Luca sat in his new, larger, corner office, the accolades piling up in his inbox. He should have been elated. This was the summit. He had scaled the mountain.
He felt nothing.
He flipped through the physical magazine, the paper thick and expensive under his fingers. Every page, every line of copy, every curated image, was a memory. He saw her in the bold typography of the Vanguard spread, heard her voice in the lyrical flow of the beauty editorial, felt her absence in the stark, beautiful silence of the final page.
The success was a hollow echo. The victory party that night was a glittering affair at the Tate Modern, but he moved through it like a ghost, giving polished interviews, accepting congratulations with a tight smile. The champagne tasted flat. Every laugh felt like a betrayal.
Across the city, Isla saw the issue on a newsstand. Her heart clenched. She bought a copy, her fingers tracing the embossed logo on the cover. She took it to a park bench and slowly turnedthe pages. It was brilliant. It was everything they had ever dreamed of building together.
And she had no part in it.
Tears blurred the perfect, glossy images. She saw their shared vision executed with a precision that was uniquely Luca’s, but her own spirit, the heart she had poured into that place, was gone. It was a beautiful shell. She was proud of him, and the pain of that pride was almost unbearable.
At the party, Luca finally escaped to a quiet balcony, the cool night air a relief from the stifling heat of the crowd. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over her name. He had drafted a dozen texts. Did you see it? It’s for you. I wish you were here. This means nothing without you.
He deleted them all.
He looked down at the Thames, a dark ribbon snaking through the glittering city, and understood the true cost of his ambition. The September Issue was his masterpiece, but the woman who had inspired it was gone, and without her, the victory was the greatest failure of his life. The magazine in his hand felt not like a triumph, but like a eulogy.
Chapter 18:
The Interview
Weeks bled into a monotonous rhythm. Isla’s flat was now a makeshift studio, her days filled with freelance projects—copywriting for small brands, editing manuscripts for a tiny publishing house. It paid the bills, but it lacked the heartbeat, the thrilling, terrifying edge of Chroma. She was surviving, not living.
One afternoon, her phone rang with an unknown number. The voice on the other end was crisp and familiar.
“Isla? It’s Anya Sharma.”
Isla’s breath caught.“Anya. Hello.”
“I’m in London for a few days. I’d like to buy you a coffee. There’s something I’d like to discuss.”
They met in a quiet hotel lounge. Anya, as always, was a vision of powerful elegance. She got straight to the point.
“The September Issue was a success. But it lacked a certain… soul,” Anya said, stirring her espresso.“Luca is a brilliant strategist. He can build an empire. But the magic, the spark that made Chroma feel alive… that left with you.”
Isla stared at her, stunned.
“I’m launching a new venture,” Anya continued.“A digital platform focusing on long-form, narrative-driven content about the people and ideas shaping culture. Not just fashion. Art,technology, design. It’s called The Aurelian. I want you to be its Editor-in-Chief.”
The world tilted. Editor-in-Chief. Her own publication. The freedom to build a world from the ground up, with her own vision, her own voice.
“Why me?” Isla managed to ask.
“Because you have the eye,” Anya said simply.“You see the story behind the image. You stood up to Luca Thorne, not just as his lover, but as his equal. You have a spine, and you have a heart. That’s a rare combination. I’m offering you a blank page, Isla. No shadows. No ghosts. Just you.”
It was everything she had ever wanted. A chance to lead, to create without compromise. It was also a declaration of war. The Aurelian would be a direct competitor to Chroma.
She thought of Luca. Of the pain in his eyes on that Parisian street. Of the hollow professionalism of his goodbye. Taking this job would be the final, definitive severance. They would be rivals, their past love affair a piece of industry gossip to be dug up and analyzed every time their publications clashed.
But she also thought of the empty desk, the silenced voice, the resignation that had felt like an amputation. This was a chance to reclaim it all.
She looked Anya in the eye.“What’s the budget?”
Anya smiled, a sharp, knowing look.“Substantial. And it’s all yours to command.”
Isla took a deep breath, feeling the first real spark of excitement since she’d walked out of Chroma. The freefall was over. She was about to build her own platform to land on.
