The air was heavy that afternoon thick with humidity and nerves. Juliette wiped her palms against her skirt as the car slowed before the Dane mansion. It rose like a cathedral of glass and gold, the kind of house that made you straighten your back before you even stepped out.
She adjusted her portfolio, checked the garment bag again, and forced a small, polite smile. The gown she had spent weeks on sleepless nights, aching wrists, endless stitches lay carefully folded in her arms. Her first solo bridal client. Her chance to prove herself.
"Don't mess this up, Vale," she whispered under her breath before correcting herself. "Juliette."
She was Juliette Vale only behind closed doors. At work, she was just Juliette the quiet designer still learning how to hold her ground in a room full of claws.
The security guard opened the gate, and she walked in, her heels silent on the marble path.
Inside, the mansion gleamed. Chandeliers spilled light onto cream floors. The scent of roses and champagne floated through the air. And at the center of the living room stood Amira Dane.
Amira was glowing tall, delicate, with a kind of grace money couldn't buy but privilege could polish. The gown she'd ordered was meant to outshine every star in Lagos that night elegant silk, threaded crystals, delicate sleeves that whispered luxury.
Juliette's heart lifted when Amira turned and smiled softly. "You're finally here. I've been dying to see it."
But beside her, Mrs. Dane her mother didn't smile. Her eyes, sharp and critical, scanned Juliette from head to toe like she was measuring her worth in invisible currency.
"You're the designer?" she asked, voice clipped.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Hm." Mrs. Dane's gaze moved to the gown bag. "Let's hope your work matches your confidence."
Juliette's lips trembled, but she nodded. "I'll make sure you're pleased, ma'am."
Behind them, another figure leaned against the railing Tara, her colleague from the studio. The one who had been eyeing the Dane contract from day one. Tara's smirk was subtle, but cruel. She'd volunteered to "assist" Juliette with the fitting, though everyone knew she came to watch her fail.
Juliette set the gown on the velvet couch, unzipping it carefully. The silk shimmered like moonlight under the chandeliers.
Amira gasped. "Oh, it's perfect."
Mrs. Dane circled it, inspecting every fold, every stitch, every invisible line of stress in Juliette's work.
"Hm," she said again, noncommittal. "Let's see how it looks on."
Amira disappeared into the dressing room. Juliette helped her into the gown careful hands, steady breathing. Every motion was sacred. When Amira stepped back into the room, she looked like a dream soft, radiant, tears gathering in her eyes.
Even Mrs. Dane paused for a moment. "It's… acceptable," she said at last.
Juliette exhaled, relief flooding her chest.
But it didn't last.
Mrs. Dane's assistant, a tall woman in pearls, came forward with a tray of perfume bottles. "Let's see which scent fits her best for the wedding," she said, uncapping one. "This one's from Dubai limited edition."
Amira turned her head as the perfume misted through the air. Juliette stepped back, folding the measuring tape into her pocket and that's when her elbow brushed the edge of the table.
The bottle wobbled once.
Twice.
Then fell.
The sound was soft but final a crack of glass that sliced through silence.
The scent hit instantly heavy, luxurious, suffocating. The liquid spread across the cream rug, climbing the hem of Amira's gown in dark, glistening patches.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then Mrs. Dane's voice sliced through the air.
"What have you done?"
Juliette's mouth went dry. "I I'm so sorry, it was an accident"
"Do you have any idea how much that costs?!" Mrs. Dane's tone turned sharp, the words echoing. "You ruined the rug and the gown! This is what happens when we trust mediocrity!"
Tara stepped forward, fake concern plastered across her face. "Mrs. Dane, please, I'll handle this Juliette didn't mean
Mrs. Dane snapped, "Don't defend her!"
Amira looked torn, her voice small. "Mother, it's fine
"It's not fine!" The older woman pointed at Juliette. "Do you think I care about your apologies? This is incompetence! Utter carelessness! You designers think you're artists, but you're just workers. And now you'll replace this perfume. Do you even know its worth?"
Juliette's throat tightened. Her fingers trembled as she reached for her bag she wasn't carrying her black card. She'd left it at home that morning.
Her voice cracked. "Ma'am, please, I I'll fix this
"You'll fix nothing," Mrs. Dane spat. "You'll pay for it. And this gown" she gestured at the stained silk"it's unwearable. You'll make another one before the ceremony. Or your studio will refund everything."
Juliette's vision blurred. The room felt too bright, too loud, too full of eyes.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, the words hollow.
Mrs. Dane turned away like she'd dismissed a servant.
Tara watched in quiet satisfaction.
By the time Juliette reached the car, her hands were shaking so hard she could barely hold the gown. She sat in silence all the way back to the studio, the perfume scent clinging to her like guilt.
When she entered, every conversation died.
The whispers began instantly.
"She dropped perfume?"
"Mrs. Dane called here already."
"They said the gown's ruined."
Her boss, Mrs Ajayi, was waiting. Her expression was stone.
"In my office. Now."
Juliette followed quietly, the ruined gown heavy in her arms.
The moment the door shut, she turned.
"What happened?"
"I… it was an accident, I didn't
"You were sent for a fitting, Juliette, not to destroy a client's wedding order! Do you understand who that woman is?"
Juliette swallowed hard. Her eyes burned.
"I'll make it right
"You'd better," she snapped, slamming a file onto his desk. "Because they've demanded a replacement. In seventy-two hours. Do you realize that's impossible?"
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
"If we lose this contract," she continued coldly, "you lose your job. Simple as that."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Through the glass, she could see Tara pretending to work, her lips curved in victory.
Juliette tightened her grip on the gown, fighting tears.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
"I'll fix it."
Mr. Raines didn't respond.
He just turned away.
Juliette stood there a moment longer, the perfume still burning her skin, the weight of her failure crushing her chest.
When she finally left his office, the studio lights felt harsh, unkind. Everyone looked up but no one met her eyes.
The scent followed her down the hall.
Her hands smelled like ruin.
Her heart, like something unraveling.
I'll fix it, she repeated silently.
Even if no one believed her.
Even if she didn't believe herself.