Runway lights exploded across the grand stage.
Cameras flashed in synchronized bursts.
A name echoed through out the hall.
"Anastasia Montreux!"
Repeatedly.
She emerged in gold. A gown sculpted like liquid sunlight, hugging every curve yet flowing like molten silk. Diamond type confidence gleamed in her eyes. A face the country worships and adored. Every camera taken immortalized her in a single frame.
The large massive screen at the center of the stage displayed:
"Nation's Top Model Signs 5-Year Deal With Velmora Group."
"AFH Rivalry Intensifies."
Whispers rippled across the elite audience. Some intrigued. Some jealous.
Some already calculating the fallout between both rivals.
In the VIP lounge above, two men sat across one another. Crystal glasses rested between them—half-filled, untouched yet. One was Sebastian Cole. The other, Lucien Montreux, Anastasia's father. Two empires. Two legacies.
"Your son needs global expansion," Lucien said smoothly, fingers steepled.
Sebastian chuckled softly. "Your daughter needs a secured legacy."
Lucien tilted his head slightly.
Sebastian leaned back, lifting his glass.
"We unite them."
No romance. No poetry. Just strategy.
A merger disguised as marriage.
PRIVATE QUIET BALCONY
Alexander stood alone, overlooking the runway. A glass in his hand.
Unimpressed.
Not bored. Just calculating.
Silas approached quietly.
"Your father approves your engagement."
Alexander's gaze didn't move from the stage.
"What engagement, with who?"
His tone sharpened slightly. Not anger. Precision.
Silas smirked. "Relax. Not with me."
Alexander gave him a flat look.
"Anastasia Montreux. Velmora's newest media face and ambassador."
A pause.
"Business alliance," Silas added. "But she's not exactly unfortunate."
Alexander's jaw tightened. He felt the stirrings of something—curiosity? challenge? He hadn't felt that in many years.
Below, Anastasia paused mid-walk, as if sensing something. She looked up. Their eyes met across levels of power and light. No warmth. No love . No surprise. Recognition. Power recognizing power.
Silas leaned closer to Alexander. "Seems she's aware."
Alexander didn't respond. His expression returned to calm neutrality. He turned and walked toward a group of investors gathering near the champagne display. Silas followed, teasing. Alexander ignored him.
LATER THAT NIGHT
Thunder cracked across the sky. Rain poured over a modest house on the east side of the city. Inside—
A ceiling leaked steadily.
"Jake! The bucket — it's leaking again!"
Jake ran in, nearly slipping. "How do we stop the ceiling from leaking?"
Piper glanced up at the ceiling, then at him. A smirk tugged at her lips.
"Drop the bucket under it," she said drylyy. "Or glue the ceiling like my heels. Either way, we need money."
He groaned. She laughed softly. The sound was tired—but real.
Her phone rang. an Unknown number. She wiped her wet cold hands on her shirt and answered.
"Hello? Piper Reese speaking."
A formal female voice responded.
"Good evening, Miss Reese. Congratulations. You are among the selected candidates to proceed with Alexander Fashion House."
Her breath caught.
"Excuse me?"
"You will receive an official email shortly. Orientation begins tomorrow."
The call ended. For a second, the room felt silent. Then—
Piper screamed. She jumped backward—accidentally kicking the bucket. Water spilled everywhere. Jake slipped dramatically onto the wet floor. Piper burst into laughter. Not elegant. Not composed. Pure relief.
"Alexander Fashion House," she whispered, straightening.
Her expression shifted. Serious. Focused.
"I'm coming."
Later in the night.
Piper sat cross-legged on the wet floor, phone in her hand. She reread the email smiling, her pulse racing. $10,000 starting stipend. Immediate mentorship. Networking opportunities that could launch her career. She couldn't help but imagine herself standing on stages like Anastasia, commanding the room, influencing the media, becoming someone everyone watches and adore.
But then doubt crept in. Could she survive the pressure? The politics? The ruthless competition?
Her gaze drifted to the cracked ceiling above. She laughed bitterly. "Well," she muttered, "if I can survive this roof, I can survive anything."
She stood, determination hardening in her chest. The rain pounded against the windows like a drumbeat of fate. She would take this chance, not just for herself—but for every moment she had been underestimated, overlooked, dismissed.
Miles away. Alexander's bedroom. Dim light. Well and properly furnished.
Alexander Cole stared at a digital file glowing on his screen. Piper Reese. He tapped once. Approved.
But as he leaned back in his leather chair, a memory intruded—Anastasia Montreux on the runway, radiant and unshakable, walking as though the entire world watched her alone. He admitted, grudgingly, that he had felt something in that gaze. Recognition. Challenge. A spark of unpredictability he hadn't seen in a long time.
For the first time that day, Alexander smiled faintly—just a twitch of a corner of his lips. He didn't fully understand it. But he knew one thing: both women—different worlds, different stakes—had just stepped into his life. And his empire would never be the same.