After three month, the rain season hadn't stopped and it poured for hours the weekend night. It tapped against the window like a ticking clock, like fate reminding her she was already late.
Jane opened the door without ceremony. No umbrella.
There Venessa stood, her silhouette a shadow carved out by the storm. Hair matted to her skull, designer coat hanging off her like a soggy carcass, and in her hand—awkwardly held, like it hurt to lift it—was a shopping bag. A pretty one, wrapped in rain-smudged cellophane and purple ribbon. Childish, hopeful.
"For Meg," she said, her voice barely above the patter of rain. "Late, I know. But she likes surprises. The good kind."
Jane took the bag wordlessly. Her throat tightened when she looked down at it—Venessa had remembered Megan's favourite boutique, the one they used to visit before things fell apart. That mattered.
"Come in," Jane said, stepping aside.
Venessa crossed the threshold like a ghost trying to remember how to be human. She peeled off her coat slowly, fingers trembling. "I need a way out," she said after a deep breath.
Then, after a pause that felt like it cracked something invisible between them, she added: "A real one. I can't keep patching holes with duct tape and daydreams. I need a lifeline, Jane. A real f***ing break."
Jane set the gift bag on the kitchen island and leaned back against the marble counter, arms folding. Her gaze didn't soften, but something in it steadied. She knew this look. Had seen it in the mirror once—years ago, after her own life fell off its axis.
"Okay," she said, quietly. "Talk to me."
Venessa inhaled through her nose like she was trying to swallow fire. Her shoulders squared, her chin lifted—barely—but it was enough. The way survivors do, when shame is no longer a luxury.
"You remember Phoenix in Silk-?" She then added, "The one I pluck your flowers for..."
Jane blinked. "Oh, I didn't know you named it that, your last semester piece? The one you wouldn't let anyone touch until the showcase?"
Venessa nodded, slowly. Her lips pressed into a tight line before she forced the words out.
"It got shortlisted. For the European Fellowship."
Jane's eyes went wide. "Vanessa, that's huge—!"
"I didn't get it," she cut in, flat. Her voice cracked, just once, before it went cold again. "Stella Rousseau did."
Silence hit like a slap.
Jane's brows drew together. "What are you saying?"
"I never got to show it," Venessa said. Her voice was flat now. Numb. "I dropped out before the showcase."
Jane's brow furrowed. "Yeah, but—wasn't it still locked in your atelier space?"
Venessa let out a bitter laugh. "Locked? The second I stepped off that campus weeks later, Stella Rousseau present Phoenix in Silk as her own 'visionary debut.'"
"She submitted that design." Venessa let out a single, hollow laugh, the sound of someone too tired to cry. "Same title. Same lines. Same freaking stitch-count. But with better lighting. Better PR. And, I guess, better budget. She's now using that for making business"
Jane's jaw dropped. "Wait. That Stella Rousseau? The one who—?"
"Who just booked Paris Fashion Week. Who got the Maison Ardent feature. Who became the talk of the industry overnight because of that one 'singularly powerful' design?" Venessa's smile was made of knives. "Yeah. That Stella."
Jane opened her mouth, outrage forming—but Venessa looked away. Not to silence her, but to anchor herself. "But... how did she even get your design?
"Her father made a donation to the school. A big one. And apparently, because I'm no longer enrolled, the school owns the rights to all my archived work. Including the prototype. Including Phoenix in Silk. When I dropped out they reassigned it to her."
Her voice didn't tremble now—it burned.
"Just like that," Jane burst out. " I heard from Meg, that you sewed that gown between barista shifts and pallor. The silk was clearance bin scrap. You stitched it with fingers that were cracked open, raw, bled through that lining twice. And now it belongs to her."
Jane stepped forward, like you do with an injured animal. Careful not to spook it. Not to push it away.
"Jane, I don't want sympathy," Venessa said, catching the movement. "I want a way out. I want to sell. To win. I can still design. You know I can. I make things no one else would dare to imagine. All I need is backing. Someone with sufficient funds who needs a product. Who needs a designer."
Her eyes lifted then—burning, alive again for the first time in months.
"Do you know anyone? A sponsor? A collector? A kingmaker who needs a queen? I don't care how ruthless they are. Give me a thread to pull and I'll weave a f***ing empire if someone just bets on me."
Jane stared at her for a long moment. This wasn't the sister who used to float through ballrooms, all diamonds and sugar. This was someone new. Someone born in fire.
And then Jane exhaled, slowly.
"There is someone," she said.
Venessa's spine straightened like it had been pulled up by invisible strings. "Who?"
Jane's jaw tightened. Her expression warned more than her words did. She stepped forward slowly, like approaching something fragile.
"She's not kind. She's not patient. And she doesn't believe in second chances."
Venessa didn't blink. "That's fine. I'm not asking for a second chance," she added."I'm asking for a fair deal."
Jane hesitated. "Ven, that woman is a power broker. Controls legacy foundations, scholarships, fashion boards. Name it and she owns it all in fashion and brands, from ramps to the single thread used. She owns the glass ceiling—and she'll crack it for you, if it profits her. If she likes you, your runway is gold. If she doesn't…" Jane's mouth tightened. "You vanish.""
Venessa's voice was ice. "Then tell her I'm ready."
A beat.
"But she'll ask for something in return."
"Good," Venessa said, steel in her spine now. "I'm done making sacrifices that don't pay out."
Another silence stretched, thick and electric.
Finally, Jane murmured, "Her name's Mrs. Adrienne Lauren."
Venessa's jaw tensed. She knew that name. Everyone did. The woman was more myth than mentor. Stories swirled about her like storm-clouds—of protégés made and broken, of alliances turned to ash the moment they stopped being useful.
Jane added, voice softer now, "She has a quick deal out in open if you could crack, "
Jane didn't confirm it aloud.
Venessa's lips twitched, something darker unfurling behind her eyes.
"Let me guess," she said. "That's the catch."
Venessa's lips twitched, something darker unfurling behind her eyes.
"Let me guess," she said. "That's the catch."
Jane didn't blink. "She doesn't fund talent out of charity, Ven. She invests like a queen laying siege—strategically, mercilessly, for legacy."
Venessa arched a brow. "What's the price tag?"
Jane hesitated, and that pause said everything.
"She's offering everything. A full couture launch under her brand umbrella. Factory access. Sponsorships. Press. You'd be walking into Paris Fashion Week with the media already calling you the next revolution. She'll bankroll the collection. Your name, your label—front and center."
Venessa's eyes narrowed. "And in return?"
"She wants a daughter-in-law," Jane said. "Not a business partner. Not an intern or a muse. But A brand bride."
Venessa froze.
Jane continued, slowly now. "She's promised the opportunity—to any woman willing to marry her son. On paper, it's a marriage contract. But underneath… it's a war game. Adrienne Lauren wants control of her legacy. Her son wants nothing to do with it. So she's recruiting. Grooming a business partner she can legally bind to the Lauren name. Someone of her choice yet desperate enough to agree."
A beat.
Venessa let the words settle. Let them burn.
"A buy-in bride," she said at last. "She's not offering a future. She's buying a hostage with good press and an ironclad prenup."
"Exactly," Jane whispered. "But a hostage with a runway."
Venessa turned toward the window, watching the rain etch war maps down the glass. "And the son?"
Jane's lips pressed into a tight line. "No one's seen him in months. Rumors say he's in rehab. Others say exile. Some claim he walked away from the empire altogether."
Venessa's gaze sharpened. "But legally, he's still the heir."
Jane nodded. "And whoever wears the ring, wears the fashion crown."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was loaded.
The silence snapped taut—pregnant not with possibility, but with strategy.
Then Venessa stood. "I'm in," she said. "Can you arrange it?"
"You're serious? You're going to sacrifice your love and marriage fantasies for money and power..." Jane asked, voice low.
Venessa smiled, slow and sharp. "I don't need love to succeed anymore. Love is for girls with daddies who don't bankrupt them. Love is a luxury. If I get it then be clear that I'm in for building me an empire, Jane—not playing house with her heir."
Jane stared.