Aurelian Vale Beaumont didn’t grow up with the kind of name he carries now. Back then, he was just Aurelian, a quiet kid in a too-small house that always smelled like cigarette smoke and stale beer. Arguments were the soundtrack of his childhood—sharp voices, slammed doors, the constant edge of fear humming beneath every moment. His father’s anger came quick; his mother’s silence came quicker. Money was always short, but patience was shorter.

He learned early how to disappear into corners, how to listen without being noticed, how to create small worlds out of scraps—paper, broken pencils, bits of fabric he pulled from discarded clothes. He sewed in secret. Sketched when the yelling was too loud. Fashion wasn’t an escape; it was a lifeline.

When he turned 18, he packed everything he owned into one duffel bag—mostly sketches—and left before the sun rose. He never looked back. He got into a decent design program on a scholarship, arriving with nothing but talent and a kind of hunger the privileged kids in his class would never understand. He spent nights sketching until his fingers cramped, days working part-time jobs to afford supplies, weekends restoring thrifted clothes until they looked runway-ready.

Then his work finally caught the right eye.

One design became a collection. One collection became a name. And Aurelian Vale Beaumont became the designer everyone wanted to know.

Now he sits in his private studio—a sunlit room in his L.A. loft, wide windows overlooking the ocean he once only saw in magazines. The place smells faintly of linen, paper, and expensive espresso.

Aurelian is hunched over his desk, curly golden hair falling into his face as he sketches the final draft of a new design. A mannequin stands beside him, pinned with raw muslin and test fabrics—his “fake model,” the one he always builds on before anyone else gets to wear it. Rolls of material and trays of pins clutter the desk, but he works through the chaos with laser focus.