[EVE]
We had made it—just in ti for Spring Fashion Week. Again.
It hadn't been easy. The past few days had been a whirlwind of last-minute adjustnts, sleepless nights, and unexpected crises that would have sent any ordinary team into a ltdown. But we weren't just any team. And we had Dean.
As the models strutted down the runway, draped in fabrics we had agonized over, I could feel the energy shift in the room. Murmurs of approval rippled through the audience, heads turned, caras flashed. The way the light caught the silk, the way each piece moved—it was art, and everyone knew it.
Then the mont ca.
The music swelled, the lights dimd for just a breath, and then he stepped onto the runway.
Dean.
The audience erupted in applause, phones lifted in unison, a storm of flashes illuminating his striking form. He didn't just walk—he owned the stage, commanding every eye in the room without uttering a single word. Confidence rolled off him in waves, each step purposeful, each movent effortless.
It was undeniable. Dean wasn't just wearing the clothes. He was elevating them.
The power of his presence was staggering. The suit he wore—sharp, tailored to perfection—had already been a masterpiece, but on him, it transford. It wasn't just fashion anymore. It was desire, influence, sothing unattainable yet irresistible.
People weren't just admiring the collection. They were craving it.
I watched as the murmurs turned into frantic whispers, as hands reached for phones—not just to capture the mont but to buy. Orders flooded in within seconds, the collection selling out before the last model had even stepped backstage. Bidding wars ignited on the spot.
Dean had turned fabric into gold.
His influence wasn't sothing to be asured in re sales or applause. It was a force of nature. A presence that made the fashion world bend to him, not the other way around.
And watching him at that mont, I knew—tonight was not just a success.
Tonight, we had made history.
And finally, I could rest.
Or so I thought.
My body was screaming for sleep, my feet ached from the heels I had worn all day, and the tension behind my eyes was threatening to split my skull in half. But of course, the afterparty awaited.
Like clockwork, the role of "charming host" resud, and I dragged myself through the doors of the rooftop lounge, greeted by the shimr of champagne glasses and fake laughter bouncing off the walls.
It was all part of the job. The smiles. The small talk. The praise I no longer had the energy to acknowledge. Even Hyun, usually more socially awkward than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, was making his rounds, politely thanking guests with that practiced grin he had learned the hard way.
The exhaustion was painted on his face, clear as day—but he masked it well. Pretended he wasn't seconds from collapsing. I almost felt guilty watching him—until I rembered I was just as bad, if not worse.
"Eve!"
I turned at the sound of my na, and there she was. Marching toward like she owned the entire city—Haley. And beside her, of course, was Mother, regal and smug as always. I didn't know where the warm and kind loving mother went the first few months they were with .
I hadn't invited them.
And yet, here they were, strolling in without a care, as if crashing a high-profile fashion event was just another afternoon errand.
"Where's Dean?" Haley asked imdiately, her eyes darting across the room like a hawk looking for prey.
I was about to tell her Dean had already caught his flight back ho when a reporter intercepted , mic already raised.
"Miss Eve! Congratulations on the overwhelming success of your spring collection! Could you share a bit about the inspiration behind the designs?"
I quickly straightened up, smile replacing the irritated frown I didn't even realize I had been wearing. I opened my mouth to speak, ready to give Hyun the credit he deserved—
When Haley shoved her way beside .
She pressed in so close our shoulders knocked together, and then—like a parasite—she fed herself into the cara fra.
"Actually, the idea for the designs ca from ," she said with the most saccharine smile I'd ever seen.
My brain short-circuited.
"Uhmm . . . sorry, and you are?" the reporter asked, clearly confused.
Haley bead brighter. "Oh! I'm Eve's sister, Haley. Funny story—one ti my sister had this major ntal block, and I showed her so of my sketches. Nothing special! Just silly little drawings I did in my free ti."
I blinked. What the actual fuck was she saying?!
The reporter, bless her, tried to keep a straight face. "Are you a graduate of fashion design?"
"Oh, no, not at all," Haley chirped. "But I've always loved art! And fashion kind of runs in my blood, you know?"
She continued—on and on—talking about how she inspired the silhouettes, the colors, the essence of the show. I stared in horror, every word a dagger to my sanity.
It was Hyun's vision. Hyun's designs. Hyun's sweat and tears that brought the collection to life.
And this—this leech—was taking credit for it in front of caras.
My hands clenched into fists. I was ready to storm in, drag her by the hair if I had to, and call out the lie right then and there. But before I could make a move, Mother caught my arm and pulled aside into a quiet corner.
"Stop it, Eve."
I turned on her. "Mom, did you hear what she just said?! She's lying! She's taking credit for sothing that isn't hers! It was all Hyun!"
Helen didn't even blink. "Eve, let your sister have this opportunity. You're already successful. Haley doesn't have a future figured out yet—you could pave the way for her."
My mouth drop. "Pave the way? And you think letting her steal soone else's work is paving the way?"
"Haley has jumped from course to course her entire life. She never found anything that clicked—but she loves fashion. She's passionate about it."
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