BRUSHSTROKES OF REVENGE

The Royal Pavilion had transformed into the beating heart of the fashion world. Beneath its towering glass dome, the morning sunlight refracted through crystal chandeliers, scattering across the marble floors like a sea of stars.

The air shimmered with the soft hum of conversation and the delicate strains of a live violin ensemble. Waiters glided between clusters of guests, balancing trays of champagne flutes that clinked gently as they passed. The scent of lilies, roses, and peonies—flown in from France that very morning—mingled with the faint aroma of polished wood and perfume.

Every corner of the ballroom gleamed with opulence, from the golden drapes cascading down the walls to the intricate floral arrangements adorning each table.

Designers, business tycoons, luxury brand representatives, international buyers, supermodels, and celebrities filled the hall, their laughter and chatter weaving together into a symphony of ambition. Every influential figure in the fashion industry had gathered beneath one roof, their eyes bright with expectation.

Yet beneath the glamour and the glittering smiles, tension simmered quietly.

Every participant knew that today’s portfolio showcase would decide the future of countless fashion houses. A single victory could elevate a brand to global fame; a single misstep could destroy years of reputation.

As the orchestra played a soft overture, the grand doors of the Pavilion opened once more. Heads turned almost instinctively.

Mindy Wilson entered, accompanied by Emma Wilson, Hannah Knight, Layla, and Wade. The group drew attention immediately. Emma, though retired for years, still carried the aura of a legend. Her name had once been synonymous with elegance and innovation, and even now, whispers rippled through the crowd as people recognized her. Several veteran designers hurried forward, their faces lighting up with genuine respect.

”Mrs. Wilson,” one of them greeted warmly. ”It’s been far too long.”

Emma smiled politely, her posture regal yet approachable. ”It has indeed,” she replied. ”I’m glad to see so many familiar faces still shaping the industry.”

Hannah, standing beside her, exchanged pleasantries with a few old acquaintances, her laughter soft and refined.

Layla and Wade followed a few steps behind, their eyes scanning the dazzling crowd.

Mindy, poised and composed, walked between them, her cream gown catching the light with every step. She carried herself with quiet confidence, her expression calm but alert.

Across the hall, Raymond Hawthorne noticed their arrival. His expression flickered—something between hesitation and obligation—before he finally straightened his jacket and began walking toward them.

Emily followed closely behind, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her smile perfectly practiced.

”Mrs. Wilson,” Raymond greeted as he approached. ”Mrs. Knight. It’s good to see both of you again.”

Emma turned her head slightly, her gaze cool and distant. ”Mr. Hawthorne,” she said, her tone polite but devoid of warmth. Hannah gave a small nod, her expression equally restrained. Neither woman looked particularly welcoming.

Emily stepped forward, her voice soft and honeyed. ”Mrs. Wilson,” she said sweetly, ”how have you been?”

Emma didn’t even glance at her. She continued speaking to Hannah as though Emily hadn’t spoken at all. The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut through the music. Emily’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she turned toward Hannah.

”Mrs. Knight,” she tried again, her tone even gentler. ”I hope you’ve been keeping well.”

Hannah’s eyes flicked toward her briefly, then past her, as if she were looking at something far more interesting across the room. She didn’t say a word.

The silence stretched. Emily lowered her gaze, her lashes trembling as though she were on the verge of tears.

To anyone watching, she looked pitiful—an innocent woman wounded by coldness. But Mindy, standing a few feet away, saw what others didn’t. Beneath the fragile mask of hurt, hatred burned in Emily’s eyes, sharp and venomous.

Emily had always believed that Emma and Jasper Wilson looked down on her. Years ago, when she had often visited Wilson Manor alongside Maria, Emma and Jasper had treated her with genuine warmth.

They had welcomed her into their home, shared meals, and even offered advice when she was still finding her footing in society.

But Emily had never seen kindness for what it was. To her, their generosity had felt like condescension, their refinement like arrogance.

She had mistaken their grace for superiority, their sincerity for mockery.

When your heart is consumed by darkness, you mistake genuine kindness for arrogance. And kindness becomes something to resent.

Over time, Emma and Jasper had begun to notice what Maria never did. Emily’s smiles never reached her eyes. Her concern always carried calculation. Her compliments were too polished, her sympathy too rehearsed.

They had tried to warn Maria countless times, gently at first, then more firmly. But Maria, loyal to a fault, had refused to believe them.

She had trusted Emily completely, blind to the envy festering behind her friend’s smile.

Now, years later, that same envy still lingered—refined, disguised, but never gone.

The tension between the two families hung in the air like perfume—sweet on the surface, suffocating underneath. Missy, sensing the discomfort, decided to break the silence.

”Sister,” she said brightly, her voice carrying just enough sweetness to sound insincere, ”are you ready for today’s portfolio?”

Mindy turned her head slowly, her expression calm. ”I am,” she said. ”Are you?”

Missy’s smile widened. ”Of course. Layton personally hired one of the best design teams for Rona. This time, we’re fully prepared.”

There was a hint of smugness in her tone that didn’t escape Mindy’s notice. She smiled faintly, her voice soft but cutting. ”That’s good,” she said. ”At least this time, you aren’t presenting my mother’s designs.”

The air around them seemed to freeze. Missy’s smile faltered. Emily’s fingers tightened around her clutch. Even Raymond’s expression shifted, his jaw clenching slightly.

Missy lowered her head, her voice trembling just enough to sound pitiful. ”Sister,” she murmured, ”I’ve apologized hundreds of times.”

Before the tension could escalate further, Raymond cleared his throat, forcing a smile. ”Mindy,” he said quickly, ”how’s your wound? Have you recovered?”

Emma’s head snapped toward him. ”Wound?” she repeated sharply. ”What wound? Were you injured?”

Mindy’s eyes flicked toward Raymond, her glare sharp enough to silence him. He immediately realized his mistake. She hadn’t told her grandparents about the shooting.

”It’s nothing, Grandma,” Mindy said smoothly. ”Just a small scratch.”

Before Emma could press further, Missy’s voice cut through the air, soft and innocent. ”Sister was shot,” she said.

The color drained from Emma’s face. ”What?” she exclaimed. ”Mindy! You never told us?”

Mindy turned her gaze on Missy, her eyes cold as ice. She knew exactly what Missy was doing—stirring chaos, trying to draw attention, to make her look careless.

”It’s already been over two weeks,” she said calmly. ”I’m perfectly fine. The wound has healed. You don’t need to worry.”

Hannah frowned. ”Only two weeks ago?” she asked. ”How were you even shot?”

Before Mindy could answer, Missy spoke again, her tone dripping with false concern. ”It happened because of Matthias—”

”Missy!” Raymond barked, his voice sharp. Missy flinched and fell silent, her eyes wide with feigned innocence.

Mindy exhaled softly and turned back to Emma, taking her grandmother’s hand. ”I’m alright,” she said gently.

”You can ask Layla. She practically turned into my bodyguard.”

Layla blinked, caught off guard. ”So now I’m covering for you?” she muttered, earning a few quiet laughs.

”She behaved,” Layla continued, smiling. ”I made sure she rested. I even bullied her into taking her medicine.”

Emma narrowed her eyes at Mindy, though her lips twitched with amusement. ”We’ll discuss this later,” she said. ”And wait until Jasper hears about it.”

Mindy groaned softly. ”Yes, Grandma.”

The tension finally broke. Laughter rippled through the group, light and genuine. Even Hannah smiled, shaking her head. The earlier hostility dissolved into warmth, at least for the moment.

A few minutes later, the lights in the ballroom dimmed. A single spotlight illuminated the grand stage at the front of the hall.

Leon Sterling, the CEO of Maxine Magazine, stepped forward, his presence commanding immediate attention. He gently tapped his champagne glass, and the conversations around the room ceased instantly.

”Ladies and gentlemen,” Leon began, his voice smooth and resonant, ”welcome to Maxine Magazine’s Annual Portfolio Showcase.”

Thunderous applause filled the hall.

”For decades,” he continued, ”Maxine has searched for designers capable of changing the future of fashion. Today, we are once again gathered to witness imagination, craftsmanship, and storytelling at the highest level. This stage isn’t merely about beautiful clothing—it is about creating history.”

The applause swelled again, echoing through the vast hall. Leon smiled, his eyes sweeping across the audience. ”Now,” he said, ”let us begin.”

He gestured toward the host, who stepped onto the stage with practiced grace. ”Allow me to introduce our distinguished panel of judges,” the host announced. ”Editor-in-Chief of Maxine Magazine, Mr. Zylo Mark.”

A tall man with sharp features stood briefly, acknowledging the applause with a curt nod.

”Creative Director, Mr. Matthew Clark.”

Another round of applause followed.

”Photography Director, Ms. Sophia Laurent.”

”Fashion Historian, Dr. Sebastian Moreau.”

”Luxury Brand Representative, Ms. Isabella Moreau.”

Each name was met with polite applause, the audience murmuring in admiration. Once the judges had taken their seats, the host smiled. ”Now, we shall begin with the Mood Board presentations. The first presentation—Liora Fashion.”

Lucy Wale walked gracefully onto the stage, Kelvin King following a step behind her. Two assistants carried the portfolio displays, setting them up with precision. Lucy’s theme was The Four Seasons—Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter. She spoke with calm confidence, explaining each inspiration, each transition, each fabric choice. Her voice carried the rhythm of someone who knew her craft intimately. The judges nodded approvingly, impressed by her clarity and composure.

Next came Kyle Group, presenting Travel Inspired, followed by Stanley Enterprises with Storybook Dreams. Each presentation brought its own flair, its own interpretation of beauty and innovation.

Finally, it was LUXT Design’s turn.

Matthias King stepped beside Mindy as she approached the stage. His presence was quiet but commanding, his silver mask catching the light. Mindy glanced at him briefly, offering a small smile before turning to face the judges.

”Our collection,” she began, her voice steady and clear, ”is called The Rise of a Queen.”

She paused, letting the words settle. ”It is not a story of revenge,” she continued. ”It is the story of a woman—a woman who refuses to remain broken. A woman who transforms pain into royalty.”

The judges leaned forward, their attention fully captured. Behind her, the Mood Board came to life—a breathtaking collage of imagery and symbolism. A broken crown. Roses blooming through thorns.

A chess queen standing tall. A burning castle. Black feathers drifting across crimson silk. Gold embroidery glinting like sunlight on armor. An ancient throne. A silent knight standing behind a queen. A phoenix rising from flames.

Every image flowed seamlessly into the next, each one carrying meaning. There was no excess, no distraction—only purpose.

Dr. Sebastian Moreau stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as recognition dawned. ”Mrs. Wilson,” he said suddenly, turning toward the audience. ”It’s been many years.”

Emma smiled from her seat. ”You still remember me?”

”Of course,” Sebastian said warmly. ”I attended your couture workshop fifteen years ago.” His gaze shifted back to Mindy. ”So, she’s your granddaughter?”

Emma’s pride was unmistakable. ”She is.”

Sebastian studied the Mood Board once more, a rare smile touching his lips. ”She’s talented,” he said simply.

The judges murmured their agreement, their pens moving swiftly across their notes.

Then came Rona Design.

Missy Hawthorne walked onto the stage with practiced grace, her smile radiant. ”Our collection,” she announced, ”is called Empire of Luxury.”

She paused dramatically. ”Luxury isn’t worn,” she said. ”It is displayed.”

Her Mood Board gleamed under the lights—Italian marble, gold foil, crystal chandeliers, diamonds, champagne, luxury yachts, the Paris skyline, designer handbags, Rolls-Royces. Every image screamed wealth. Every surface sparkled. But beneath the glitter, there was nothing—no story, no soul.

Layla leaned toward Mindy, whispering, ”The board actually looks impressive. Layton really hired an excellent team.”

Mindy nodded slightly. ”The designers deserve the credit,” she said quietly.

At that moment, Matthias’s phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen—Dante. His expression changed instantly. ”I’ll be back,” he murmured, excusing himself quietly.

Inside LUXT’s preparation suite, the atmosphere was tense. Dante stood near the window, his phone pressed to his ear, frustration etched across his face. When Matthias entered, he lowered the phone and exhaled sharply.

”What happened?” Matthias asked.

”I contacted every modeling agency in Greendale,” Dante said. ”Every single one refused. Same excuse—’no models available.’”

Matthias’s eyes narrowed. ”Someone warned them.”

Before Dante could respond, his phone rang again. He answered immediately, his tone clipped. ”Report.”

The room fell silent. Matthias watched as Dante’s expression shifted from confusion to disbelief, then to cold fury. Nearly ten minutes passed before Dante finally lowered the phone.

At that exact moment, the suite door opened. Mindy stepped inside, her expression calm but curious. ”What happened?” she asked.

Dante turned toward her, his voice low and grim. ”Miss Wilson,” he said slowly, ”our models... have been kidnapped.”

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap. The calm before the storm had ended.