Kiana's Home
A marble driveway coiled toward the grand entrance of a sprawling estate framed by sculpted hedges and towering Palm trees.
Pillars stretched upward, supporting a balcony with golden railings shimmering in the evening sun.
The foyer was a masterpiece. Polished floors reflected the light from a chandelier so massive it looked like it belonged in a royal palace.
The scent of fresh lilies lingered in the air as sunlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows, dancing off ornate mirrors and gold trimmed furniture.
At the center of the lavish living room, Kiana lounged on a velvet sofa the colour of crushed wine, legs crossed, phone in hand. The massive TV flickering in the background, ignored.
Maria! She called sharply, not lifting her gaze, I asked for the iced tea 5 minutes ago, not a century.
A maid hurried over, a tray in her hands, trembling slightly.
Kiana snatched the glass, took a sip, and grimaced.
" Too sweet. Are your taste buds broken, or just your brain?"
She turned to another maid who stood frozen near the entrance of the living room.
You! Mop up that invisible stain near the piano before it ruins the floor, or do you need me to draw you a map?
Her voice was syrupy-sweet with poison beneath, every word meant to remind everyone who held the crown in that mansion.
She tossed the half-finished iced tea onto a glass table, barely missing a delicate vase.
"You'd think with all the money we pay you people, you'd at least know how to mix a drink!"
Kiana's voice echoed through the vast living room.
But behind her, the atmosphere shifted.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound of heels striking marble, sharp and deliberate, cut through the air. A heavy designer perfume floral, heady, commanding wafted in.
"Still wasting your lungs yelling at the help, Kiana?"
Kiana froze mid-rant. Her fingers clenched the edge of the sofa as she slowly turned her head. Standing beneath the chandelier was her mother tall, sleek, wrapped in an emerald green gown that screamed Paris runway. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun, her lips painted the same crimson as her stilettos.
M-Mum… Kiana straightened up quickly.
Her mother's eyes scanned the room with ice-cold precision.
Your posture is terrible. Do you plan to slouch your way through the fashion world?
She dropped her designer purse onto the nearest chair with practiced grace. "And what's this?" She gestured to the maids with a flick of her manicured hand. More displays of your inability to lead?
Kiana swallowed hard, but said nothing.
You're seventeen. In Milan, girls your age are running labels, not throwing tantrums over sugar and tea. Her mother's voice was calm, but each word sliced. Do you want to be a legacy… or a lesson?
Kiana's jaw tensed.
I'm trying mum...I...
Trying! I don't want you don't f**king try Kiana,get it done. Isabella's gone now so what's the f**king excuse huh!
Was she really the competition or you are just incompetent,her mother yelled at the top of her voice.
Patrice was the one person Kiana feared the most.
The Kiana standing silent and head bowed was different from the girl who was bullying the maids just minutes ago. The only time she could speak up or had the boldness was when she was either bullying the less opportuned, and of course, their domestic workers.
But before her mom, she was nothing.
Patrice turned away and took a few deep breaths to calm herself before turning to face her daughter again.
I have meetings lined up for you this weekend. Stylists, photographers, a mentorship dinner. I expect results. Or I'll find someone who can deliver them.
And just like that, her mother turned and walked down the hall, heels echoing like a countdown.
Kiana sat motionless, eyes burning not from shame, but from the weight of never being enough in the eyes of her Mom.
Her phone beeped besides her dragging her out of her thoughts. It was a message from one of her assistant Jay.
She had sent him to reach out to some popular teen models to to promote her newest designs at the upcoming teen runway.
But he was not successful according to the message. All the models he reached choose to remain loyal to Isabella's brand.
The contents of the message made her mood worse than it was.
The frustration of constantly being under Isabella's shadow was so infuriating she would have thrown her phone against the living room wall if not for the fact that she could not afford another.
Her allowance had been cut down to 30 percent of what she usually gets every month.
According to her mom, the only way to get her to focus on building her brand was to cut off every means of support she got from her.
Purple lights pulsed against the ceiling casting a moody glow over the velvet-draped VIP lounge of Luxe 47 a luxurious lounge a three hour drive from the school.
The off-campus hotspot where only the chosen few ever got in without a wait.
A soft hum of music and murmured laughter floated in the air, but inside the secluded VIP booth, the atmosphere was tense and sharp.
The A3 Alan, Aiden, and Adrian lounged across a U-shaped leather couch, an untouched tray of wings sitting cold on the table. Behind them, a bouncer stood like a statue, ensuring no one dared intrude.
Alan sipped from a gold-rimmed glass, his jaw tightening as he stared at the holographic replay on his phone. Akira, her hoodie down, delivering that cutting clapback in the school's gym. The internet had done its thing, and the clip was everywhere.
"She made you look like a joke, bro," Adrian muttered, flipping a toothpick between his teeth.
Alan's eyes narrowed. "She humiliated me. Made me punished. She'll be six feet under if I was made to wash any bathroom. Alan spat with venom.
That wasn't the case luckily,or you'll no longer be part of the A3 said Aiden.
Excuse me!
"Don't blame me, bro," Aiden said, hands raised in surrender.
The A3 is premium and we intend to keep it that way. Toilet washers would not be allowed.
Alright that's enough! Adrian cut in, before things escalated.
That's not why we're here.
We're here to plan how to fight Akira, not fight ourselves.
Leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
I say we ruin her. Permanently. But it has to be smart, not another chocolate bucket thingy.
"Agreed," Alan said, cracking his knuckles. "We're done playing."
They leaned in closer, voices lowered.
We need something that breaks her image. Something public.
Adrian smirked. Set her up to take a fall. Make her look like a threat.
Alan's lips curled into a grin that didn't reach his eyes.Then we watch her drown in her own hoodie.
A slow beat dropped from the speakers outside. The three of them sat back, the plan
unfolding like a chess game ruthless, calculated, and fueled by bruised egos.
Akira had no idea what was coming. Or so they thought.