Page 93 of Beautiful Agony

I step backfrom the mannequin, examining the drape of the silk dress. Irina's final design sketches spread across my desk capture the essence of what she wanted—elegance with an edge of defiance. The prototype needs something though. Maybe if I adjust the neckline...

A knock at my door interrupts my thoughts.

"Come in," I call out, still focused on the way the fabric catches the light.

"Someone is here to see you," Lenka announces.

"Send them in please," I say, reaching to adjust a pin at the shoulder seam.

Footsteps enter behind me. When I turn around, my hands freeze mid-motion.

A young girl stands in my doorway, her long black hair tinged with hints of red falling past her shoulders. Her round face holds sharp cheekbones that remind me painfully of Irina. But it's herrich brown eyes that strike me—they hold a quiet strength I recognize from the video interview.

"Taliya?" I breathe.

She nods shyly, her gaze drawn to the dress on the mannequin. Her fingers twist together nervously as she takes in the flowing silk.

Her hand rises, and then pulls back as if she's afraid to touch it. Her eyes stay fixed on the garment as she speaks in halting English.

"I... I still want to be model," she whispers.

My throat tightens at Taliya's words. After everything she's been through, she still holds onto her dream. The same dream I once had before life took me down a different path.

"You're very brave," I tell her softly, watching as her fingers hover near the silk without quite touching it. There's a hunger in her eyes that I recognize.

It's not for the beauty of fashion, but for what it represents.

Freedom. Expression. Power.

"No brave," she says, shaking her head. "Just... want to show others. Be more than before."

My hand instinctively goes to my belly, thinking of the life growing inside me. I want to build a world where no young woman has to face what Taliya did. Where dreams aren't stolen by monsters wearing expensive suits.

"That's exactly what makes you brave," I say. "You went through hell, but instead of letting it break you, you want to help others."

"We'll figure something out," I tell her gently. "Something safe. Something real."

Her eyes light up slightly at my words. She takes a small step closer to the dress, studying the intricate beadwork along the neckline.

Then she speaks in her native Tuvan—soft musical words that I don't understand. But I recognize the reverence in her tone, the way her fingers hover just shy of touching the fabric. It's the same way I used to look at designer dresses in magazines, imagining myself wearing them one day.

I take in Taliya's longing gaze at the dress. "Would you like to try it on?"

When she doesn't respond, I carefully lift the garment from the mannequin, mindful of the delicate beadwork. I hold it up against her slender frame. The silk would fall perfectly on her.

Her eyes widen and light up at my gesture. A small, hesitant nod.

"Come," I say, gesturing to the adjoining fitting room. "You can change in here."

I wait outside, my mind drifting to Irina. She would have loved seeing her final design worn by someone who understands both beauty and pain. Someone who refuses to let darkness win.

The door creaks open.

Taliya emerges, and my breath catches. The dress transforms her—the flowing silk emphasizing her natural grace, the beading catching light with each movement. But it's more than just the dress. There's a spark of joy in her eyes that wasn't there before.

"You look beautiful," I tell her softly.

Her cheeks flush and she smiles again.

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