Maria knew she had to get out.
Not just out of the house. Out of the country. Out of the shame. Out of the prison her life had become.
Her soul was bruised beyond recognition, her body just two months pregnant. And yet... there was a flicker of fire that hadn't gone out. Somewhere deep, past the trauma, she remembered a childhood dream —a needle, a sketchbook, a runway.
Fashion.
Late at night, long before the assault, before the betrayal, she had applied to a prestigious fashion college in a faraway country. She hadn't expected anything because she did it just for fun. But after everything collapsed, an email arrived like a thread of hope through the ashes:
| "Congratulations, Maria Ailenie. You have
been awarded a fully funded international
scholarship to pursue Fashion Design at
Fizza College of Fashion. Term begins
next month."
She stared at the screen, trembling.
It was her way out.
Her only way out.
She packed in silence.
Just a few clothes. Sketchbooks. The little cash left from her student savings.
When her parents saw her at the door with her bag, her mother crossed her arms. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I got a scholarship," she said. Her voice didn't tremble. "I'm leaving."
Her father's eyes narrowed. "If you walk out that door, you're no longer our daughter. You are dead to us."
Maria stared at them both. Her heart broken again, but she had no tears left.
"Then let me be dead," she said. And she left.
The journey was long. Cold. Isolating. She didn't know anyone in this new country. She has no safety net. Just a baby growing in her womb, a future balanced on a needle, and a dream clutched between calloused fingers.
But for the first time in a long time –she felt free.
Fashion school was brutal.
Long hours. High expectations. She pushed through morning sickness while sketching. Sewed through cramps. Modeled garments with swollen ankles.
But she also thrived.
She became that girl–the quiet, brilliant one with raw pain in her designs. Professors noticed. So did the top student in the year above her–a 21 years old lady named Sara Lont who took Maria under her wing.
When Maria graduated, Sara let her crash in her apartment while she figured things out. "You've got talent," Sara had said. "And you've got heart. That combo? Rare. Don't waste it."
Maria gave birth not long after. A daughter.
She gasped when she saw her.
The baby's soft brown skin. The big, curious eyes. The slight, unmistakable resemblance to Liz.
It hurt. Deep. But strangely... it also healed something.
She named her Lila.
Motherhood wasn't easy.
Maria worked at a restaurant–waitressing during the day, sketching at night. She sold handmade clothes online. Took part in local contests. She used leftover materials to make little dresses for her baby. She watches videos, learned marketing, taught herself photography to showcase her designs.
She failed many times. Cried even more.
But she didn't stop.
Sara became her volunteered PA when Maria launched her own mini brand: "Fae".
It started small.
An online collection.
A few custom bridal pieces.
A viral moment.
Then came international eyes. Orders. Offers.
In just under three years, her little brand became a fashion empire–worn on red carpets, fashion weeks, and runaways around the world.
People called her a genius.
A survivor.
A legend in the making.
But to her daughter, she was just Mommy/Momma.
Maria made every school play. Every doctor's appointment. Every birthday.
Even with late-night deadlines and design stress, she always made sure to be present.
Her love for Liz wasn't just redemption–it was her entire purpose.
She didn't just build a career, she rebuilt herself.
It was nearly midnight.
Maria sat on the floor of her studio apartment-turned-fashion office, stacks of fabric around her like fortresses of dreams. Her hands were stained with chalk lines and thread cuts, her laptop glowing softly behind a half-swen gown.
But her eyes weren't on the dress.
They were on her daughter–curled up on a small mattress in the corner, peacefully asleep, her tiny arms wrapped around her favorite stuffed bunny.
Lila.
So full of life. So full of joy. So full of her... and her.
Maria's heart clenched with a familiar ache.
What would she say when the time came?
When her daughter looked up one day and asked, "Momma, who is my other parent?"
Would she tell her the truth?
Would she tell her about a dorm room, and love that bloomed in secrecy, and betrayal that poisoned everything?
Would she say that the girl she was once in love with destroyed her life... and still lived in her daughter's smile?
Or would she lie?
She didn't know.
All she knew was that no matter how much the past haunted her, Lila was not a mistake.
She was her miracle.
Maria stood, walked over, and knelt beside the little bed. She kissed her daughter's forehead softly and whispered, "You are the best thing that ever happened to me."
The baby stirred, sighed, and rolled over.
Maria stayed there a little longer, fingers brushing through soft curls.
Outside, the world buzzed about the rising queen of fashion.
But inside this room, she was just a mother–bruised, healing, and fiercely in love with the tiny life she'd built from the ruins.