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Chapter19
Three years had passed, long enough for dust to settle, wounds to scar, and reputations to be recast.
Grace Miller’s was now one of them. A name that carried weight in the design world, spoken with
respect.
Grace Studio (Northbridge) had doubled in size. Her work, fusing Eastern aesthetics with contemporary minimalism, lit up international pavilions, earning so many trophies that her shelves nearly buckled under the weight. She was no longer living in anyone’s shadow‘.
She was herself.
She was Designer Grace Miller.
Her life was full, and for the first time, entirely hers.
Marriage wasn’t on her radar‘. She liked the rhythm she had carved–self–determined, unhurried.
Her connection with Adrian Westcott had grown into something steady and comfortable.
They were partners in projects, companions in life. His patience, respect, and quiet warmth gave
her a sense of calm she had never known.
Whether they took another step didn’t matter.
What mattered was the peace of the present, the independence that didn‘ t isolate but still allowed
them to intertwine.
Her eyes were brighter now,
her posture unshakable.
Time had mended old scars, weaving them into strength, serenity, and a glow that seemed to
radiate from within.
That night, in London.
The Lindmere Grand Pavilion was alive with anticipation. The Global Design Laureates Gala, hailed
as the Oscars of the field, had arrived.
Grace, the frontrunner for Designer of the Year, walked into the hall in a gown of her own creation
-a sweeping gray dress inspired by ink–wash landscapes. Cameras turned instantly. Every
movement, every smile, was elegance and authority made flesh.
Meanwhile, on the far side of the world.
Chapter 19
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In a remote village in the Aurelian Highlands – Kambara Village, the land lay cracked and dry. The sharpest contrast was a fresh flag whipping above the modest Kambara Hope School, only recently
built.
Evening heat still pressed heavy as Alexander Stone ended a video call with engineers from the
Bluewell Water Survey Program. He sat in a bare office, the air faint with dust.
His white cotton shirt was rolled to the elbows, arms tanned bronze by relentless sun. The muscle was still there, but the softness of privilege had been stripped away, leaving lines of wear and
weather.
He shut the laptop, reached for an old WorldView Pocket Radio on the desk. Out here, where cell signals sputtered, radio was king.
After static and squeals, a channel cut through. A newscaster’s voice, bright with excitement.
“And from London tonight–the Global Design Laureates Gala has crowned its winner. The award goes to… Jiang Wei, from China! Congratulations!”
The feed crackled, applause chopped by static. But her name–her name–came through clear.
Alexander froze. His hand stayed on the dial, stone–still.
For a long moment, he didn’t breathe.
At last, his fingers released, slow as if unspooling from a spell. He leaned back in the rough wooden
chair.
Outside, the African night unfurled–an ocean of stars, close enough to touch.
No one saw his face. No one witnessed the silence closing in.
Only he knew what it cost him. the way his chest twisted when her name rang out, the sharp pang of loss and regret flooding back, threatening to drown him.
But after a while, the ache softened. What remained was quieter. A deeper calm. A peace laced with
sorrow.
Chapter19
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