Chapter 3 No.3

Hester hit the runway like a bullet leaving a chamber.

The "Brandy Walk" was famous for being commercial, approachable, a little bit flirty with a hip sway that said girl next door. Hester didn't do that. She dropped her shoulders, lengthened her neck, and drove her heels into the floor with a precision that was almost violent. It was the Cobra Walk, the style she had perfected in Milan, but with a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in her hip sway-enough to be new, but retaining its lethal core.

The audience reaction was immediate. A ripple of gasps traveled through the front row. Heads turned. Sunglasses were lowered. The whispers started, competing with the heavy bass of the music.

"Is that Brandy?" a fashion editor murmured, loud enough to be heard over the track. "She looks... taller. Sharp."

Pierre, the designer of the collection, leaned forward in his seat, his eyes widening. "Mon Dieu," he breathed. "That movement. It is not the girl from the fitting, and yet... it is familiar. Like a ghost from Milan. It is... art."

Hester focused on the end of the runway. The lights were hot on her skin, blinding and purifying. She couldn't see the faces in the crowd, just a sea of darkness beyond the glare. But she knew he was there.

Isham Rhodes sat front and center, his legs crossed, his expression unreadable. He wasn't taking photos like the rest of the influencers. He was watching. He saw the chin-the sharp, defiant line of it. He saw the way her hands moved, not flopping at her sides, but slicing the air.

It was his wife.

Hester reached the end of the catwalk. This was the moment Brandy usually did a spin and a blown kiss.

Hester stopped. She planted her feet. She tilted her head down, then slowly looked up. Her eyes, framed by the black feathers of the mask, locked onto the camera lens at the center of the pit. She didn't smile. She gave the "Death Stare"-a look of absolute, chilling dominance.

She held it for three seconds. An eternity in runway time.

Then she turned. The swing of her hips as she walked back was hypnotic, a pendulum of silk and lace.

Applause erupted. It wasn't polite clapping; it was a roar. It was the kind of sound usually reserved for icons.

Backstage, Brandy was watching the monitor, her face turning a mottled red. "She's stealing my spotlight!" she shrieked, throwing her half-eaten donut at the screen. "That bitch is walking wrong! She's ruining my brand!"

Haywood was sweating through his shirt. He was pacing, looking between the monitor and the curtain. "The press loves it," he stammered. "They think it's you. It's fine. It's good press."

Hester came through the curtain. The adrenaline was still coursing through her, making her fingertips tingle.

Brandy lunged at her. "You think you're clever?" she hissed, raising her hand to slap Hester.

Hester caught Brandy's wrist in mid-air. Her grip was iron. "Careful," Hester said, her voice muffled slightly by the mask but clear enough to cut glass. "You'll break a nail. And you need those to claw your way back to relevance."

"Where is she?" A voice boomed.

Pierre stormed backstage, followed by a phalanx of cameras and lighting assistants. "The muse! The mystery!"

He bypassed Brandy completely. He went straight to Hester.

"You!" Pierre pointed a manicured finger at her. "That walk! It was the soul of the collection!"

Brandy tried to step in front of Hester. "Pierre, darling, it's me, Bra-"

Pierre waved a hand at her without looking. "Move, child. I am speaking to the artist."

Haywood jumped in, putting on his manager smile. "Yes, Pierre, this is our concept... a new direction for Brandy..."

"Mckee Management has hidden talents," a deep voice cut through the noise.

The crowd parted. Isham Rhodes walked in. The backstage chaos seemed to freeze around him. He didn't look at Haywood. He didn't look at Brandy. He walked straight to Hester.

"An incredible performance," Isham said. He stood close enough that she could smell the crisp scent of his cologne-sandalwood and cold air.

He turned to the press, who were now crowding around, microphones thrust forward. "Who is this 'Mystery Star'?" Isham asked, his voice projecting easily.

He deliberately didn't call her Brandy.

The reporters started shouting. "Who are you?" "Take off the mask!" "Is it Brandy?"

Hester looked at Isham. His eyes were dark, steady. He was giving her the stage. She looked at Haywood, who was pale, shaking his head slightly, pleading with his eyes for her to play along.

She didn't take off the mask.

"I am simply the one who does the work," she said into the nearest microphone.

The phrase hung in the air. It was cryptic. It was heavy.

Isham offered her his arm. "Allow me to escort the star to her transport. The public deserves to keep the mystery for one night."

It was a command, not a request. The reporters backed off. Haywood stood there, mouth open, unable to stop the billionaire from taking his "client."

Hester took Isham's arm. The fabric of his suit was smooth under her fingers. They walked out together, leaving the flashbulbs and the confusion behind them.

As they exited the venue, Hester glanced back. Haywood and Brandy were standing in the wreckage of their own plan, small and shrinking in the distance.