Chapter 9 The Reckoning

Valeria returned to Milan in disguise, not to reclaim what was hers, but to expose the truth.

The plan had taken nearly a year to perfect. Her return would not be quiet. It would be calculated, theatrical, unforgettable. Just like everything they had taken from her, every wound they had left behind, she intended to return the favor-with interest.

She landed in Milan under a false name, her appearance altered with precision. Her hair now dark as midnight, cut sharply along her jaw. Her makeup severe, sculpted to erase the softness of the girl they had once underestimated. She walked like someone with nothing left to lose.

But she had everything to gain.

Her allies awaited her in the city. Not an army-but a few brave souls who still believed in her. Former Casa Moretti employees Ivana had fired. Designers Gianna had humiliated. One clever young lawyer who had once interned under her father. And the hacker who had become a phantom in Ivana's digital walls.

Together, they had collected everything.

Hacked emails exposing financial fraud.

Voice memos of Gianna mocking Valeria's supposed "fragile mind."

Legal documents rewritten and signed under forged authority.

And most damning of all: a video. Blurry but clear enough, showing Ivana, drunk and gloating, at a private gathering.

"We broke her, the little heiress," she slurred, champagne glass in hand. "She begged. Thought she could win. Silly girl. It's our empire now."

Valeria played it over and over, not for revenge, but for resolve. Every time her hands trembled with doubt, she let those words burn her anger into clarity.

The stage for her return would be the International Fashion Gala-held at La Scala, no less, the cathedral of Italian opulence. Casa Moretti was to debut its newest collection there. Gianna, now flaunting her role as creative director, had leaked photos of herself in rehearsals, smiling for the cameras, stealing the throne that was never hers.

Perfect.

Valeria arrived that evening dressed like vengeance.

A gown of crimson silk that moved like flame.

A mask of black lace, veiling her eyes.

She walked into the gala as a ghost among the elite, unrecognized but drawing every gaze. Her presence crackled with something almost supernatural-guests parted like waves before her.

Backstage, her allies were already in motion.

The hacker had infiltrated the projection systems.

The lawyer had tipped off a small circle of trusted media contacts.

And Valeria had one last surprise hidden beneath her gown: the flash drive containing every piece of evidence, ready to broadcast.

When the lights dimmed and the music began, the crowd settled for the runway show. Casa Moretti's models walked in shimmering pastels, flaunting designs that echoed Valeria's old sketches but lacked their soul. Gianna stood at the edge of the stage, basking in false glory.

Then the lights shifted.

A jarring silence filled the room.

And on the massive screen behind the runway, the video played.

Ivana's voice echoed: "We broke her, the little heiress."

Gasps filled the air.

Valeria stepped forward, moving to the center aisle. She climbed the edge of the runway, her heels clicking like hammers against the lacquered floor.

The cameras turned. Photographers blinked, stunned.

And then she pulled off the mask.

The room froze.

Valeria Moretti stood before them alive, radiant, and unbroken.

"Did you miss me?" she asked, her voice sharp as glass.

The crowd erupted into whispers, gasps, then full chaos.

Ivana, seated in the front row, went pale. Her eyes rolled back. She collapsed against her chair, unconscious before her body hit the floor.

Gianna turned and tried to flee, stumbling into a row of chairs.

Valeria didn't move.

She simply stood there, regal in red, as security entered. Journalists scrambled forward. The rest happened fast.

Authorities swarmed the venue summoned by Valeria's lawyer, armed with warrants. The board members present at the gala were served legal notices on the spot. Gianna, breathless and cornered, was placed in handcuffs as cameras flashed.

Valeria didn't flinch.

For the first time in years, she stood without fear. Without chains.

Reporters crowded around her.

"Miss Moretti, where have you been?"

"Is it true you were declared incompetent?"

"Will you take back Casa Moretti?"

She raised one hand, silencing them.

"I never left," she said. "I was stolen. But I found my way back. And I promise you, I'm not the one who should be afraid now."

Behind her, the screen now displayed images of legal documents: forged signatures. Altered medical evaluations. Wire transfers to offshore accounts.

It was all out in the open.

The fashion world watched in awe as Casa Moretti unraveled under the weight of its own corruption.

Valeria walked off the runway, no longer a model, no longer a muse.

She was the reckoning.

And Milan would never forget the night the fire returned.