The conference room was tense.
Alexander Cole : One model would leave today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Today.
Whispers buzzed across the room. Heartbeats synchronized with the ticking of the oversized wall clock.
Alexander Cole sharp eyes scanned the room, landing finally on the girl whose face had captivated him earlier :Piper Reese.
"Before we begin," Alexander announced, his loud voice slicing through the chatter, "the girl who will not proceed with AFH is… contestant number twelve."
A murmur rose.
Number twelve, a tall, poised girl with chestnut hair, froze. Her hands trembled. Then she slumped, defeated.
Piper watched quietly, feeling a strange pang — not relief, not joy, but clarity. Today, she was alive in the empire. Number twelve… wasn't.
Helena comes into the picture swiftly. "Orientation begins now. You will follow instructions, perform evaluations, and observe. Fail any part, and the consequences are final."
The spotlight shifted to the models. Piper adjusted her shoulders, inhaling deliberately. She was ready.
The models were guided into a mirrored studio. Sleek, endless reflections of ambition. Each step felt like being observed by a thousand eyes.
A sudden voice broke the silence:
"Welcome to Alexander Cole Fashion House. You will now participate in our persona evaluation."
The trainers — tall, imposing, exacting — instructed the models to embody not just poise, but dominance, confidence, and adaptability.
The models were instructed to participate in the AFH orientation challenge: presentations, poise, and campaign pitches.
One by one, models stepped forward, their words polished but empty. Piper waited. Patience, she had learned, was power.
When her turn came, she stepped forward. The room fell silent. Cameras, mirrors, judges — all focused.
Her pitch: concise. Bold. Authentic.
"AFH is not just fashion. AFH is a story — resilience, ambition, and defiance. Every campaign must breathe life, not perfection. Every image must speak of power. And anyone who fails… will be replaced."
The room remained silent for a second. Then nods. The judges whispered. Alexander's eyes narrowed. Intrigue, not approval. Observation, not emotion.
As Alexander stepped back, hid phone rang unexpectedly.
A sharp, deliberate voice filtered through.
"Mr. Cole," Anastasia Montreux's tone was cool, poised, confident — yet commanding. "Your father has pushed this engagement forward. The contract is ready. Shall we finalize it?"
Alexander's eyes flicked from Piper to the phone. Calm, collected, calculating.
"Send it," he said, his voice low. "I will review it."
Anastasia's eyes glimmered on the other end of the line. "Good. Do not disappoint, Mr. Cole."
Click.
Piper, unaware, had just become a pawn in a game far larger than the AFH hall.
VELOMRA GROUP HEADQUARTERS. Dark sparkling marbles.
Thousands of miles away, in a sleek, high-rise boardroom, Velmora Group held its weekly council.
Glass walls. Leather chairs. Screens showing the world's top campaigns. Power radiated in every corner.
A man wheeled forward onto a platform, laughing like a child. "Gentlemen, ladies, let's not bore ourselves with formality."
This was Caspian Vale — Captain V, late fifties, sharp mind behind untold chaos. Known as a madman by many, yet impossible to underestimate. He leaned back in his wheelchair looking throne like, fingers tapping in erratic rhythm.
"Velmora is not just a brand," he said, voice suddenly serious, slicing through the room. "We are a storm. And storms are not polite."
The laughter vanished.
Silence
Everyone is aware of the volatility, the brilliance, and the unpredictability of the man they called Captain V.
A young executive tried to speak. "Sir, the AFH campaign —"
Caspian cut him off with a single, sharp chuckle. "Ah yes, the children playing house. Let them dance. Let them make noise. But remember — I see everything. I know everything."
He spun slightly in his wheelchair, gaze flicking to the massive floor-to-ceiling screens. "Our next move will be… elegant. Devastating. And fun."
He leaned forward, voice cold now. "Prepare the files on… the Cole Empire. Every campaign, every asset, every weakness, every strength. I want control, not chaos. Chaos is free. Control… is profit."
The council shivered. Captain V could shift from clownish humor to absolute menace in a heartbeat. But they aren't surprised.
Back at AFH, Piper's orientation continued. She was unaware that her name had just appeared on Alexander's private ledger — highlighted in red, flagged for monitoring.
The hall lights flickered. A low hum, almost imperceptible. Then all the monitors on the walls went off. Panic stirred among the models in the room.
Then one screen returns to normal — showing a live feed of the AFH CEO office, Alexander at his desk, but with a shadowy figure in the background.
Piper's phone buzzed. Unknown number. She opened it:
"You have one hour. Leave AFH or everything you love disappears. —C"
Her breath caught.
She looked up — Alexander's eyes on her from the balcony. Calm. Observant. Unshaken.
But she noticed it too late. Behind the balcony, the massive chandelier above began to creak unnaturally.
And in a heartbeat, the ceiling cracked.
Crystal fell. Cameras shattered. Screams erupted around the room.
Piper dove to the side.
Alexander's eyes widened — only slightly.
The feed cut.
The hall went dark.
And somewhere in the chaos, a single, metallic laugh echoed:
"Let the game begin."