Warm water cascaded over Mindy’s skin, washing away the exhaustion that had settled deep within her bones. The steam curled softly around her face, blurring the edges of the marble walls and the faint reflection of her own eyes in the mirror.
There were no accusations echoing in her mind, no sarcastic remarks to brace herself against, no need to pretend to smile while swallowing her pain.
When she finally stepped out of the bath nearly twenty minutes later, her damp hair clung loosely to her shoulders. She slipped into an oversized cream sweater and a pair of soft lounge pants, the kind of clothes that asked for nothing but comfort.
This was home. Not the cold, luxurious Knight Penthouse where every corner reminded her she had been an unwanted wife, nor the Hawthorne Mansion where every smile hid another scheme. The Wilson Mansion was different. It was alive. Laughter echoed through its hallways, sunlight spilled freely across its polished floors, and fresh flowers filled every room with color and fragrance.
The servants greeted her warmly each morning, not because she carried a title, but because they genuinely cared for her. Every gesture, every word, every smile here was real.
She walked toward the large bay window beside her bed and curled herself onto the cushioned window seat.
Outside, Rithol City stretched peacefully beneath the afternoon sky. Unlike Greendale, where towering skyscrapers and endless traffic symbolized ambition and power, Rithol felt almost poetic.
The mountains embraced the city from every direction, their peaks dusted with snow that glimmered faintly in the sunlight. Ancient trees swayed gently in the breeze, and a crystal-clear lake reflected the golden light of the setting sun.
The chilly wind drifted through the slightly opened window, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and earth. Mindy closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
"I’ve always loved this breeze," she murmured softly.
"It always calms me."
A small smile appeared on her lips, unbidden but genuine. She hadn’t realized how tense she had been until this very moment.
For six months, she had lived without the constant weight of revenge pressing against her chest. For six months, she had allowed herself to laugh again. She had hiked through the mountains with Wade and Layla, argued playfully with Emma over dessert, and accompanied Jasper to the pharmaceutical laboratories where he still occasionally consulted.
She had spent countless evenings drinking tea while watching the sun dip behind the hills, the sky painted in shades of amber and violet.
These six months had healed something inside her. Not completely—some scars never disappeared—but they no longer bled.
After sitting quietly for several more minutes, Mindy rose from the window seat and crossed the room.
The wall opposite her bed was unlike any ordinary bedroom wall. It had become her personal strategy board, a map of the future she intended to reclaim.
Pinned across it were photographs, company reports, financial charts, design competition schedules, and lists of influential families.
There were names, dates, and connections—threads of information that she had spent countless nights piecing together from memory.
Every opportunity, every betrayal, every mistake from the life she had once lived was recorded here. She had recreated the next eight years of history as she remembered them, determined not to waste this second chance.
Her fingertips brushed lightly against one particular photograph pinned near the center of the board. It was the logo of Rona Design. A cold light flickered in her eyes, sharp and deliberate.
"In two weeks," she whispered, "the National Couture Design Competition."
She remembered it vividly. Last year, Rona Design had been the biggest winner. Missy had stood proudly on stage, holding the championship trophy as the cameras flashed and the audience applauded.
Raymond had watched from the front row, his expression filled with pride.
The newspapers had called Missy the country’s most gifted young designer, the future of fashion, the genius daughter of the Hawthorne family. Mindy’s lips curved into a quiet, humorless laugh.
"Genius?" she murmured.
"You really enjoyed that applause, didn’t you, Missy?
Unfortunately, that design was never yours."
She said nothing more. There was no need to. The truth would reveal itself soon enough.
The memory of that night remained vivid in her mind. Raymond had celebrated Missy’s victory with an extravagant banquet at the Hawthorne Mansion.
The ballroom had been filled with the city’s most influential figures—business magnates, politicians, and celebrities—all eager to congratulate the Hawthorne family’s prodigy.
That same night, Raymond had officially handed complete authority over Rona Design to Missy.
Mindy still remembered standing quietly in the corner, her presence unnoticed, her silence mistaken for humility.
Nobody had asked how she felt.
Nobody had questioned why Missy’s newest designs looked so remarkably different from everything she had produced before.
No one cared enough to notice.
Emily had been managing both StarLight Gallery and Rona Design ever since Maria passed away. Officially, Raymond claimed it was because Emily had worked closely with Maria and understood her vision.
What a joke.
Emily had merely been Maria’s assistant, a woman who had learned to mimic brilliance without ever possessing it.
Everything successful about StarLight and Rona Design had been built upon Maria’s talent. Emily had simply inherited the fruits of another woman’s labor.
Just like Missy. Mother and daughter truly resembled each other—both survived by stealing from others.
Mindy’s gaze shifted to another document pinned beside the photograph. It was the registration list for this year’s competition.
Her eyes scanned the names of the participating companies until they settled on one in particular: LUXT Design.
A faint smile touched her lips.
Five years ago, LUXT had appeared in the fashion industry like a shooting star.
Every collection sold out within minutes, every limited release became the dream of wealthy socialites.
Their gowns had graced the runways of Milan Fashion Week, and international magazines had praised the anonymous chief designer as a once-in-a-generation talent.
The industry had spent years trying to uncover the identity of the creative mind behind those masterpieces, but no one had succeeded.
Mindy’s smile deepened as she looked at the familiar name. "Looks like this year’s competition will be much more interesting," she said softly.
"I’ll take back what belongs to me."
Far away, in Greendale City, the atmosphere inside the Hawthorne Mansion was anything but peaceful. The luxurious design studio was a testament to extravagance—walls lined with imported fabrics, tables covered in gemstones and embroidery patterns, and mannequins draped in half-finished gowns.
The air smelled faintly of perfume and ambition. Emily stood near the center of the room, inspecting a series of sketches laid out across the enormous worktable. Her sharp eyes moved from one design to the next before she finally nodded with satisfaction.
"Is everything ready?" she asked.
Missy sat comfortably on a velvet sofa, her legs crossed elegantly as she admired her freshly painted nails. She didn’t even bother to look up.
"Of course," she said with a confident smile.
"There isn’t anyone in this country who can beat me."
Emily’s lips curved faintly, though a trace of caution lingered in her expression.
"This competition is important," she reminded her daughter. "You mustn’t become careless."
Missy chuckled, her tone dripping with self-assurance. She rose from the sofa and walked toward her personal cabinet.
After unlocking it, she carefully removed several aged sketchbooks. Her lips curved upward as she ran her fingers along the worn covers.
"You worry too much, Mother," she said lightly.
"I already have the winning designs."
She flipped through the pages slowly, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. Each page revealed another masterpiece—elegant evening gowns, intricate wedding dresses, and regal collections fit for royalty.
Every design was breathtaking, every sketch worthy of international recognition. Unfortunately, none of them belonged to her.
Missy caressed the pages as though they were precious treasures.
"She isn’t here anymore," she whispered.
"There won’t be anyone claiming these designs. Just like last year." Her smile widened. "Father will be proud of me again."
Emily watched her daughter quietly. She trusted Missy’s abilities—or rather, she trusted the stolen designs hidden within those sketchbooks. Still, years of scheming had taught her never to underestimate unexpected variables.
"You should remain careful," she said softly. "Success often makes people arrogant."
Missy laughed dismissively. "Mom, I have everything under control."
Just then, her phone vibrated on the table. The screen displayed her assistant’s name—Gina. Missy picked it up lazily.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Miss Hawthorne," Gina’s voice came quickly through the line,
"I’ve gathered the latest information regarding the National Couture Design Competition. I’ve already sent the files. You should check them immediately."
Missy frowned slightly but opened the documents on her tablet. Most of the participating companies were familiar—luxury brands, international labels, long-established fashion houses.
Then her eyes paused on one particular name. LUXT Design. Her confident smile faltered for a brief second.
Even Emily leaned closer.
"They’re participating?" she asked quietly.
Missy’s mind immediately flashed back to the countless discussions she had overheard about LUXT.
The company had only existed for five years, yet its valuation had already surpassed that of many century-old fashion houses.
Their limited collections disappeared from the market within minutes. Socialites fought over waiting lists, celebrities competed to wear their gowns, and even international royalty had been photographed in LUXT designs.
Nobody knew who the chief designer was.
Nobody had ever seen them.
The mystery only amplified the brand’s allure.
Missy remembered the time she had begged Layton to acquire one of LUXT’s exclusive gowns for her birthday. She had imagined herself wearing it to a gala, basking in the envy of every woman in the room. But by the time Knight Enterprises contacted LUXT, every piece had already sold out. The rejection had stung more than she cared to admit.
She clicked her tongue in annoyance and tossed the tablet onto the sofa.
"So what?" she said sharply.
"They’re just another company. My design is already perfect. There isn’t a single person who can beat me."
Emily studied her daughter for a long moment before speaking.
"Arrogance is dangerous." she said quietly.
Missy smiled, unbothered. There wasn’t the slightest hint of worry in her expression. She reached into the drawer once more and pulled out another stack of sketches. Running her fingers across the pages, she smirked.
"No matter who enters," she said softly,
"I’ll still be the one standing on that stage."
Back in Rithol, the late afternoon sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across Mindy’s room.
She stood before her strategy board, her gaze steady and unflinching. The pieces were already in motion.
The competition would begin in two weeks, and the world would soon remember the name Mindy Wilson. She had no intention of hiding anymore.
The first brushstroke of her revenge had already been drawn.