The Ring And The Sketchbook

The O'Dell mansion was vast, pristine, and silent.

It had thirty-two rooms, ten chandeliers, and zero warmth.

I often wondered how a house so full of people could feel so empty.

But maybe that’s what happens when no one sees you — even when you walk past them.

I lived on the third floor, far from the family wing.

No one said I had to, but the message was clear the night after our wedding.

Mrs. O’Dell’s polite smile.

Mr. O’Dell’s nod without a word.

And Neo’s silence. Always, his silence.

That night, I moved my things quietly.

There weren’t many — a suitcase, a sketchbook, and a wedding ring I kept forgetting to wear.

The maids were kind, but careful.

They looked at me the way people look at a forgotten photo — curious, but never long enough to remember.

Neo hadn’t spoken to me since the ceremony.

Not one word. Not a glance.

The only proof we were married was a piece of paper… and the ache that lived in my chest.

I spent my days in the studio on the far side of the house.

It used to be a storage room.

Now it was mine — filled with spools of thread, mood boards, and fabric swatches no one would wear.

Sometimes, I designed things I knew no one would ever see.

Dresses stitched with pain, collars folded with regret.

Each sketch was a whisper of everything I couldn’t say out loud.

That morning, rain tapped against the window like it knew I was thinking of leaving.

Not forever. Just for the day.

I missed the smell of my grandfather’s garden.

I missed the way he brewed tea with too much ginger.

I missed the version of me that used to believe love could fix things.

I reached for my phone.

Nothing.

No missed calls.

No texts.

No name that mattered.

But I did see something else.

A headline.

> NEO’s Heartbreak: Still Healing?

“His silence says more than words ever could,” fans say as Rulia’s farewell letter resurfaces.

The article showed Rulia’s note again — the one she posted right before she left the country.

The one that said:

> “Sometimes, people you trust the most stand behind your fall. But I forgive her. Maybe she needed him more than I did.”

Her words were soft.

Forgiving.

Poison wrapped in silk.

I didn’t cry.

I just stared at the screen for a long time…

and finally whispered to no one:

“I never took him from you. You both gave him away.”

Suddenly, my phone buzzed, jolting me out of my thoughts.

Natalia.

A tiny smile found its way to my lips.

She was the only one who stayed.

When the world turned its back on me, when even my own family avoided eye contact, Natalia — the Natalia Valen, international model, runway queen, scandal magnet — chose me.

Even when she had everything to lose…

she chose me.

I answered.

“You better not be crying, idiot,” she said without even saying hello.

I let out a soft laugh. “Not crying. Yet.”

“Good. Because I’m not about to let my favorite designer get mascara on her sketches.”

“Favorite?” I teased. “I thought you dumped me for that Italian brand last year.”

“I dumped them because they said you were ‘too soft’ for high fashion,” she scoffed. “Idiots. You? You’re a storm in silk, baby.”

I couldn’t help smiling.

She continued, her voice light, but sincere, “Look, I have this huge event tonight — themed Midnight Moon. I need something from you. Something that shuts everyone up when I walk in.”

“Tonight?” I blinked. “You’re giving me a six-hour deadline?”

“Babe, I believe in miracles and in your coffee addiction. And also—”

Her voice softened. “You need this. Get out of that sad girl cloud and create. Like you always do.”

I went quiet.

“Lilly…” she said more gently. “You don’t owe this place your silence. Divorce him. Come to France with me. We’ll eat croissants and you can design whatever you want. No shadows. No Rulia. No stupid cold idols with perfect hair and zero spine.”

“I know.”

My voice cracked. “I just… I don’t want to leave like that. Not when the truth is still buried.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“Then stay,” she whispered, “but never stop being you, okay?”

I swallowed hard. “Okay.”

She snapped back into her usual tone. “Great! Now grab your sketchbook. I want magic. Think silver clouds, crescent drapes, and the kind of slit that makes photographers gasp.”

“Got it,” I smiled, finally feeling the spark I had lost.

After the call, I grabbed my pencil.

Midnight Moon.

Stars, satin, shadows.

I opened my app and ordered fabric, stones, thread — everything I’d need to finish by tonight.

I tied up my hair, rolled up my sleeves, and stared at the blank mannequin in front of me.

“Let’s make them remember,” I whispered.

Because even if the world didn’t know my name…

they would never forget my work.

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