Four days to showcase.
The studio lights never turned off anymore. Sleep was a rumor. Ayden hadn't eaten a full meal in 36 hours. His hands ached from pinning, his vision blurred at the edges.
But he wouldn't stop.
Couldn't.
Because everything now rode on the finale gown — a spiraling, asymmetrical storm of crushed velvet, beaded webbing, and delicate stitching meant to shred and mend at once.
It was called: "Resilience."
Ayden stood over it, hours before sunrise. Pin in mouth. Seam ripper in hand.
Something slipped.
His hand jerked.
The velvet tore.
Not a small tear. A vertical gash down the bodice's spine.
Silence.
Then—
"No," Ayden whispered. "No, no, no—"
He dropped the ripper. Staggered back. Chest tight.
Luca jolted awake on the couch, saw the panic.
"Ayden?"
Ayden was already on the floor.
Back against the mannequin. Hands shaking. Breathing shallow.
"It's ruined," he choked. "It's ruined, and the rest is just a mess of panic and shame and guesswork—"
"Ayden—"
"I destroyed everything. I thought I could be brilliant, but I'm not. I'm just scared and fragile and so—damn—tired—"
Luca knelt in front of him. Grabbed his face.
"Ayden, look at me."
Ayden's wild eyes met his.
"You're exhausted. Not broken. You're allowed to fall apart."
"I don't know how to come back from this."
"You don't need to," Luca said. "We will."
Ayden swallowed, breathing ragged. "It was supposed to be perfect."
"It was supposed to be honest. And this? This is the most honest thing we've ever made."
They fixed the tear.
Together.
Not to erase it — but to highlight it.
Luca embroidered silver thread over the rip. Ayden added jagged lace over the seam — not to hide the damage, but to transform it.
The final touch?
A bleeding stitch in red across the collarbone — symbolic. Bold.
Ruinlace wasn't about flawlessness.
It was about surviving the fall.
At dawn, Ayden laid his head in Luca's lap again.
"I hate crying," he whispered.
"I don't," Luca murmured, brushing his hair back. "It means you finally let someone see you."