Chapter 8 8

Helena stepped into the room.

The office was a disaster. Rolls of fabric were piled on the floor like fallen trees. Half-dressed mannequins stood in random corners. Sketches were taped to the windows, blocking out the sun.

Four people were lounging around a central cutting table, drinking coffee and laughing.

The heavy door slammed shut behind Helena. The loud thud echoed through the room.

The laughter stopped instantly. Four pairs of eyes locked onto her.

A girl with bright pink hair sitting on the edge of the table sneered.

"Look what the cat dragged in," the pink-haired girl said loudly. "Another little socialite sent here to play designer."

A man in a loud floral shirt laughed. The mockery in the room was thick and heavy.

Helena did not say a word. She stood perfectly still. She let her eyes sweep over the room, taking in the mess, the people, the hostility.

She unbuttoned her light trench coat and slipped it off her shoulders, draping it over a nearby chair.

She stood in her perfectly tailored white dress. The cut highlighted her posture. She looked like she owned the building.

The room went dead silent.

The pink-haired girl stopped sneering. She looked down at her own oversized sweater and pulled at the hem awkwardly.

The man in the floral shirt let out a low whistle. "Well, at least this one is easy on the eyes."

"Donovan, shut up."

The voice came from the darkest corner of the room. It was a deep, lazy drawl.

A man stood up from behind a mountain of black velvet. He was tall, with shoulder-length dark curls. He wore a loose silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

Lysander.

He walked slowly toward Helena. He did not look at her face. He looked at the seams of her dress. He looked at how the fabric fell across her hips. He circled her like a predator inspecting a meal.

"You have a good eye," Lysander said, stopping in front of her. "Or a very good stylist."

"I picked it myself," Helena said. Her voice was flat and steady.

Lysander looked up into her eyes.

"I do not care who your father is," Lysander said, stepping closer. "I do not care who you know. In my studio, you are judged by one thing only. Your talent. Do you have any?"

His aggression hit her like a physical wave.

Helena did not step back. She held his stare.

"Show me," she challenged.

Lysander's lips curved into a sharp smile. He liked that.

He turned around, walked to a dusty metal shelf, and pulled down a thick, battered black folder. He walked back and dropped it onto the table in front of her. Dust flew into the air.

"This is the Phoenix project," Lysander said.

The pink-haired girl gasped. Donovan shook his head.

"A resort collection for a client who went bankrupt halfway through," Lysander explained. "It is a mess of conflicting ideas and unusable materials. It has been sitting here for two years. It is garbage."

He tapped the folder with a long finger.

"Your task is simple. Make something beautiful out of this garbage. You have one week."

It was a trap. A death sentence for a new designer.

Helena reached out and flipped the folder open. She saw neon green synthetic fabrics paired with heavy wool concepts. It was a disaster.

She closed the folder. She looked up at Lysander. Her heart beat a steady, calm rhythm against her ribs.

"I do not need a week," Helena said. Her voice rang clear through the silent room. "I will have a concept board for you by tomorrow morning."

Lysander's smile vanished. He stared at her, his eyes searching her face for the joke.

Helena picked up the heavy folder, turned around, and walked toward an empty desk by the window.