Chapter 2 - The Red Carpet CharadeThe flashbulbs outside the theater were blinding, a chaotic storm of strobe lights and screaming paparazzi. The red carpet was Vivian’s natural habitat, the arena where she reigned supreme. But tonight, as she stepped out of the blacked-out Maybach, her legs felt like lead.
She forced her signature, haughty smile. She posed, arching her back, letting the emeralds on her wrist catch the light.
And right behind her, adjusting the hem of the infamous, fraudulent dress, was Lily.
"Smile wider, Vivian," Lily whispered, her voice entirely masked by the deafening roar of the photographers. "They love it when you look accessible."
Vivian’s jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached. "You are playing a very dangerous game, little girl," Vivian muttered through a frozen grin, waving to a bank of cameras. "You think you can blackmail me? I have lawyers who will bury you so deep you won't see daylight."
"Your lawyers are paid with fraudulent money," Lily murmured, smoothing the silk train. "I spent the last two years tracking the offshore accounts from your holding company, Vanguard Lux, to the factory in Dhaka. The wire transfers, the bribes to safety inspectors. I have it all on a secure server. If anything happens to me, it goes wide to every major news outlet on the planet."
Vivian posed for Vogue, putting a hand on her hip. Inside, she was spiraling. How could this invisible, mousy assistant have penetrated her financial firewall?
"What do you want?" Vivian hissed as they moved down the line. "Money? I can write you a check for five million dollars tonight. You walk away, sign an NDA, and disappear."
"I don't want your money," Lily said softly. As they reached the top of the stairs, away from the cameras, Lily stepped up beside her. "I want your confession. I want you to step down as CEO of the brand, hand the company over to the board, and publicly admit you stole the designs for your Spring collection from my mother."
Vivian froze. The breath was knocked completely out of her lungs. She stared at Lily, truly looking at her features for the first time. The shape of her eyes. The slight tilt of her jaw.
May you like
"Elena," Vivian whispered, a ghost from fifteen years ago rising from the grave.
"Yes," Lily said, her eyes burning with a vengeance a decade in the making. "Elena Rossi. The brilliant pattern-maker you fired, discredited, and stole from. The woman who died in poverty while you built a billion-dollar empire on her sketches. The gala is starting, Vivian. Enjoy the champagne. It might be your last."
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