"Jesus! Stacey!" Alina rasped, clutching the side of the seat as she whipped her head back to check behind them. Cars whooshed past dangerously close. Stacey had slammed the brakes right in the middle of the highway. The actual highway. Her heart thudded violently, her breath rattling in her lungs. Stacey was dramatic, yes—but this? This was borderline suicide.
"Move the car, you crazy bitch!" Alina snapped, voice trembling between fear and disbelief.
Stacey, unfazed, stepped on the accelerator—but only enough to crawl forward like a suspicious snail.
"You don't mean that, do you?" she asked, her tone eerily calm despite the chaos they were trapped in. "About being married."
Before Alina could answer, a car sped past, the driver hanging halfway out the window.
"Get off the road, pussy!!"
"You too, bastard!" Stacey retaliated at full volume, flipping him off with expert precision.
Alina covered her face with both palms. She prayed—genuinely prayed—that they would reach Stacey's apartment without anyone dying, screaming, or getting reported to the authorities.
She checked her phone. 11:47 a.m.
Kelvin closed from school at 4 p.m., and she still needed to visit the grocery store. And now, she had a meddling best friend ready to pry open Pandora's box.
"We are going to talk when we get to my apartment, Alina," Stacey declared, eyes narrowed. "When did you get married, how it happened, and who the idiot is. You're telling me everything."
Alina shifted uncomfortably, turning to stare out the window. The scenery blurred past, cold air brushing the glass as if trying to soothe her frayed nerves. How would Stacey react if she said—
"It's a contract marriage."
The words slipped out before her brain could clamp down on them. She froze. Dear God. She said that out loud.
Her heart pounded inside her ribs like it was trying to escape. Why did her mouth betray her now? Why today?
Silence blanketed the car… until Stacey let out a soft, incredulous chuckle.
Of course. Stacey always laughed when things got too serious, as though humor was her way of keeping the world from collapsing.
"He's a big wig, isn't he? Like those romance books I hoard on my shelves," she teased, glancing at Alina's reddening face.
"Yes, and this is not fiction—" Alina started, but Stacey cut in, firm.
"Always being pessimistic, Alina. It's bad for you."
Then her tone softened, her concern no longer masked.
"Do you like him? Does he treat you well?" Stacey pressed. "Because if he doesn't, I swear—I'll tell my boyfriend to punch his damn face in."
The protectiveness in her voice warmed Alina's chest.
"I–I–don't like him!" she stuttered, cheeks flushing hot. "He cares too much, which I find suspicious." She exhaled shakily. "People don't just… care like that."
"Yes you do, Alina." Stacey smirked, taking a slow turn into another lane. "I've never seen you blush when talking about a man."
She poked again.
"He's hot?"
"That… he is," Alina admitted, rubbing her nose as images of Damian's face tried pushing their way to the forefront of her mind. His eyes. His voice. The way he leaned in a little too close sometimes. Damn it.
The rest of the ride was quiet, heavy with thoughts Alina refused to acknowledge.
Stacey's apartment complex came into view—modern, clean, and surprisingly serene compared to her chaotic driving.
"If you're having a hard time, you can always talk to me," Stacey said gently as she parked. "I know you don't like asking for help, but I'm here. Really here. And I mean it, Alina."
Alina nodded. A soft, grateful smile tugged at her lips.
"I will, Stacey."
"Good girl." Stacey bumped their shoulders playfully and led the way.
But Alina hesitated.
Her boyfriend was inside. And from the look of the Rolls Royce earlier, he was—well—wealthy. Possibly intimidating. She didn't want to intrude.
Inside, the apartment smelled faintly of warm vanilla. The living room looked even more elegant than the last time she visited—gray couches, a polished glass table, a mounted TV, stylish lamps, and freshly arranged flowers. Everything felt… upgraded.
"You weren't answering your calls, Stacey," a smooth male voice drifted from the hallway. A tall silhouette appeared. Probably where Stacey stored Alina's things.
"I was with my friend I haven't seen for a while. You get worried about every little thing, Tony," Stacey groaned.
Alina awkwardly stood near the entrance, small as a lost kitten.
Stacey rolled her eyes dramatically.
"You can sit down, Alina. It's not your first time here."
The cardboard box was set on the table. Alina hurried forward and opened it—her breath loosening. Her designs were all intact. Every sheet. Every sketch. Safe.
"Thank you, Stacey. I really appreciate it," Alina said with a soft smile, clutching the box like a lifeline. "We'll catch up sometime when I'm free, okay?"
Stacey nodded and walked her to the door.
"I'll be expecting you. Now go, before you're late."
Alina waved and exited—unaware of the storm that would brew the moment the door shut.
The smile on Stacey's lips dropped instantly. Her expression darkened, eyes locking onto the post glowing on her phone screen. Someone had written hateful comments about Alina. Horrible ones. And internet strangers—stupid, faceless, useless strangers—were eating it up.
"Who the hell is targeting her?" Stacey muttered, anger bubbling under her skin.
Warm arms slid around her waist. Tony rested his chin against her shoulder, his deep brown hair brushing her.
"I don't like seeing my woman upset," he murmured. "Want me to do something about the post?"
"I want it off the internet. Completely. If you can identify the poster, I'll sue them."
"If it pleases you, milady," he murmured with a teasing grin.
***
Alina stood in front of the ten-storey building of Soléne Couture, her hands gripping the box tightly. The structure towered above her, glass shimmering like a dream she was terrified to touch. She inhaled deeply, summoning courage, and stepped inside.
A receptionist sat at the front desk, lazily chewing bubble gum. Alina rushed toward her, trying not to make eye contact with anyone else.
"I have an appointment with the Director," she said nervously.
The receptionist looked her up and down—slowly, thoroughly, like she was scanning for a hidden flaw.
"You can't meet the Director. Where's your appointment?" she asked flatly. "Name's Kelly."
"Ah—Alina," she replied, shaking her hand shyly. "Here." She handed over her old phone, cheeks heating in embarrassment. The screen was cracked. The brightness flickered. But Kelly didn't seem to care.
As Kelly read the email, her posture straightened. Her eyes sharpened. Recognition—or at least suspicion—set in. She remembered the Director's earlier statement: someone from the Elite would be arriving today. Someone important.
The girl before her did not look Elite. She was simply dressed, quiet, almost timid.
Is she Mr. Thorn's wife? A relative? Kelly couldn't place her—but she could sense something.
"Please come with me," Kelly said suddenly, returning the phone with careful hands.
They walked to a pair of elevators. Kelly gestured between them.
"The elevator on the right is public. Staff, models, interns—they all use that one."
She pressed the button on the left.
"This one is only for the Director and anyone with an appointment directly under her."
Alina nodded slowly. She mentally noted everything. This world wasn't hers—at least not yet—but she needed to learn.
When the elevator opened, they stepped into the 10th floor. Quietness swallowed the space. It was almost museum-like. Mannequins dressed in sparkling, breathtaking pieces lined the hall—each one more dazzling than the last.
"Trending designs are displayed here for seven days," Kelly explained. "Most sell out before the week ends."
Alina's mouth hung open in awe. The craftsmanship. The textures. The attention to detail. She could almost feel Melinda whispering her old mantra in her ear:
Make fabric breathe. Make people feel it.
Kelly led her through another door.
This one opened to a massive office suite. The first section was a luxurious conference room—glass walls, polished table, sleek chairs. To the right was a lounge-like area with soft couches and a wine stellar. And beyond that:
An office.
The office.
It was stunning. Clean. Modern. Powerfully elegant. Fashion magazines filled one shelf. Awards, trophies, medals filled another. Spotlights from the ceiling illuminated them like treasures in a gallery.
Kelly called out softly,
"Director Barnes?"
A figure shifted behind the desk. A woman in her fifties—or sixties—stood up, her navy-blue suit hugging her frame with effortless authority. Her short silver-streaked hair gleamed under the lights.
Alina blinked.
A woman?
But the email said—
"Thank you, Kelly. You may leave," the Director said with a composed smile.
Alina stood frozen, confused.
The Director was supposed to be a man… wasn't he?
The woman approached gracefully, posture perfect. She extended her hand.
"Welcome to Soléne Couture, Mrs. Alina Thorn," she said smoothly. "I see you brought your designs. Please—have a seat."
And with that, Alina stepped fully into a world she never imagined she would belong to.