Chapter 8 Ashes and Flame

With Dario's help, Valeria finally escaped.

The night had arrived like a predator-thick with clouds and the taste of rain on the wind. The Istanbul mansion, with its iron gates and watchful guards, seemed almost unaware of the silent rebellion brewing within its walls. For weeks, Dario had worked behind the scenes, subtly sabotaging the security system: a glitched camera here, a rewired sensor there. Bit by bit, he created blind spots.

And then, the storm came.

Thunder rumbled across the sky as Valeria stood in her chamber, dressed in black from head to toe, her long hair twisted into a tight braid beneath a hood. The rain lashed against the windows, drowning out the sound of her footsteps. Downstairs, the system faltered. The alarms blinked and stuttered, failing to activate.

It was now or never.

Dario had rerouted the cameras, and a loyal driver-paid handsomely in untraceable crypto-waited at the edge of the property with the engine running. Valeria slipped through the servants' entrance, her breath shallow, heart thudding like a drumbeat.

She didn't look back.

Within twenty minutes, she had vanished into the labyrinthine alleys of Istanbul.

That night, Valeria Moretti died.

In her place, a new woman emerged-one the world would soon come to know only as "V."

The transformation was brutal but necessary. She cut her hair short-blunt and bold. Dyed it a rich, unrecognizable shade. She destroyed every official record tied to her name with the help of a discreet hacker Dario had recommended. Passports, identification, bank accounts-gone. What remained was a clean slate.

Under her new identity, Valeria moved into a modest flat above a tailor's workshop. She observed, she listened, and she learned the rhythms of the underground fashion world. Her name was gone, but her vision remained. Stronger now. Sharper.

She started sketching again. First with trembling hands. Then, with growing fire.

The designs were nothing like Casa Moretti's polished elegance. These were darker, edgier. They bled with pain, resilience, and the rawness of survival. Corsets shaped like armor. Gowns that moved like shadows. Every stitch carried a piece of her story-one of betrayal, survival, and rebirth.

With the last of the money she had hidden before the wedding, Valeria founded a new brand.

She named it Ash & Flame.

The launch was silent. Anonymous. A single pop-up show in Berlin-hosted in an abandoned art gallery, lit by candlelight, with models wearing masks. No names. No interviews. Only the initials: "V."

The response was electric.

Fashion bloggers whispered about it first. "The most hauntingly beautiful collection we've ever seen." Social media caught fire. Celebrities begged to wear the gowns. Within months, Ash & Flame became the most talked-about label in the industry.

Meanwhile, in Milan, the boardrooms of Casa Moretti trembled.

Gianna and Ivana couldn't understand it. Who was this mysterious designer stealing their market share? Why did her work echo the soul of the Moretti legacy, but with a wildness they could never replicate?

They tried to discredit her. Accused V of theft. Of imitation. But there was no trail. No proof. No face.

Valeria watched from the shadows, lips curled into a quiet smile.

Every headline was a dagger:

"Ash & Flame Outsells Casa Moretti in Paris Debut." "The Mysterious 'V': Is She the Future of Fashion?" "Moretti's Decline What Went Wrong?"

She gave no interviews. No photos. Only the art spoke.

But for those who looked closely, they might have seen her message.

A particular jacket, lined with red silk, carried a discreet embroidery on the inside pocket:

"Born in fire. Raised in silence. Returned for vengeance."

The media loved the mystery. The buyers loved the clothes. And slowly, Valeria's revenge took form not in blood or violence, but in erasure. She erased the control Ivana and Gianna had over her legacy, piece by piece.

Still, she remained cautious. The legal battle for Casa Moretti would come later. First, she needed to destroy their reputation to make their grip weak, so that when she returned, the empire would crumble with a whisper.

She didn't need the name to prove who she was.

She was the fire now. She was the ash that refused to die.

And as Valeria watched the world embrace her work, she felt something stir deep within her a hunger not just for justice, but for something more.

Freedom.

Dario called her one night, voice low and steady.

"They've begun liquidating assets. Investors are pulling out. They're desperate."

Valeria nodded, standing by the window of her loft, overlooking the city lights. "Good. Let them burn."

He was silent for a moment. Then added, "You know, you never really escaped. You're still their wife. Still Mrs. Levanis."

Her jaw tightened. "Only on paper."

"Paper still matters," he said. "Especially when it comes time to take your company back."

She didn't respond right away.

Because deep down, she knew he was right.

And the time was coming.

But first, she would let them feel the heat.

Let them watch as the empire they stole turned to ash

And the woman they thought they buried walked out of the flames.