The week before the fashion show felt like a blur of fabric, fittings, and deadlines. Vivienne Couture was a hive of motion, assistants running across rooms with rolls of silk, models getting pinned into half-finished gowns, and designers arguing softly over who got which mannequin.
Isabela stood at her workstation, exhausted but glowing. Her collection, five carefully crafted pieces inspired by fluidity and strength, represented everything she'd worked toward since arriving at Vinne Couture. She'd poured herself into every stitch, every fold.
When she presented her sketches to Madam Vinnen, paused thoughtfully before selecting three with a single nod.
"These," she said, tapping the table with her pencil. "These have voices. They'll walk."
The words had filled Isabela with quiet pride. It was her first major showcase under the Vinne label, and even though she wasn't the only designer being featured, being chosen at all was a triumph.
Still, there was tension in the air. She could feel the subtle hostility from a few colleagues, polite smiles that didn't reach the eyes, whispered conversations that stopped when she entered a room. In the cutthroat world of fashion, sabotage wasn't an urban legend. It was a strategy.
So Isabela guarded her designs carefully, double-checking every delivery, ensuring that the fabrics and embroidery were precisely as she'd ordered. She refused to let jealousy taint her moment.
The Preparation
One afternoon, Madam Vivienne swept into the room in her usual dramatic flair, sunglasses indoors, heels that clicked like punctuation.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she announced, "visibility is everything. Before the show, we'll be meeting a few potential investors. Isabela, you're coming with me."
"Me?" Isabela blinked. "Are you sure?"
Vinnen smiled. "You're one of the fresh faces this season. Investors love a story. You'll be my example of 'new blood with vision.' And," she added slyly, "it's time we make use of those business cards you collected at that social event you attended with Mr. Lawson, yes?"
Isabela froze for a heartbeat before nodding. "Yes, Madam."
Inside, her mind flashed back to that evening with Ethan, the soft laughter, the quiet chemistry that neither of them had dared to define, and the stack of elegant business cards she'd taken home, unsure if she'd ever use them.
The Visit
Among the people on their list was Sandra Wynn, the director of one of the city's luxury brand sponsors.
Sandra greeted them warmly, her smile genuine and polished. Her office smelled of vanilla and confidence.
"Madam Vinnen! What a surprise. And you must be Isabela," she said, extending a hand. "I've heard wonderful things about your work."
Isabela smiled shyly. "Thank you. It's an honor to meet you."
Sandra's eyes lingered on her for a moment longer than usual, an unspoken curiosity behind her charm. But then she turned back to Vinnen, and the conversation flowed effortlessly. They discussed fabrics, visibility, and mutual sponsorships. Sandra even promised to attend the show personally.
As they left, Vinnen whispered to Isabela, "That went well. Sandra Wynn's opinion matters. She's connected to half the luxury circuit in this County."
Isabela nodded, though she couldn't shake a strange feeling. Sandra had been kind, too kind, almost. And the way she'd looked at her… like she was trying to place her from somewhere else.
The Show Day
The day of the fashion show arrived in a whirlwind of lights and nerves. The venue was alive with anticipation, models, photographers, makeup artists, and PR agents swirled in organized chaos. The air smelled of perfume and adrenaline.
Isabela was everywhere, checking hems, re-pinning straps, ensuring the models carried her vision exactly as she'd imagined. Her heart raced as she caught glimpses of the audience filtering in.
When her first design walked the runway, she forgot to breathe. The silk glimmered like moving water under the lights. The second drew murmurs from the front row, critics scribbling notes, investors leaning closer. By the third, the applause came unprompted, sharp and approving.
Isabela felt tears prick at her eyes. Months of sleepless nights and whispered doubts, finally justified.
As the final designer bowed on stage, she allowed herself a rare smile. It was over. It was beautiful.
She didn't expect Ethan to come. She had invited him out of courtesy, a polite gesture, nothing more. He had been distant lately, consumed by work and whatever shadows haunted his past.
But when the lights dimmed and the host began his closing remarks, a small commotion near the entrance drew eyes.
Ethan Lawson had arrived.
Even in a simple dark suit, his presence commanded attention. Conversations paused; a few heads turned. The kind of quiet magnetism that followed him everywhere seemed to shift the air itself.
Isabela's heart skipped.
He found a seat near the back, and for the rest of the evening, she pretended not to see him, but she felt his gaze. She always did.
After the Applause
The backstage was chaotic after the final bow. Congratulations, laughter, camera flashes. Isabela moved through it all, thanking her team, hugging models, her mind still buzzing.
When she finally stepped into the lobby to catch her breath, she froze.
Ethan was there — speaking to Sandra.
Sandra's laughter carried softly, her hand resting briefly on his arm. They looked… familiar. Too familiar.
"Isabela," Sandra said warmly when she noticed her, "you were brilliant tonight. Truly. Those designs, fluid, daring. I could see your signature in every line."
"Thank you," Isabela managed, forcing a smile. "I appreciate your kind words."
Ethan turned toward her, his eyes unreadable. "You did well," he said simply. "I'm proud of you."
Something unspoken passed between them, gratitude, confusion, maybe jealousy. Isabela didn't know which.
Sandra excused herself gracefully after a moment, leaving the two of them standing in the echoing lobby.
"Didn't expect you to come," Isabela said softly.
"I didn't expect to stay," he replied. "But I'm glad I did."
They left together, the night air cool against the rush of their silence.
The Drive Home
Neither spoke for a while. The city blurred past, golden lights, fleeting faces.
Ethan finally said, "Sandra didn't mention she'd be there."
"She's one of Vinne's investors," Isabela replied carefully. "We met her earlier this week."
He nodded, his jaw tightening. The traitor. The phrase slithered across his mind uninvited. He hated it, hated how it haunted every encounter, every familiar smile. The suspect list is getting wider and the more difficult it is to know the actual traitor.
But he couldn't ignore the coincidence. Sandra's sudden reappearance. Her warmth toward Isabela. The timing. It was too perfect.
"Do you trust her?" he asked quietly.
Isabela frowned. "Sandra? She's been nothing but kind." ….but I have no reason to trust or doubt, do I?"
"Kind," he echoed, as though the word itself were fragile. "Just… be careful. Not everyone in that world plays fair."
She studied him for a moment, sensing something beneath his tone, not just warning, but fear.
When they pulled into the penthouse driveway, the silence felt heavier. Isabela was about to step out when Ethan's voice stopped her.
"I meant what I said," he murmured. "You were remarkable tonight."
She smiled faintly. "Thank you."
Inside, as she slipped off her heels, a thought brushed her mind: Sandra knew Ethan. There had been history there, she could see it in their eyes. But how deep that history ran… she wasn't sure she wanted to know.
Later That Week
Two days later, a knock echoed through the penthouse.
Isabela opened the door, and there stood Sandra Wynn, a bouquet of white orchids in hand.
"Though I'd personally congratulate the star of the show," Sandra said, her smile flawless. "And, of course… to say hello to an old friend."
From behind Isabela, Ethan appeared, his expression unreadable.
The air thickened instantly, the past and present colliding in one silent moment.
Isabela stepped aside, her heart pounding.
"Come in," she said softly. "I suppose we have a lot to talk about."