Chapter 3 The Ghost In Velvet

{Leonard’s POV}

She left the room before anyone else, heels crisp, measured… precise.

Every step she took seemed to make her presence fade but at the same time, linger.

After her exit, I stayed seated longer than I meant to, the conversation around me dimming into meaningless hum. Someone was asking about shoot schedules, someone else mentioned lighting adjustments, but I barely heard them.

Noelle Duval.

It had been years. Four, maybe five, and yet the name still hit like a cold coin dropped into water. Sharp. Sudden.

I didn’t expect her to look like— that. I really didn’t.

I don’t even know what I expected. The last image I’d had of her was at the courtyard party— the music pounding, the laughter spilling from balconies, the pale look on her face as the whispers spread.

“She kissed him for a dare”.

That was the line. Yeah, I think so. And remembering, I could suddenly almost hear it echoing through the crowd in the depth of my memory.

I rubbed the back of my neck and realized my palms were sweating. I frowned.

Ridiculous. It had been a stupid college prank— something meaningless, exaggerated, twisted. Everyone moved on.

Except maybe her, which would be childish.

Celeste’s voice snapped me back to reality now.

“Leonard? Did you get that?”

“Hmm?”

She raised a brow. “The team will expect your first draft sketches by Thursday. Unless you’d rather Noelle oversee that part?”

My jaw tightened instinctively. “Noelle?”

“Yes.” Celeste smiled in that catlike way of hers. “She’s handling the creative narrative. You’ll want to coordinate. Make sure your vision and hers don’t conflict.”

My vision and hers.

The irony.

“Of course,” I said easily. “I’ll send her the concept outline tonight.” I said and started drafting after Celeste left.

But when I looked down at my sketchpad after some minutes, my handwriting— normally neat, looked impatient; Angry, like my hand was trying to outrun my own thoughts.

Hm.

**

The studio emptied slowly, people peeling away in little clusters of gossip and laughter. I stayed behind under the pretense of checking the mannequins. Truth was, I just needed a second to breathe.

She had been here. In my space.

— the same space I’d built out of years of ambition, money, sleepless nights, and careful control. And she’d walked into it, calm, indifferent, unfazed.

I’d seen the way others looked at her, curious, respectful and a few intimidated.

This wasn’t the Noelle I remembered.

The girl in my memory wore soft cardigans and carried sketchbooks too big for her hands. She had nerd eyeglasses on and spoke too softly. She blushed too easily and stayed on the edges of rooms like she was afraid to take up air.

Now she looked like she owned it.

Realizing this, something in me twisted— admiration, confusion; I wasn’t sure. But it felt like something darker I didn’t want to name.

“Still brooding, Saint-Claire?”

Julian’s voice came from behind me now, his tone lazy. He was leaning against the doorframe, shirt unbuttoned just enough to signal that he’d already forgotten today’s stress— in contrast to me.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I muttered.

“Not until the next scandal,” he said, grinning. “Though, seeing your face, I’d say one’s already brewing.”

I shot him a look. “Drop it.”

“Can’t. You’re practically glowing with repressed confusion.” He folded his arms. “So. The prodigal girl returns. I personally didn’t think she’d ever show up again.”

I exhaled through my nose. “You remember that night too well.”

“Oh, everyone remembers that night too well,” Julian said. “You just pretend not to.”

I didn’t reply.

He shrugged. “You’re lucky she’s the type who rises from ashes instead of throwing them. If it were me—”

“She’s not you,” I cut in sharply.

He smirked, unbothered. “No. She’s better.”

He pushed off the frame and left, leaving the faint hint of his amusement behind.

Sometimes I wonder if he’s my friend or not.

After some minutes of standing in silence, I walked to the far end of the studio where a line of half-finished gowns stood beneath the golden evening light. One of them was draped in crimson velvet, heavy and liquid all at once. The fabric reminded me of her hair back then— darker, untamed.

Now, it was smooth. Controlled.

Everything about her seemed that way.

I ran a hand over the material now. It was warm from the sun, but it felt cold.

“She kissed him for a dare.”

The words slid through memory like a blade. I didn’t even remember who had said them first— Maybe I had, in that drunk, stupid way you say things that get out of hand.

But the crowd had fancied it. I did too.

And she had disappeared after that…

No confrontation. No scene. Just silence— until now.

I straightened my pose and turned toward my desk. I needed to write that email; make it professional, brief, detached. Keep it surface-level.

But when I sat down, the cursor blinked accusingly at me.

Noelle, I typed.

Paused. Deleted it.

Ms. Duval.

Better.

Ms. Duval,

It was good to reconnect today. I look forward to collaborating on the Velvet campaign. I’ve attached preliminary sketches and thematic notes for your review. I trust you’ll provide input before Thursday’s session.

— Leonard Saint-Claire <<

Professional. Distant. Clean.

I hit send then leaned back in my chair, staring at the dark window. My reflection stared back— composed and calm.

But behind that reflection, somewhere faint, I could almost see her again— the college courtyard, the string lights swaying above, her face pale and wet with humiliation, the sound of everyone’s laughter like glass breaking.

This tore through my calmness and I closed my eyes.

‘It was nothing,’ I told myself.

Just the past.

But even as I said it, I knew the past was never just the past. Not when she was standing in front of me again, looking that reformed, that determined, and wearing that benign confidence like perfume.

I’m not bothered by anything, but I’ll still hope I’m wrong…