Chapter 4: The Tearing of Dreams
Chapter 4: The Tearing of Dreams
Regina opened the sketchbook as though she were inspecting a defective product.
Not gently.
Not curiously.
But with the casual entitlement of someone who believed everything in her world existed for her judgment.
The leather cover creaked under her fingers.
The spine resisted slightly, worn from years of being handled with care.
That alone seemed to irritate her.
Inside...
Page after page revealed itself.
And for a brief moment—just a fraction of a second—the noise of the ballroom seemed to fade.
Even Regina’s expression shifted.
Because what she saw was not what she expected.
These were not childish doodles.
Not random ideas.
Not amateur sketches.
They were collections.
Concepts.
Visions.
Even without color or fabric, the designs carried weight.
Elegant evening gowns that flowed like liquid architecture.
Dresses structured with mathematical precision, yet softened by organic curves that mimicked petals, wind, and water.
Some pages contained layered watercolor studies of fabric movement—how silk would behave under light, how satin would fold during motion, how beads would catch reflections from chandeliers.
Others were technical.
Measurements.
Draping notes.
Stitch direction annotations written in tiny, precise handwriting along the margins.
Regina turned one page.
Then another.
Her expression remained controlled, but something subtle flickered behind her eyes.
Recognition.
Not admiration.
Not respect.
But awareness.
These were not random sketches.
They belonged to someone who understood design at an instinctive level.
Someone who had studied fashion not in schools...
But in observation.
In silence.
In obsession.
Behind them, several guests who had been passing through the entrance slowed down.
A famous fashion editor, initially uninterested, paused mid-step.
A junior buyer from Milan tilted her head slightly.
Even a celebrity stylist narrowed her eyes.
The atmosphere shifted.
Not loudly.
But noticeably.
Regina sensed it immediately.
And she hated it.
Her grip tightened.
She snapped the book shut halfway, then reopened it aggressively as if trying to force the pages back into submission.
Then she laughed.
Loudly.
Deliberately.
The sound cut through the nearby conversations like a blade.
"Well, look at this," she said, holding the sketchbook up for others to see.
"Our janitor thinks she's a fashion designer."
A few junior executives nearby immediately reacted.
Too quickly.
Too eagerly.
Forced laughter escaped their lips.
One nodded as if agreeing with something profound.
Another smiled too widely, eyes darting toward Regina for approval.
"Very… imaginative," one of them offered weakly.
Regina didn’t even look at them.
She flipped another page.
This time, harder.
The spine bent sharply.
A faint crack sounded from the binding.
Maya flinched.
Barely.
Almost imperceptibly.
Her hands clenched at her sides.
She took one small step forward.
Then stopped herself.
Her voice came out low.
Careful.
Controlled.
"Please… that’s all I have."
Regina finally looked up.
Directly into her eyes.
And what she saw there seemed to amuse her more than anything in the book.
Not defiance.
Not anger.
But fear held together by discipline.
A person trained not to react.
Regina smiled.
Not warmly.
Not humanely.
But like someone about to prove a point.
"You really believe this means something," she said softly.
Maya didn’t answer.
Regina held the gaze for a long second longer than necessary.
Then she made her decision.
Slow.
Intentional.
She tore out one page.
The sound of paper ripping echoed sharply in the marble hall.
A beautiful gown design—one of Maya’s most detailed—was severed cleanly down the center.
A few guests nearby gasped before catching themselves.
Regina didn’t stop.
She ripped out another page.
Then another.
Each tear was deliberate.
Controlled.
Almost rhythmic.
The sketchbook’s spine groaned under the force, old glue and stitching finally giving way.
Pages that had taken hours—sometimes days—to create were reduced to fragments in seconds.
Maya’s breath caught.
Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the book.
Not on Regina.
On the destruction.
On the pieces of herself being destroyed in public.
A memory surfaced uninvited.
Late nights at a dim table.
Her mother sitting nearby sewing torn fabric just so Maya could keep drawing.
"You don’t stop when it matters," her mother had once said.
"You keep going."
But this...
This was different.
Regina suddenly gripped the entire sketchbook with both hands.
And with one violent motion—
She tore it in half.
The sound was loud enough to silence the nearby music for half a beat.
The binding snapped completely.
Pages exploded outward like startled birds.
Charcoal sketches.
Watercolor studies.
Technical diagrams.
Months.
Years.
Dreams.
They fluttered down onto the polished marble floor in slow motion, scattering like dying butterflies across white stone.
For a moment...
No one spoke.
Even the orchestra seemed to hesitate.
Maya stared at the floor.
At her work.
Her fingers trembled slightly at her sides.
But she didn’t move.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t scream.
Something inside her simply went still.
Regina dropped what remained of the leather cover onto the floor.
It landed with a soft, final sound.
She straightened her white suit jacket.
Smoothed an invisible wrinkle.
And then looked down at Maya as though nothing significant had just happened.
"If you want to design clothes," Regina said coldly, her voice carrying just enough for everyone to hear, "try learning how to clean properly first."
A few nervous laughs followed.
Quick.
Uncomfortable.
The kind people make when they don’t know which side they’re supposed to be on.
Maya slowly looked down at the scattered pages.
One of them had landed near her shoe.
A half-finished gown design.
Elegant.
Fragile.
Beautiful.
Her hand twitched slightly.
As if she might reach for it.
But she didn’t.
Instead...
She bent down.
Very slowly.
And picked up a single torn fragment from the marble floor.
She held it in her fingers.
Not tightly.
Not weakly.
Just carefully.
Like it still mattered.
Regina watched her.
Expecting tears.
Expecting collapse.
Expecting confirmation that she had been right.
But Maya didn’t give her either.
She simply stood there.
Surrounded by pieces of herself.
And for the first time that night...
Regina Blake felt something unfamiliar flicker behind her certainty.
Not guilt.
Not empathy.
May you like
Something more dangerous.
Uncertainty.
