Third person POV
The day the final prototype came together, Milly didn't cry.
Not because she wasn't overwhelmed—she was. Not because the sight of it didn't shake her bones—it did. But because for the first time in months, she wasn't broken. She was focused. Fierce. Unshaken.
She stood in the center of the atelier she'd built from the ashes of everything she had lost. Natural light poured through the skylight, catching on the crystals delicately hand-stitched into the bodice of her lead design. The gown shimmered like hope. No—like rebirth.
She smiled faintly and adjusted the mannequin's posture. "Chin up," she whispered. "Like me."
Two months. That's all it had taken. Two months of isolation, relentless work, and tearing herself away from the war-torn image she had drowned in. Gone were the days of press conferences and orchestrated tears. She had fired her PR team. Blocked out the noise. Cancelled the campaigns built on heartbreak and pity.
