Chapter 3 A Brother, A View, and A Bad Idea

Zolina's POV

The skyline shimmered like it had been dipped in gold. Afternoon sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my apartment, washing the marble floors in soft light and turning the pale curtains into gossamer silk. I'd dreamed of having a place like this for years-a modern apartment high above the city, quiet and personal, with enough space to think, sketch, and breathe. The moment I stepped onto the 30th floor that first day and saw the uninterrupted view of the Burj Khalifa glinting in the distance, I knew I'd found it. I made it. But today, the view didn't bring peace. Today, it reminded me that he lived somewhere out there too. Breathing the same air as me.

Sigh! How unfortunate.

I tugged at the loose hem of my oversized tee and set down two steaming plates of lemon grilled chicken and spicy couscous on the table. Just as I placed a cold glass of mint lemonade beside each plate, the door buzzed. "Finally," I muttered, walking over barefoot and pulling the door open. Evara stepped in like a wave of energy-hair pulled up in a lazy bun, oversized black sunglasses pushed into her curls, and a vibrant scarf tied around her wrist. She always looked like the cover of an effortlessly chic fashion blog.

"Why do you look like you are running from the paparazzi with this disguise you got going on?"

"Zolaaa!" she sang, ignoring my question arms wide, then gasped dramatically. "I wanted to be mysterious. Do you like it?" she twirled around to show me her outfit.

"Wait. Don't tell me you cooked this?" she asked when she finally set her eyes on the meal I had prepared.

"I did," I said, grinning. "Don't act shocked."

"Girl, you told me you only make eggs and order everything else!"

"I was in a mood," I shrugged. "Also, I was too annoyed to leave the house."

"Mm-hmm, it looks delicious," she smirked as she dropped onto the couch, kicked her slides off, and grabbed a lemon wedge. "So... wanna tell me why you ghosted the biggest fashion event of the season?" I sat down across from her and gave her a look.

If only she knew. I turn to her on the couch with an annoyed look just remembering yesterday's event.

"Oh, no. This is about Eros, isn't it?" she said immediately, mouth full of chicken, seeing the look on my face.

I scoffed. "Your brother-Eros-is the reason I walked out of there soaked in red wine and social humiliation." Her eyes widened. "Wait, wait, what?!" Forgetting all about her food.

"He ran into me while I was admiring one of the displays. Red wine spilled all over my dress-my off-white vintage dress that I had made myself, by the way-and instead of apologizing, he just stood there and blamed me." I tighten my palms into a fist. The dress could not be salvaged because the crimson red wine refused to wash out.

Evara looked like she was trying not to laugh. There isn't anything funny about this.

"Classic Eros."

"That man is a walking ego in a tuxedo," I said, stabbing my couscous with my fork. "I didn't even know it was him until you sent me that photo. I thought he was just another arrogant socialite with too much money and not enough decency." "Well..." she started, then cleared her throat. "I'm not saying you're wrong. But I am saying you shouldn't take it personally. Eros has always been... difficult."

"Difficult ?" I blinked. "The man told me to get wine-resistant thread next time."

Evara choked on her lemonade. "You're joking." "Wish I was. He even tried to pay me off like I was some background character in his billionaire soap opera." She sighed, setting her glass down. "Look... I know he's a lot. He's always been intense-hyper-focused, business-minded, not great at emotions. But once you get past the stone wall personality, he's not all that bad." "Stone wall is being generous," I muttered. "He's just guarded," she said. "The whole family expects him to carry everything-legacy, wealth, reputation. That's a lot of pressure."

I exhaled and leaned back in my seat. "I get it, I really do. But that doesn't give him the right to act like he's above everyone else." There was a pause. Then Evara looked at me thoughtfully. "You really hate him, huh?" I shrugged. "I don't know if it's hate... but it's definitely in the neighborhood." She grinned. "Well, get comfy, because you're probably going to see a lot more of him."

"Don't remind me."

We both laughed, the tension easing as we moved on to lighter conversation-TikTok trends, design inspiration, a fashion pop-up happening next week. We ended up deciding to binge watch the new Ginny & Georgia season. All I can say is that the show that was once cringy was taking a dark turn.

Then, somewhere between forkfuls of couscous, laughter and a couple episodes, Evara's face turned serious again. "So... how's everything going with your brand?" she asked gently. I hesitated. "It's moving. Slowly. I've finalized the brand name, drafted some preliminary collections, and found two potential textile suppliers. But-" I took a breath, "-the money's starting to thin out. I need an investor. Someone who actually understands the industry. Or at least believes in creative startups."

Evara leaned forward. "Have you pitched to anyone yet?"

"Three people. Two were nice, but wanted to own too much of the company. The other one told me he'd fund it if I added rhinestones and made it more 'Instagram baddie chic.' I wanted to scream." She winced. "Yeah, no. That's not your vibe at all."

"Exactly. I want something timeless and bold. Edgy, but clean. Structured minimalism with cultural undertones. Not fast fashion." There was a beat of silence as Evara tapped her nails on the edge of her glass, thinking. "You know," she said slowly, "Eros has been talking about investing outside his usual sectors."

I blinked. "What?"

"He's been in tech and infrastructure for years," she explained. "Started off in crypto at twenty, then moved into AI logistics, and now he's running a venture capital fund. But lately, he's been saying he wants to diversify into creative industries-fashion, media, lifestyle." I stared at her. "Please tell me you're not suggesting your brother." "I'm just saying," she said, raising her hands innocently, "you need an investor who respects ambition, right? Who's willing to take a risk on a creative vision? Eros does that-just in other sectors."

"I would rather let my company sink than pitch to him." She laughed. "You're being dramatic." "No, I'm being traumatized. I can still smell the wine on my dress." "Okay, fair," she said, chuckling. "But think about it. He's smart, strategic, and honestly? He'd admire your work ethic-if he actually listened long enough to see it." I sighed, leaning my head against the back of the chair, staring out the giant window again. It did make sense. Logically. Eros had money, connections, and a mind for business. If I could get past the fact that he was insufferable and emotionally unavailable, he might actually be a good investor. But could I get past that?

"I don't want pity money," I murmured. "And I don't want him to see me as some charity case or little side project." "Then don't pitch yourself that way," she said firmly. "You've worked your ass off. You have the designs, the vision, the research. He either sees that, or he doesn't. But give him the chance to see you-not just some girl he bumped into at a party." I was quiet for a long moment. The light shifted on the glass, the city glowing beneath the sun.

"What if he says no?" I asked softly. "Then we find someone better," she said, smiling. "But you won't know unless you try."

___

Later that evening, the silence in my apartment was both calming and heavy. The golden hour had come and gone, and Dubai's skyline now sparkled like it had dressed for a gala. I'd changed into a pair of ribbed lounge shorts and a tank top, curling into my studio corner with a steaming mug of ginger tea and my sketchpad.

My pencil danced against the page, shaping silhouettes that only existed in my mind hours ago. Long coats with structured shoulders. Corset-waisted blazers. Minimalist abayas made of deep navy silk and lined with Nubian embroidery. Every line I drew pulled me deeper into the world I was building-ALPHA. My future. My vision. My legacy. I paused, staring at the flowing lines of a gown I'd just finished. It had a high neck and dramatic open back, meant for the woman who didn't just walk into a room, but claimed it. I could almost see it on a runway, camera flashes bursting like fireworks. But then, like a sharp snap back to reality, I felt the weight in my chest return.

Money.

I reached for my laptop and pulled up my trading account. My stomach tightened before the screen even loaded. The numbers weren't lying. The forex profits I'd lived off for the past year were thinning faster than I'd expected. Between rent, living expenses, material samples, and legal fees for setting up the brand... I had less than three months of cushion left. And launching a fashion line in Dubai-especially the kind I envisioned-wasn't just expensive. It was ruthless.

I sat back slowly, the tea forgotten, the silence now deafening. I'd always been proud of the fact that I did this alone. My parents didn't fund me. No ex-boyfriend bankrolled my dreams. Every cent I'd made came from nights spent staring at charts and currencies, teaching myself how to read markets like a second language. But ambition was a hungry monster, and dreams didn't grow on pride.

My fingers hovered over my phone. No. I couldn't. I wouldn't.

I stood, pacing the room, trying to shake the anxiety out of my limbs. Maybe I could launch a smaller line. Maybe I'd cut a few pieces. Delay the runway debut. Sell made-to-order styles only. But with each compromise, I felt the vision crumbling. That wasn't what ALPHA was supposed to be. It wasn't meant to play small. I sat back down and stared at the city again. Beneath me were thousands of people chasing things. Money. Power. Dreams. Love. And here I was, staring mine in the face, and letting pride hold me back.

Dammit. I grabbed my phone, opened my call log, and tapped Evara's name before I could talk myself out of it.

"Zolaaaa," she answered cheerfully, even though I could hear the rustle of her sheets. "Hey," I said softly, rubbing my temple. There was a pause. "You okay?" I closed my eyes. "I've been going over everything, Eva. The costs. The timeline. The launch plans. My account balance. And I hate saying this, but... I can't do it alone. Not the way I want to." Her voice turned gentle. "So what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking... I might need to meet with your brother." There was silence for a beat too long. "You sure?" "No," I admitted. "But I'm sure I want this company to exist. And that matters more than hating a man for having bad manners and a God complex." She chuckled softly. "That's growth, babe." I groaned. "Don't make me regret this." "You won't," she said confidently. "Look, I'll talk to him. Set something up. Just be open-minded, okay?"

I nodded, more to myself than to her. "Okay." "Also..." she added, "don't wear something too intimidating. You know he hates being outdressed." "Oh," I smirked, "now you've given me a reason to show up." We both laughed, and for the first time that day, I felt a little lighter.

After we hung up, I sat back on the couch, letting my eyes wander over the sketches again. The vision was still here-alive, waiting. I didn't know what Eros would say, and I certainly didn't know if we'd survive being in the same room again. But I did know one thing: I wasn't letting this dream slip away.

Not for pride.

Not for fear.

Not even for him.