Morning sunlight cut through my office blinds. It was sharp and cold. The memory of Kai kneeling in the dirty rain felt like a lifetime ago. My phone buzzed on the glass desk. An unknown number flashed on the screen. I answered it.
"Amari."
The voice was low and steady. I knew it instantly. Leon Cunningham. He was the illegitimate son of the Webb family. He existed in the shadows, but he saw everything.
"Leon," I replied. "It’s been a long time."
"Not long enough for them," he said. His tone was calm, but I heard the steel underneath. "I have Arthur Webb’s financial records. Offshore accounts. Embezzled funds. Everything they built on your father's stolen work."
I gripped the phone. My knuckles turned white. The old anger flared in my chest, but I pushed it down. "Why give this to me?"
"Because paper trails only do so much," Leon said. "You have the public platform. You have the spotlight. I have the matches. You have the gasoline."
I looked out the window at the New York skyline. "You want to burn your own bloodline down?"
"They are not my family," he said softly. "They are a disease. Let's work together, Amari."
I didn't hesitate. "Send the files."
"Done," he said. "Welcome back."
I hung up. A cold thrill ran through my veins. The game was finally starting.
Two days later, it was New York Fashion Week. The backstage area was a madhouse. Tall models rushed past in half-finished outfits. Makeup artists shouted for more powder. Racks of clothes clattered loudly against the concrete floor. The air was thick with hairspray and nervous sweat.
I stood in the shadows near my private dressing area. I wore a sharp white suit. I liked to watch the chaos from a distance. It kept my mind clear.
A girl in a black headset hurried out of my dressing room. She kept her head down. Her hands were shaking badly. She bumped into a rack of shoes and kept walking.
I recognized her instantly. It was Chloe Davis, Hazel’s personal assistant.
I narrowed my eyes. My pulse stayed perfectly even. I walked into the room. It was empty. My showpiece gown hung on the center rack under a bright bulb. It was a stunning emerald silk dress. It took me three weeks to bead the bodice by hand.
I stepped closer. I ran my fingers down the side of the dress. The fabric felt wrong. Right at the waistline, the heavy seam was sliced. It hung by a single, fragile black thread.
Chloe had cut it.
A normal designer would panic. They would scream for a tailor and delay the show. I didn't. I stared at the torn thread. I felt a dark, cold amusement. Hazel was so predictable. She wanted to play the victim. She wanted a scandal to ruin my comeback.
I decided to give her exactly what she wanted.
"Leave it," I whispered to myself. I didn't touch the thread. I turned around and walked out.
The music pounded through the venue. The heavy bass vibrated in my chest. I stood in the dark wings, watching the bright runway.
The front row was packed with celebrities, critics, and press. Hazel Webb sat right in the center. She wore a bright red dress to make sure everyone looked at her. Her makeup was flawless. She smiled for the cameras, looking like a perfect, innocent angel.
"Finale," the stage manager hissed through his headset.
My lead model stepped onto the runway. She wore the emerald silk gown. The spotlights hit her instantly. The rich fabric shimmered like glass. She walked with fierce, heavy strides.
With every step, the sliced seam pulled tighter.
Halfway down the runway, it snapped.
The sound was lost in the music, but the visual was loud. The silk split open. The dress gaped at the waist, exposing the model's bare hip and undergarments.
The crowd gasped as one. The music seemed to fade into the background.
Hazel jumped up from her front-row seat. She pressed both hands to her mouth. Her eyes went wide in fake horror.
"Oh my god!" Hazel cried out. Her voice was shrill and loud. It carried perfectly over the bass.
Cameras pivoted instantly. Flashes exploded around her like lightning.
"I can't believe this!" Hazel sobbed loudly. She squeezed out two perfect tears. They rolled down her cheeks. "Amari sent a defective dress! She did this on purpose to humiliate the show! To humiliate me!"
Whispers erupted through the crowd. People pointed at the stage. The model froze, looking terrified. The whole room turned against me in seconds.
Hazel wiped her eyes, playing the tragic heroine. She looked so fragile. So deeply hurt.
I stood in the dark wing. I didn't flinch. I just watched her fake tears catch the light. Six years ago, her lies destroyed my life. I used to cry and beg people to believe me while she smiled. Now, I just watched her dig her own grave.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Leon.
Files secured. Security footage from your dressing room is ready.
I looked at Hazel’s crying face. My lips curled into a slow, cold smile.
Let her cry, I thought. The real show hasn't even started.
