The heels hurt.
Arielle reminded herself for the fifth time that pain meant progress. Or maybe that was just something Vera said to excuse verbal abuse.
The glass-walled office of Maison Durnay loomed above her like a shrine—white marble floors, minimalist gold fixtures, and fashion so expensive the price tags might as well come with non-disclosure agreements. She checked her reflection in the mirrored elevator walls for the tenth time. Lipstick? Matte. Hair? Sleek. Dress? Perfect. Fear? Hidden.
"Smile," she told herself under her breath. "You're one of them."
The elevator dinged.
Vera's assistant, a pixie-haired girl who dressed like a mourning bird, looked up from her desk. "You're late," she said without looking at the clock.
"I'm five minutes early."
"And yet, Vera's been here ten."
Arielle didn't respond. She walked past, her stilettos slicing the silence like accusations.
Inside the main design studio, the walls were lined with mannequins in various states of undress—draped in organza, tulle, and silent judgment. Assistants zipped around like bees, heads down, mouths shut. At the far end stood Vera Durnay, the fashion world's oracle, wrapped in black like grief itself. Her sharp bob cut could slice fabric, and her eyes were knives.
"You added a pleat," Vera said, not looking up from a sketch Arielle had revised at 3 a.m.
"I thought it needed more movement."
"You thought wrong." She pushed the sketch aside like it offended her.
Arielle swallowed hard. "The client liked it."
Vera finally looked up. "Clients are sheep. We don't take inspiration from the herd."
She took a step closer, her perfume somehow both sweet and suffocating. "Tell me something, Arielle—do you know why you're still here?"
Arielle blinked. "Because I work hard."
"No." Vera smiled, all teeth. "Because your taste is exquisite and your self-worth is non-existent. You're a designer's dream."
The words struck like a slap, but Arielle didn't flinch. She knew the rule: don't react. Wear it like silk.
That night, she walked home past glowing shop windows filled with outfits she couldn't afford even with her employee discount. She paused at one—an emerald gown she'd designed, now displayed under spotlights and labeled "Vera Durnay Collection."
Her name was never mentioned.
But maybe, one day, that would change.
She pressed a hand to the cold glass, her reflection staring back at her in thousand-dollar fabric and knockoff confidence.
"I'm one of them," she whispered again.
But the lie never seemed to fit quite right.
Arielle's apartment was a contradiction: a tiny walk-up in the Lower East Side, cluttered with secondhand furniture and priceless sketches taped to the walls like museum pieces. Her closet was a curated illusion—labels she couldn't afford, scavenged from clearance bins, thrifted stores, and one or two she'd stolen from the office sample rack when no one was looking.
The only luxury item she actually owned was a vintage Chloé jacket passed down by her mother. It smelled faintly of Chanel No. 5 and desperation.
She tossed her bag on the couch, kicked off her heels, and collapsed in front of her sewing machine. It had scratches, the needle stuttered on thick seams, but it was hers. Unlike everything else.
Tonight, she wasn't stitching for Maison Durnay. Tonight, she was making something for herself.
A long silk scrap, deep crimson, lay across the table. Her fingers traced it automatically. She didn't even sketch first anymore—her mind designed faster than her pencil could follow.
As the machine whirred, the weight of the day melted away. The insults, the power games, the fakeness of it all—gone. In this tiny corner of the world, she controlled the fabric. Not the other way around.
She pinned the last dart when her phone buzzed.
No Caller ID.
She considered ignoring it, but curiosity always won.
"Hello?"
"You looked tired today," came a smooth, unfamiliar voice.
Her blood ran cold. "Who is this?"
"Someone who sees more than Vera does."
"I don't know what that means, but I'm hanging up—"
"Arielle. Don't." The voice was soft now. "You want out. You just don't know how yet."
Silence.
"Check your email," the caller said. "Tonight."
Click.
She stared at the phone like it might bite her. Then, trembling slightly, she opened her laptop.
One new message.
No sender. No subject.
She clicked.
Inside: a photo of Vera's office—taken from an angle only someone inside the company could have captured. In it, Vera smiled warmly at a man Arielle had never seen before. A man wearing a De Vraque watch—the kind reserved for the ultra-elite. A competitor. One known for stealing ideas, destroying designers, and devouring reputations.
Attached was a file.
"THE DURNAY FILES – TRADE SECRETS & BLACKLISTS"
And a single sentence:
"Still want to be one of them?"
Arielle sat back in her chair, the glow of the screen lighting her face like a stage spotlight.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
She didn't know it yet, but this was the moment the fabric of her life would begin to unravel—and a new identity would start to take shape.
Not just a designer.
Not just a survivor.
But something sharper.
Something stitched in secrets, ambition… and revenge.
Arielle didn't sleep that night.
The file sat open on her screen like a ticking bomb. Page after page revealed ugly truths: designer names blacklisted for speaking up, interns silenced after accusations, sketchbooks stolen and paraded as Vera's own designs.
Maison Durnay wasn't just toxic—it was predatory.
She wasn't just chasing a dream. She was surviving a game designed to break women like her.
By morning, her stomach was in knots, but her hands moved with purpose. She dressed herself like armor—black slacks, cropped cream jacket, oversized sunglasses. All confidence. All lie.
When she stepped into the Durnay building, it was like nothing had changed. The receptionist still avoided eye contact. The assistants still side-eyed her outfit. The elevator still groaned like it hated her.
But this time, Arielle wasn't shrinking.
She was watching.
When she entered the design floor, Vera's voice sliced through the air like scissors. "Arielle, coffee. I've been waiting ten minutes. Or did the interns become deaf overnight?"
Arielle smiled. "Of course."
As she turned to leave, she heard Vera mutter to the man beside her—"No creativity, that one. No spine, either."
The man chuckled.
But Arielle wasn't listening anymore. Her eyes had locked on his wrist: the same De Vraque watch. The same man from the photo.
Her heart kicked.
So they were working together. Or maybe Vera was being played too.
She returned with the coffee but added an extra shot of espresso—bitter enough to leave a mark—and placed it silently on Vera's desk. Then, before Vera could speak again, Arielle placed a folder next to the cup.
Inside: three designs. Original, bold, nothing like the brand's recent line.
Vera glanced at them, unimpressed. "We're not doing haute-bohemian this quarter."
"They're not for you," Arielle said quietly.
Vera raised an eyebrow. "Then why are they on my desk?"
"Because I want to know how long it takes before they end up in your next showcase," Arielle said. Her tone was sweet. Lethal.
Vera's face hardened. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Arielle replied. "Let's see who the real designer is this season."
Then she walked out, heels clacking like a war drum.
She didn't quit.
Not yet.
But the countdown had begun.
⸻
Later That Night…
Arielle's email dinged again.
This time, a name appeared:
JONAS
Subject: We're watching now. Ready when you are.
Attached: a fashion week invitation.
Not Durnay. Not mainstream.
Underground. Radical. Real.
"Come design with wolves, not sheep."
Arielle stared at it, then smiled. For the first time, she wasn't dreaming of being part of their world.
She was planning to burn it down.