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Fourteen hundred and sixty days.

I'd given birth to Leon in a damp attic overlooking the Venetian lagoon. Rain had pounded down that day, canal water flooding the steps. I'd labored sixteen hours with only a wet towel and a kind midwife. He came out crying loudly, and when the nurse placed him on my chest, I looked at his wrinkled face and those gray-green eyes and cried harder than he did.

But I'd survived.

Sometimes, late at night after Leon fell asleep, I'd sit by the window, watching the light on the canal, thinking of that man.

But I told myself I was strong enough. I'd built a life for Leon with my own two hands.

Reality, though, couldn't run on optimism alone. I'd burned through my life force to give birth to this child. I couldn't fail to pave his way forward.

Leon needed better education. A spacious studio. A future without worry.

I needed money.

I opened my phone and pulled up the email that had sat quietly in my inbox for three days.

[Dear Ms. Caldwell. Congratulations—your independent brand "Wild Rose" has been selected as a finalist for the New York Fashion Frontier Award...]

The nation's most prestigious industry prize. Fifty thousand dollars in tax-free startup funding. Direct access to runway shows in Paris and Milan.

Go back to New York.

Once the thought emerged, it trembled through me, impossible to suppress.

I stood at the window, palm pressed against the glass. That desperate rainy night four years ago was long gone.

New York had eight million people. Between Manhattan's elite and one contestant designer stretched an invisible chasm. Besides, four years had passed. To a Don controlling an entire East Coast mafia empire, I was just a footnote in his vast life—a poor girl from Hoboken, long forgotten.

He probably had someone new by now, someone suitable. He'd forgotten that girl completely.

"Leon." I turned, smiling, reaching out my hand. "Pack up your pencils. We're going to New York."

Three days later. Midtown Manhattan. St. Regis Hotel ballroom.

Crystal chandeliers bathed the hall in dazzling light. The air held expensive champagne bubbles and tuberose perfume. Tonight was the opening social event for the New Designers Award. America's fashion buyers, top magazine editors, and investment titans had all turned out.

I'd left Leon in the executive suite on the hotel's top floor with Anna, the Italian nanny who'd traveled with us. Before I left, the little guy had hugged my neck and planted a kiss on my cheek, telling me in his sweet voice that "Mamma's the prettiest tonight."

And I was. I was no longer the insecure girl who'd hidden in oversized hoodies four years ago.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped in my heels toward the ballroom's heavy carved doors.

Tonight I wore a "Wild Rose" haute couture gown I'd designed and drafted myself—a pure white satin mermaid dress.

The vintage square neckline hugged my bust precisely. The wild rose tattoo on my right collarbone was on full display. The waistline cinched before flowing naturally over my wide hips without constraint or concealment, accentuating my full hourglass figure completely.

Four years of single motherhood and entrepreneurship had stripped away my timidity and weakness. Now I radiated settled confidence and unmasked professional self-assurance.

The moment the doors opened, the buzzing conversation dipped.

Eyes swept toward me—startled, curious.

"Is that Ruby Caldwell?"

"God, the 'Wild Rose' founder from Instagram! She's even more stunning in person..."

"Look at that cut. Velvet shaping a full figure with that much strength—completely shattering conventional model aesthetics..."