And when customers said, "Hey, you look familiar," she smiled and said, "I just have one of those faces."
These past months were nightmare for Venessa, after the engagement was called, and everything went down the drain, the Ellison family for the last time sat together to discuss to their futures.
Jane had been the first to implode, unexpectedly, agreeing to help pay for Megan's tuition fee and thing her under wings along side the three daughters has. "Just the tuition, not the therapy bills," she had said, half-joking. Venessa still hadn't decided whether to laugh or scream.
Laila, offered to cover the twins' school fees—Dina and Davis, sweet nine-year-olds caught in the crossfire of adult failure—but didn't want to "interfere with their upbringing," as if they were delicate plants she could only water from afar. The idea of her nine-year-old sisters being raised in Laila's world of late-night parties and questionable life choices was unthinkable.
That left them with Venessa to raise and care. But how?
No one covered her. No one offered to help her finish the design course she'd worked blood, sweat, and Gucci tears to get into. Why would they? After all, her own fiancé had dumped her in the most Shakespearean of ways—publicly, dramatically, and at their joint engagement party.
With her course unpaid, dreams dashed, and public dignity strip-searched.Venessa's last hope of scraping together enough to save her design course had officially died last week. And today, with all the grace of a final nail in the coffin, she was summoned to sign the formal dropout papers—an elegant way of branding her a failure in cursive and take the tag of dropped out and rolled up her sleeves. She had no degree, no experience, and no clue what a timecard was. Her resume looked like a trust fund obituary. Still, she pressed on.
"Vanessa! Focus!" The café manager snapped his fingers as if she were a misbehaving puppy.
"Sorry. Zoned out."
"You're supposed to steam milk, not boil it. That's a latte, not a lava lamp."
She nodded, muttering apologies as she fixed the order. Her nails were chipped, her shoes had holes in the soles, and her back hurt in ways that made her miss her old orthopaedic mattress like an ex. The old Venessa would've sued for emotional trauma. The new Venessa just added whipped cream and powered through.
Break came like a gift from above.
Burnt dreams and broken pride. That's what the café smelled like to her. But maybe that was just her soul steeping in slow despair.
"Afternoon, Venessa. You look... awake," a familiar voice called, dragging her out of her reverie.
She turned to find Dave, one of the regulars, smiling in that way people did when they didn't want to ask how you really were.
"Thanks, Dave. You too. That eye twitch you've got going on makes you look dangerously caffeinated," she replied with a brightness she didn't feel, layering sarcasm like highlighter on tired cheekbones. She had nothing left to sell the world but charm, and she applied it liberally—it was more affordable than makeup, and more convincing than admitting she was exhausted.
Venessa had just come off a backbreaking shift at Belle Amour Beauty, where she'd spent her time scrubbing grime from grout with a toothbrush, her fingers aching in ways they never had during her design school days. She'd traded sketchpads for sponges, fabrics for floors, and now stood here for another six hours, pouring overpriced coffee for the sleep-deprived and the indifferent.
Caffeine no longer sustained her—it merely delayed the inevitable. What she really craved couldn't be found on a menu. A miracle. A way back. Or maybe just one day that didn't end in bone-deep exhaustion and aching silence.
At 2:47 PM.
If she left now, she could make it to Montecielle before the administration office closed.
She took a breath, then approached Margo, the café manager, a woman who wore her superiority complex like Chanel No. 5—heavy and suffocating.
"Marg—ahem—Ms. Duvall?" Venessa caught herself. Manners mattered here. Manners mattered everywhere when you were disposable.
Margo didn't look up from the inventory sheet. "If you're asking for another break, Ellison, the answer's no. You just had one at noon."
"It's not a break." Venessa's fingers twisted the hem of her apron. "I need to leave early. Just an hour. Personal matter."
That got Margo's attention. A penciled eyebrow arched. "Personal matter?" The way she said it made it sound like a euphemism for something illicit.
Venessa straightened. Shoulders back. Chin up. "I have to go to my—" College. The word lodged in her throat. She couldn't say it. Not here. Not like this. "An appointment."
Margo's lips pursed. "You know the policy. Early leave cuts into your pay. And we're short-staffed."
Venessa's stomach knotted. She needed that pay. Every cent was earmarked—rent, groceries, the twins' school supplies.
But she needed to do this.
"I'll stay late tomorrow," she offered. "Or cover the Sunday shift."
Margo sighed, as if Venessa were asking for a yacht instead of sixty minutes. "Fine. But clock out properly. No sneaking off like last time."
Last time, Venessa had sprinted to Dina's school play mid-shift, still smelling of caramel syrup.
"For sure, Thank you," she murmured, already untying her apron.
....
Venessa stood in front of the carved oak doors of the Montecielle Institute of Design, the same way someone stands in front of a childhood home before it's bulldozed.
The winter air was brittle. Her gloves were thin. She used to wear mink-lined cashmere.
Six months ago, she had stepped through these doors in Valentino pumps, swiping her platinum ID badge with the entitlement of someone who had never known the word "no." She remembered how the marble floors echoed under her heels. How the halls smelled like jasmine and pencil shavings. Inspiration in the air.
Today, she entered with her head low and her shoes damp from a half-hour bus ride. No car. No chauffeur. No umbrella. Her ID card still clung to her lanyard like a forgotten relic, but her name had already started fading in the student directory.
Her fingers tightened around the letter she'd printed at the cafe between shifts.
Subject: Voluntary Withdrawal – Financial Reason.
Venessa Ellison. Former top-tier design student. Once the girl professors whispered about: raw talent,an eye for luxury,her mother must've been in couture.
They didn't know, she had a step-mom who cared more about Botox appointments than birthdays. And after the Ellison empire crumbled, her stepmother disappeared into silence, leaving behind a hollow wardrobe and enough perfume samples to fill a drawer.