~{Chapter 13} Round Two~
The final round was scheduled for six months later.
Six months to refine. To perfect. To prove we deserved first place.
Six months of hell.
The morning after the results announcement, I arrived at Sĩrĩ Navari headquarters at 6 AM.
My team wasn't expecting me until nine, but I needed to work. I needed to focus. Needed something to do besides think about her.
I spread the competition guidelines across my desk and studied them carefully.
The final round was different from the preliminaries. Instead of a single piece, each finalist had to present a complete collection, five pieces that demonstrated mastery, innovation, and commercial viability.
Five pieces in six months.
It was ambitious. Aggressive, even.
But we could do it.
We had to.
I pulled out a blank notebook and started sketching.
My team arrived at nine to find my office covered in designs.
"Ms. Chantasiri?"
My lead designer stood in the doorway, looking concerned.
"How long have you been here?"
"Doesn't matter."
I gestured to the sketches spread across every surface.
"I want to pivot our approach for the finals."
She stepped closer, studying the drawings. "
These are... different."
"Phimrada Lavandin was beautiful,"
I said.
"But safe. Traditional with a modern twist. That's what got us second place."
I picked up one of the sketches, a necklace design that incorporated traditional Thai elements but pushed them further, bolder.
"For the finals, we're taking risks,"
I continued.
"I want pieces that make people uncomfortable. That challenges what they think luxury should be."
My lead designer looked uncertain.
"Did the chairman approve this direction?"
"He will,"
I said firmly.
"Call the team. Emergency meeting in thirty minutes."
The meeting lasted four hours.
I presented my vision: a collection that honored Thai heritage while completely reimagining it. Traditional techniques pushed to their absolute limits. Materials no one had attempted to combine before. Designs that walked the line between wearable art and pure statement.
Some of my team looked excited.
Others looked terrified.
"This is... very ambitious, Ms. Chantasiri,"
one of the senior craftsmen said carefully.
"The technical challenges alone—"
"Are exactly why we're doing it,"
I cut in.
"Chai Luxury Atelier won first place because they played it safe and executed perfectly. If we want to beat them, we can't just match their level. We have to exceed it."
"But the risks—"
"Is necessary,"
I said.
"We have six months. I know we can do this."
I looked around the room, meeting each person's eyes.
"I need everyone fully committed,"
I said.
"This will be the hardest six months of your careers. Long hours. Constant iteration. No guarantees. But if we pull this off..."
I paused.
"We won't just win. We'll make history."
Long silence.
Then my lead designer stood up.
"I'm in," she said.
One by one, the rest of the team followed.
That evening, I was summoned to my father's office.
He sat behind his desk, reviewing the proposal I'd sent earlier.
When I entered, he didn't look up.
He simply just signaled for me to sit.
I did.
He continued reading for another full minute. He read it again. Then again. Then slower. After some minutes he removed his glasses and set them on the desk.
"This,"
he said at last, tapping the folder,
"is not a refinement."
"It isn't meant to be," I replied.
He leaned back in his chair.
"Kamaya, this proposal abandons every pattern that has historically brought Sĩrĩ Navari success."
"It doesn't abandon them, it evolves them."
"No."
His tone was firm, not angry.
"It rejects them."
He stood and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back.
"You are proposing techniques that double production time,"
he continued.
"Materials that require custom sourcing. Artisans who will need months of work. And designs that—"
he turned to face me,
"—do not follow current market behavior."
I stayed quiet.
Luxury, he had taught me, was not about art alone.
It was about control.
Predictability.
Risk calculated down to the smallest decimal.
"This collection,"
he went on,
"cannot be mass-produced. It cannot be scaled quickly. And it does not align with consumer data."
He paused.
"Do you know what that means?"
"It means it's expensive,"
I said.
"And unfamiliar, it means limited editions, it means true luxury."
"It means,"
he corrected,
"that it is a liability."
I met his gaze.
"It means first of its kind. It means place."
Silence stretched between us.
"You are letting emotion drive this,"
he said finally.
"I'm letting vision drive it."
"Vision without feasibility is delusion."
I took a breath.
"With respect, sir, that's not true. The feasibility exists. It just doesn't fit into our current comfort zone."
He shook his head.
"You're asking the company to fund a gamble."
"I'm asking the company to invest into a new future."
He returned to his desk and sat down.
"Kamaya,"
he said carefully,
"second place is not good enough, but it secures us prestige. Stability. Growth."
"But first place redefines us,"
I replied.
He exhaled slowly.
"And what happens if the judges disagree?"
"Then we lose."
The word hung in the air.
"And you're prepared to accept that outcome?"
he asked.
"I am,"
I said.
"Because safe success isn't success anymore. It's stagnation. The industry has been doing the same thing for years now, I think it's time we switch things up."
Another pause.
"You understand,"
he said,
"that creating this collection will require funds far beyond the current competition allocation."
"I do, sir."
"Significantly beyond."
"I know."
He studied me for a long moment.
"Very well,"
he said at last.
"Sĩrĩ Navari cannot and will not absorb that cost."
My chest tightened, but I didn't interrupt.
"If you believe in this vision,"
he continued,
"then you will have to convince others to believe in it too."
I straightened.
"You want external investors."
"Yes."
He slid the folder back toward me.
"Secure the funding. Prove there is confidence beyond this building."
"And if I can't?"
"Then we proceed with a safer collection, and you'll be held accountable for any damages."
I met his eyes. He wasn't playing around, he was dead serious. I took in a deep breath, picked up the files and excused myself.
The first investor meeting lasted forty minutes.
They praised my presentation.
The craftsmanship.
The ambition.
Then—declined.
"This isn't commercially realistic,"
they said.
The second meeting was shorter.
"Impressive,"
the investor admitted.
"But too risky."
The third smiled sympathetically.
"Luxury buyers aren't ready for this."
The fourth didn't bother pretending.
"This is art," he said. "Not a business strategy."
I adjusted projections. Refined slides. Reframed language.
The answer stayed the same.
Too bold.
Too expensive.
Too uncertain.
By the sixth rejection, my confidence had dulled at the edges.
By the seventh, it hurt.
By the eight, I stopped being surprised.
Each no, landed heavier than the last, not because I disagreed, but because I understood them.
They weren't wrong.
They just weren't brave.
The ninth investor meeting ended the same way the others had.
Polite interest.
Careful questions.
A soft, apologetic no.
By the time I rounded up with the tenth meeting and stepped out of the building, the sky had already darkened. Bangkok's lights flickered on one by one, glittering and indifferent. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, folder clutched in my hand, and realized I didn't want to go home.
I didn't want to think. Not right now.
So I walked.
I ended up at a bar I barely remember choosing. Dim, tucked between two louder establishments, the kind of place people went to disappear for a while. The music was low. The lights were soft and calming.
I ordered one shot of whiskey.
Then another.
Then something I didn't remember asking for.
The edge in my chest dulled. Not gone. Just quieter.
I sat at the bar, elbows on the counter, staring into my glass like it might offer answers. The world softened around the edges. Sounds blurred. Thoughts slowed.
Then out of nowhere, I felt it.
A presence.
Someone close behind me.
Too close.
I frowned, turning slightly, irritated, ready to ask them to move.
And then my vision swam.
At first, all I saw was a shape. Dark hair. A familiar silhouette that made my chest tighten before my mind could catch up.
I shook my head.
Then blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The room tilted, then steadied.
The blur sharpened.
And my heart stopped.
Liya.
She stood there, just behind me, close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something clean. Familiar. The same scent that had lived in my memory for four years. I let out a shaky laugh.
I stared at her.
She stared back.
I didn't speak. I couldn't. My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
For a second, I genuinely wondered if I'd imagined her. If this was my mind finally breaking under the weight of exhaustion and alcohol coupled with years of desperate yearning.
But she didn't fade.
She didn't blink away.
Her expression was calm. Neutral. Composed in a way that made my heart drop.
She wasn't surprised.
Not even a little.
As if she'd known it was me sitting there.
And decided to come over anyway.
My vision cleared completely, then the alcohol fog lifted just enough to leave me fully, painfully aware.
This was real.
She was real.
Here.
Now.
I swallowed hard.
"Liya..."
The word came out rough, barely a sound.
She didn't answer right away.
She just looked at me. Took me in. The blazer discarded on the stool beside me. The loosened hair. The glass in my hand.
Then, softly,
"You shouldn't be drinking alone."
That broke something in me.
My chest tightened so fast it hurt.
"I—" I stopped. Tried again.
"I thought—I thought I was seeing things."
She was quiet for a moment, then gestured toward the empty stool beside me.
"Can I sit?"
I nodded.
She sat.
Close.
"A glass of diluted bourbon please."
She aid to the bartender. I laughed weakly, shaking my head.
"I must be more drunk than I thought."
She glanced at me. Her gaze gentle.
"And that's not safe."
I turned to look at her. To really look at her. The curve of her jaw.
The faint tiredness around her eyes.
The way she still held herself like she was bracing for impact.
Silence wrapped around us.
The music continued. Glasses clinked. Life behind us went on seamlessly.
And I sat there, staring at the woman who had ruined me and saved me and left me all at once.
"I don't know what to say,"
I whispered.
"You don't have to say anything,"
Liya replied.
She paused.
"Let's just drink."
Something instantly burned in my chest. My throat went dry. My head felt light. My hands trembled. I felt like I going to throw up.
"I can't do this, not right now."
I said quietly. Liya didn't say anything. I exhaled deeply
"It's getting later. If you'll excuse me."
I stood up and walked out. I could've sworn I felt her coming behind me, but the footsteps halted. I stopped a cab and hopped in. I didn't look back, I didn't want to look at her.
The cab pulled away, and I pressed my forehead against the cool window, trying to steady my breathing.
My phone buzzed.
I pulled it out, expecting my team. Or my father. Or another investor rejection.
It wasn't either of those.
It was my mother.