply came.

He stared at the screen until it blurred with tears.

---

Meanwhile, across the city, Helen stood in Élan's design studio-flanked by fabric rolls, mood boards, and a quiet ache in her chest she couldn't name. She had seen the message, read every word, and tucked her phone into her desk drawer without response.

Steven's regret rang hollow now. Still, it stirred old wounds.

What pained her more was the silence growing between her and Sebastian.

Since their confrontation about Berlin and Celeste, things had shifted. Sebastian had become distant-not cold, but watchful, as though bracing for heartbreak. And Helen, torn between logic and fear, found herself overanalyzing every look, every word, wondering if Jennifer's warning had been true.

That doubt clung to her like perfume she couldn't wash off.

And Jennifer wasn't done yet.

She watched from the sidelines, unseen but ever-present, like a phantom wrapped in silk and frost.

Her next move was simple but sharp-an anonymous tip to a local fashion blog. A blurred photo of Sebastian with Celeste Quinn, taken years ago, deliberately paired with a headline:

"Helen Ross's Mystery Man Tied to Fraud Scandal Abroad?"

The story was vague. Unconfirmed. But suggestive enough to spark questions.

Helen saw it two days later-sent anonymously to her inbox.

The photo. The article. The poisoned seed now blooming.

She stared at the screen, her chest tightening.

What if I've made another mistake?

And in that moment of hesitation, Jennifer smiled.

The web was working. And Steven, lost in his regret and ruin, had no idea that his attempt to win Helen back was already sinking her deeper into deception.