The first thing Aria Vale feels is the silence.
It presses against her chest like hands she didn't invite. Too tight. Too close. The kind of silence that waits for you to fail.
The glass conference room is all wrong for her. Too sharp. Too bright. Too clean. It smells like money and control and decisions already made without her. She stands anyway, spine straight, sketchbook clutched to her chest like it might stop the bleeding if this goes bad.
And it is going bad.
Lucien Blackwell doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to.
He sits at the head of the table, suit perfectly tailored, expression unreadable in a way that should be illegal. He flips through her designs slowly, one page at a time, as if he has all the time in the world and she has none.
The board members don't look at her. They look at him.
That's how power works.
"This line," Lucien says, tapping the page with a single finger, "is emotionally interesting."
Aria's breath catches. Just a little. Hope is embarrassing like that.
Then he continues.
"But commercially reckless."
The words land clean. No insult. No cruelty. Just a quiet execution.
Her ears ring. Her mouth opens before her brain catches up. "It's meant to be disruptive. Fashion isn't supposed to be safe."
Lucien finally looks at her.
His gaze is sharp. Assessing. Like she's a problem he's already halfway done solving. "Disruption without discipline is chaos," he says calmly. "Your designs prioritize feeling over function. That doesn't scale."
Someone clears their throat. Another board member shifts in their seat.
Aria swallows. Her palms are damp now. She keeps going because stopping would mean admitting defeat. "With the right backing, the audience will grow. People want to feel seen."
Lucien leans back. Fingers interlaced. Unbothered. "Belief isn't a business model."
That's it.
No argument. No follow-up. No chance to recover.
He closes the sketchbook and slides it back toward her like he's returning a borrowed item. "You're talented," he adds, almost as an afterthought. "But talent is common. Control isn't."
The meeting ends around her.
Chairs scrape. Papers shuffle. Someone thanks her for coming. Lucien is already checking his phone.
Aria walks out with her head high because if she lets herself crumble here, she might never stop.
The doors slide open.
Flash.
Cameras. Shouts. Her name, twisted into something sharp and hungry.
"Aria! Look this way!"
"Are you involved with Blackwell?"
Her heart drops straight into her stomach. She freezes. Just for half a second. That's all it takes.
Security pulls her back inside, the doors sealing shut with a soft click that feels final. Her reflection stares back at her from the glass. Pale. Eyes too bright. A girl who aimed too high and forgot gravity exists.
She doesn't cry until later.
Much later.
That night, her studio feels like the only place that hasn't betrayed her. Fabric drapes over chairs. Pins scatter across the floor. Half-finished dresses hang from racks like quiet witnesses. Aria works because working keeps her hands busy and her thoughts quiet.
There's a knock.
She looks up, startled.
Lucien Blackwell's assistant steps inside like she owns the place. Perfect posture. Sharp heels. Zero warmth.
"We need a fitting," the woman says. "Tomorrow morning."
Aria frowns. "For what?"
"There may be press."
That doesn't help.
The assistant sets a velvet case on the table and opens it.
Aria's breath leaves her body.
Inside lies a necklace she's seen only in archives and whispered conversations. Heavy. Old. A Blackwell heirloom. The kind of accessory people don't just wear. They inherit it.
"I can't touch that," Aria says immediately.
"You won't wear it," the assistant replies. "It's for reference."
She leaves before Aria can argue.
Hours later, the studio is quiet again. Too quiet.
Aria stares at the case like it might explode. Eventually, curiosity wins. It always does.
She lifts the necklace. It's colder than she expects. Heavier too. She steps toward the mirror and raises it to her collarbone, just to see. Just to understand why objects like this hold power.
Her phone buzzes. A message from her best friend she doesn't read.
She doesn't notice the camera outside the window.
She doesn't notice the angle.
She doesn't notice anything except how tired she is.
Morning hits hard.
Her phone vibrates nonstop. Notifications stack like dominos. Unknown numbers. Missed calls. Messages with no context.
She opens a headline.
BLACKWELL'S SECRET MUSE?
Another.
BILLIONAIRE INVESTOR LINKED TO YOUNG DESIGNER
There's a photo.
Her studio. Her skin. The necklace unmistakable against her throat. Her expression soft in a way that looks intimate. Private. Wrong.
Aria slides down the wall, breath coming too fast. Her chest tightens. Her hands shake as she scrolls.
They think she slept with him.
The man who dismantled her in a glass room now owns her reputation.
Her phone rings.
Unknown number.
She answers because not answering feels worse.
"We need to talk," Lucien Blackwell says.
His voice is calm. Controlled. But something underneath it hums. Tension. Anger. Maybe panic.
"About what?" Aria asks, even though her heart already knows.
A pause.
"About the fact," he says quietly, "that the world thinks you belong to me."
The line goes dead.
Aria stares at her phone.
Her dream is fragile. Her name is on fire.
And the man who crushed her might be the only one who can save her.
Or finish destroying her.