ZARI
The spotlight never intimidated me. I thrived on it, to be honest. But tonight, waiting in the wings of the Hilton Fashion Gala in a beaded silver evening gown that hugged each contour of my body, I was an impersonator stepping into someone else's dream.
Six years ago, I owned these runways. My name meant something. Zari Valentine was more than just a face—I was the moment. But now? I was a scandal. A warning. The fallen daughter of a murdered mogul. The dumb starlet who dated a snake. The convict.
The gossip had already begun the moment my name was up on the marquee.
"She's walking tonight? For real?"
"I heard she was still incarcerated."
"Is she allowed here?"
The rumour was poisonous, but I had been through worse. I took a breath, my fingers stroking the rich silk of my dress as a stylist clipped the final lock of hair in place. My heart thudded so loudly it echoed in my own ears.
"Are you ready, Ms Valentine?" the stage assistant asked.
I looked up at her. She couldn't have been more than twenty. Her eyes were wide with awe—or maybe sympathy. I didn't care. I straightened my shoulders and nodded.
"Let's prove to them that I'm still here."
The music battered the tent like a heartbeat, the air vibrating with tension. The crowd waited with bated breath, then exploded with the opening of the curtain and the burst of light on my skin. I stepped into the light.
And the world gasped.
Only a second, or maybe two—but I felt it. That moment when the crowd all breathed as one, when they gazed not at a broken woman but at the ghost of a queen. And then there were the shutters starting to click. Flash after flash. A wave of cameras snapping away as if I had never left.
I stepped.
One step ahead of the next, easy and unbroken.
Six years hadn't broken my stride.
But because I was halfway down the runway, something caught my eye. A sign.
"Murderer."
Whore.
Justice for Malcolm Valentine.
The signs were brandished by a group of protesters in the crowd. My father's face on placards, blood-red striations over it. The crowd stirred restlessly. Murmurs grew louder. The air chilled, charged with judgement.
I felt the shiver in my fingers.
I kept walking.
Another step. Then another.
A woman standing near the front jumped up and threw something. A drink? Wine? It splattered onto the runway and just skirted my skirt.
Security sprinted after her.
"Get her out of here!"
"Zari! Look this way! Zari!"
A reporter pushed through from behind the railing, his camera focused on my face.
"Zari! Did you kill your father?!"
I stopped.
Centre of the runway.
My lungs closed up. My vision narrowed.
They still believed I did it.
All of them.
The glamour, the glitter—none of it had erased the stain. Not even six years in limbo.
Backstage was chaos. My manager—my former manager—was yelling at security. Designers whispered behind hands. Stylists lingered, unsure whether to talk to me or ignore me.
"This was a mistake," one of them said. "She's not ready."
"She's poison," another whispered.
I heard it all.
I stood in front of the mirror, regarding the woman who had experienced things most other people could only imagine. I was made up to perfection, but I could see the cracks. The fear. The rage.
"You were terrific," said a voice behind me.
I turned around.
It was Larry. Michael's best friend, now mine through association.
"Was I?" I asked, my tone hollow.
He smiled tightly. "You didn't fight anyone or cry on stage. That's a win in my book."
"They think I killed him."
He did not respond right away. He simply dug into his coat and produced a folder.
"Michael wanted you to have this."
I hesitated before I accepted it.
Inside papers—research, surveillance, private investigation reports. Someone had been excavating deep. Pictures of Hamilton Cass and Isabelle. Marriage certificate. My signed-over document giving him it all.
On the back was a recent photo of Hamilton.
Laughing. Happy. Swimming in money that once was mine.
Anger closed my throat.
"He's doing well," I breathed.
"For now," Larry answered. "But you're back, Zari. That runway was a statement. You shook them. They might hate you, but they remember you. That's the first step."
I clutched the folder in my hands.
"This isn't about remembering. I'm going to remind them. Of who I am. Of what he took."
Larry nodded. "Then let's get started."
I snuck into Michael's private elevator later that night. It was late, but I knew he'd be awake. He always was when I was out.
The door opened, and there he was, leaning against the kitchen island in a black sweater, a glass of whisky clutched in his hand.
"How did it go?" he asked.
"They called me a murderer."
His jaw locked.
"They threw things."
"Did they strike you?"
"No."
"Then you won."
I shook my head, my voice rough. "They still believe I did it."
Michael leaned forward and cupped my face with his hand, his thumb brushing against the underside of my eye where a tear dropped perilously close.
"Let them believe what they believe. Truth doesn't need a microphone. It needs time."
I leaned against his touch. For the first time, I did not push him away.
Because maybe, just maybe, this was only the beginning.
And then his phone beeped.
He stepped back to examine it.
And his face went pale.
"What is it?" I said.
He handed it to me.
A news flash.
Hamilton Cass goes public with the signing of Aria Blue by Valentine Records.
My stomach twisted.
Aria had been one of two of my former assistants.
My only friend during those prison days.
The only one that I ever trusted.
And now she was on the front page, smiling and shaking hands with the man who destroyed my life.
I read the quote.
"I owe it all to Hamilton Cass. He saw potential where everyone else saw a liability."
My knees weakened.
Michael caught me.
But nothing could temper the betrayal.
Not this time.