Somewhere in Paris, Clio was still at her desk.
Not because she wanted to be—but because someone had to stay late and stalk the rich.
Across the Seine, golden hour had already packed up. The city was dimming, and so was her patience. But the Slack ping came anyway—sharp, neon, merciless.
She didn't know it yet, but tonight she'd be pulled back into the orbit of two names she both envied and despised: Demitra and Sabrina Sinclair.
Vogue Paris Offices | 6:39 P.M.
Clio Maren, Journalist
The Slack ping came just as I was about to shut my laptop.
Of course it did.
From: Giselle (Editor, Features)
can you put together a background packet on the Sinclair cousins? everything we don't know.
Right.
"Don't know" in Vogue-speak?
That meant everything we haven't already printed on glossy paper and pretended we discovered ourselves.
I cracked my knuckles and exhaled.
I already had the file. Everyone did. Stashed deep in the our drive, buried in folders with names like Fashion Ghosts, Untouchables, and my personal favorite—DemiGods.
The Sinclair cousins had their own tab.
Demitra and Sabrina Sinclair.
Socialites. Heiresses. Businesswomen. Possibly witches. Somehow both everywhere and nowhere. They allegedly built two of the most talked-about luxury brands in Paris.
No interviews. No press. No publicist sightings.
I sighed and opened a fresh Google Doc anyway.
Titled it: RE: The Sinclair Cousins — Confidential Profile (Unofficial)
First bullet point:
Demitra Sinclair — possibly (probably) the founder of Demi by Design. No confirmation. Ex-Harvard pre-med. Parsons-trained, if the rumors are true. Seen at Maison Cartier. Once photographed front row at Balenciaga despite not being on the guest list. Face never used in any campaign. Could stand behind you in line and you'd never know. That's the point. That's the power.
I paused, staring at the blinking cursor, trying to think of what to add next— when a push notification lit up the side of my screen.
"The Haus Girls" is now trending.
Of course they are.
Without thinking, I clicked.
Vanity Fair had just posted something soft, glossy, and shallow. The caption?
"they're not real people. they're an aesthetic. a lifestyle. a punishment for being born regular."
I laughed. Quietly. Bitterly. She wasn't wrong.
I started typing again.
Public visibility: Present, but irrelevant. They appear. They exist. They're never quoted.
Then, half-serious, half-sarcastic:
Conclusion: Unfathomably visible. Unprovably connected. Unbothered.
I sat back and sipped the espresso I forgot I had.
Cold. Burnt. Perfect.
I'd been watching them for two years.
Piecing together scraps like an obsessed little magpie—tagless mentions, half-deleted posts, blurry sightings at Hôtel Lutetia. Once, I was sure I saw Demitra at the back of a book launch. But when I blinked, she was gone.
And maybe that's the magic of it.
But one day, someone's going to write the real story. Not the Vogue version. Not the Forbes version.
The version. The one they don't want told.
And maybe—if I'm smart, and patient, and just a little bit lucky—that someone will be me.
The morning had barely started when Giselle swept past the intern desks, sunglasses still on, Dior coat slipping off one shoulder like she'd staged it for street style.
"Clio—five minutes," she called, not even glancing back.
No please. No context. Just Clio—five minutes.
I grabbed my notebook and followed her into the glass-walled office that overlooked the 3rd arrondissement like a throne room. She was already at the window, arms crossed.
"They're trending again. Second spike this week," she said, tossing a magazine onto her desk like it had personally insulted her. "We need something new. Fresh. No more rehashed Pinterest-core fluff."
I didn't have to ask who they meant.
Demitra and Sabi Sinclair—without actually being on the cover. A spread on Demi by Design. A teaser on Héritage Haus's rumored expansion, which I was 98% sure was fake.
I took a breath, counting to ten. "I've combed through everything. There's really nothing new."
Honestly? I was tired.
Tired of writing around ghosts. Tired of being told that maybe this time we'd get something real—only for it to dissolve in rumor and retweets.
I've gone through everything. Public records, press databases, studio permits in Paris, Seoul, Melbourne. I even searched aviation logs. There's no hard proof. No slip-ups. Nothing directly linking the Sinclairs to the label. Just fan theories and a couple of blurry gala photos from—what, three years ago?
I tried again. "Can't we just cover an actual fashion label? Something we can access?"
Giselle finally turned.
"People are obsessed with them. Our numbers spike every time. What we need is a fresh angle. Something real. Not perfume-in-the-air bullshit."
I forced a smile, trying to keep the edge from creeping into my voice.
"I've dug through every archive we have. Cross-referenced everything from Parsons class rosters to airport photos. There's nothing new. They're ghosts with Amex cards," I said again, because it was true.
But even as I said it, I could feel my patience slipping.
I've been doing this for years.
I'd canceled dates. Missed my sister's graduation. Fallen asleep twice in the Vogue archive scanning old photos. And for what? Another article held together with speculation and SEO glue?
It felt like I was chasing something that wasn't even real.
And Giselle was blind to it, as usual.
Still nothing from her. Just that look—like I wasn't trying hard enough.
"So?" she snapped. "We don't deal in courtroom evidence, Clio. We deal in allure. Find the ghosts. That's your job. You said you wanted features, right? Prove it."
I bit my lip, trying to hold back the words rising up.
I had tried.
God, I'd tried.
Three months in, and my Google Drive had turned into a graveyard of Sinclair folklore.
Were they living full-time in the Haus or rotating through hotels? Was Demi by Design really run by Demitra herself, or a shell team of stylists? Was Sabi dating the interior architect from the Four Seasons—or just photographed near him once?
The theories never ended. But the facts? No movement.
The public only ever saw their regular lives—but nothing that explicitly tied them to the brands. No statements. No confirmations.
It was all aesthetics. A closed loop of recycled obsession.
I shook my head, feeling the frustration finally break free.
"What if it's not them? What if the internet just decided it had to be them—and now we're all caught in the delusion?" I said flatly.
Giselle raised an eyebrow, slow, deliberate.
"You think the most exclusive brand in the world just spontaneously exists with zero founder? You think Héritage Haus built itself?"
"Fine," I snapped, heat rising to my cheeks. "Let's say it is them. Then what? We've been chasing shadows for years. They're smart. Rich enough to cover everything. We've had no leaks, no cousin with a grudge giving it away on TikTok. Nothing."
"Exactly. That's what makes them icons."
I shook my head. "It's exhausting. It's like we're all in a cult. Every season it's the same recycled speculation—'The heiresses behind the label.' But nothing. Nothing's confirmed."
She stepped closer, voice low.
"Clio. People don't read these features to learn. They read them to believe. They want myth. Hunger. Devotion. It's couture Catholicism."
I stared at her, hollow. "I didn't get into fashion journalism to peddle fairy tales."
"No," she said, almost sweetly. "You got into fashion journalism to write. So write. If you're so tired of the mystery—say that. Frame it. Own the fatigue. But don't pretend they don't matter."
A beat.
"Pitch on my desk by three."
She turned back to the window, dismissing me with a flick of her fingers.
I walked out, heart hammering, skin flushed. I felt like I'd just argued with my own reflection.
And yet... maybe that was the story.
I went back to my desk and got to work, piecing together six years of silence into something that finally resembled a story.
I had been tapping furiously—between my notes, cached rumors, and five different features I'd ghostwritten for more senior editors over the years. My third cup of coffee had gone cold. I hadn't blinked in forty minutes.
But the words wouldn't stop.
The opening felt like a confession. By paragraph three, it had become a thesis. And by the time I typed the headline, my heart was pounding.
I leaned back and read it.
Twice.
No new sources. No groundbreaking facts. Just a freshly sharpened, honest breakdown of what this has always been: the media's obsession with absence.
A six-year mirage we kept chasing. The myth we kept writing. The role we all played in turning two very real women—Demitra and Sabi Sinclair—into folklore.
After a full day of recycling rumors and retracing breadcrumbs, the draft was done.
I hovered over "Send."
And then I clicked.
Now, I just had to brace myself—for Gissele.
"Absolutely not. What are you even thinking?"
Gissele's voice sliced through the office like tailoring shears. Her desk was a war zone of proofs, press kits, and two phones ringing nonstop—but she still managed to stab a manicured finger straight into my printout.
"You call this a story?" she snapped. "It's not journalism. It's—" she paused, flipping the pages like they smelled bad—"a diary entry in designer heels. A love letter to a mystery no one asked you to solve."
She held the headline up like it embarrassed her.
"Try calling it The Gospel According to Gossip. At least that'd be honest."
"There are no interviews. No insight. You're writing an exposé based on what you don't know."
I didn't flinch. "That's the point. No one knows anything. No one's ever confirmed it. We're addicted to a version of them they've never even acknowledged."
She narrowed her eyes. "You sound like you're defending them."
"I'm defending the facts," I said, steady. "Or at least pointing out that there haven't been any. It's been six years of recycling the same speculation with a new coat of paint."
Giselle exhaled sharply—the kind of breath that made the entire bullpen go quiet for half a second.
"I'll think about it," she said finally. "But if you want this in print, you need voices. At least three. Stylists, PR—hell, a doorman—I don't care. Someone other than you."
I nodded.
She was right.
And I hated that she was.
But what she was asking? It was impossible.
And just like that, I was back in the storm.
Gissele said she needed interviews with anyone actually connected to them. So I spent three days chasing the same ghost in different voices.
Stylists in Montmartre cafés.
Publicists behind rose-gold MacBooks.
Theorists swirling Negronis in velvet bars.
Everyone had something clever to say—Nothing real.
Same story, better clothes.
Some swore it was the Sinclairs.
Others said it didn't matter.
They weren't chasing truth—
They were romanticizing their own confusion.
By Saturday night, my notebook was full of polished phrases and zero proof.
No names. No evidence. Not even a lead. Just six years of curated nonsense.
And somehow, I was supposed to turn that into a feature for September.
Somewhere near Deauville, the beach shimmered. Demitra sipped her drink, oblivious to the world beyond her sunglasses. Waves curled in the distance, lazy and unbothered. Like her, they didn't seem in any rush to care.
Just another day in paradise. I was half-sunken into a striped lounger, Aperol in hand, watching sunlight glitter across the ocean like scattered diamonds. The waves murmured in the background—steady, indulgent—while my skin soaked in its golden ration. I had nowhere to be, nothing urgent to do.
This was the promise I'd made to myself: a well-earned escape after months of playing both director and designer.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost let it go to voicemail, but something made me answer.
"Hello, is this Demitra Sinclair? This is the production team from Love Island."
The words hit like a splash of cold water.
It had been years since I'd been on that show.
Years since that summer.
"I'm sorry," I said, blinking behind my oversized Dior shades. "I'm on vacation."
They were understanding. Professional. Said they'd leave the door open.
I hung up, trying to shake off the memories.
A week later, I was back in the country—and, naturally, the call came up over family dinner.
"Someone from Love Island's production team called me," I mentioned casually, swirling my wine. "They want me back."
My father put down his fork. "And you said no, I assume?"
"Of course. My schedule is packed. Plus, I have that trip with Angie coming up."
"Good. If you're really looking to date," he added, "I can set you up with someone more suitable—for you, and for our family."
Ha! No thanks, Dad.
Matchmaking is not his forte—but obviously, I didn't say that out loud.
I just smiled sweetly and said, "No thank you, Father. I'll handle that matter myself."
"If you ever change your mind, dear, just let Mother know," she added. "And I'll arrange for Georgina to handle your upcoming launch, so don't worry about that."
Georgina—my father's secretary, and the kind of woman whose efficiency could keep a conglomerate running in her sleep.
Sharp, silent, and always five steps ahead.
Honestly, I trusted her more than half our board.
"Actually... that's not a bad idea," I mused.
But my father was not having it.
"What do you mean, 'if she wants to go'? Are you actually encouraging this—after what happened last time?" His voice was rising.
"Dear," my mother said, calm as ever. "Demitra is an adult. She can make her own decisions. I'm just letting her know I'll take care of what's left if she wants to go."
Someone's definitely sleeping on the couch tonight.
"Oh please, if you let me borrow Georgina, I'll go. It'll be a laugh," I smirked.
"Demitra," my dad said sternly, his expression darkening, "did you forget what happened last time? Me and your uncles were raging watching that bastard cheat on you."
"Uh, Dad. You don't have to worry—we weren't even in a real relationship. You're kinda... overreacting?" I offered gently.
"In a relationship or not, he cheated on you while pretending you were the love of his life!"
"But that's on him. I'm not even bothered. He's a great guy, sure—but it's not like I was in love or anything."
"He cheated on you!"
"Dad, it was literally two weeks. I barely knew the guy."
Honestly, it's true. The bastard—I mean, that guy—was fun and all, but let's not romanticize a holiday fling.
Mom eventually calmed him down—and how she did it, I don't want to know. It was terrifying enough from across the table.
So after all that back-and-forth... I said yes.
Why not? Last season was actually kind of fun. If it gets boring, I'll just leave. No harm done.
And who knows? It might be a laugh.
After dinner, I climbed the stairs to my room and sat in silence. My eyes scanned the ceiling, the walls, the possibilities.
Without thinking too hard, I picked up my phone and dialed back the number.
"Hi... it's Demitra. I've changed my mind. I'm in."
Right after confirming with the producers, I called Angie.
Yes—that Angie from Season 4. We got close after my season ended.
Met at a few events, realized we shared the same taste in men, money, and mayhem. Instant click.
"Angie, come over," I said.
"Babe, aren't you in Paris? Do you expect me to fly there midweek?" she replied, as if I'm the unreasonable one.
"Obviously I'm back. Cut my trip short."
"You could've just said so. 'Kay, coming."
No further questions. That's friendship.
I had barely made it through half my skincare routine before the maid informed me Angie was already in the living room.
I told her about Love Island.
She screamed.
Like—actually screamed. Full-volume, arms-flailing, head-thrown-back chaos.
You'd think I told her I was engaged to a prince or dead.
"Oh my God—is this real?! What is this, Love Island: All Stars—the Demitra Sinclair Grand Comeback?"
"You're ridiculous," I laughed, already reaching for my phone to book a pre-villa facial.
Then naturally I dragged her out for some shopping. We went to the nearest mall my family owns—because of course we own multiple.
While I was eyeing a rack of designer swimwear, she asked who I wanted to see there.
"Will. From her season . He's hot as fuck—," I said, completely unbothered.
She gave me a look. Deadpan. "Anyone but him. He's my friend."
"And? I let you latch onto my friends. Why can't I latch onto yours?"
"You're not Will's type," she said flatly.
Who does she think she's talking to?
"Babe, I'm everyone's type," I replied casually, flipping through bikinis like I was picking stocks.
She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was low-key worried.
I wasn't.
Truth is, I don't even know who's going to be there.
I didn't even watch my own season. What's the point? I lived it.
The other seasons? Couldn't name a single person if you paid me. I haven't kept up—I've been too busy building an actual life.
Half of them follow me, I think. Couldn't tell you why.
We circled back to our trip—postponed, obviously. Love Island takes priority.
Angie asked about Fashion Week, the launch, and the other twenty things on my calendar.
"Don't worry," I said. "Mother's handling it. Georgina and Levi are taking care of the details."
Levi's my secretary. Georgina's sister. Power siblings. I keep them close.
We kept shopping—bikinis, heels, lip oils, passive-aggressive sunglasses — everything I might need to look unbothered while causing a scene.
By the time we left, my cards were tired. But me? I was just getting started.
We had everything—clothes, accessories, beauty stuff, things we didn't need but obviously bought anyway—delivered straight to my house.
Then we grabbed something to eat, and spent the next hour talking about absolute nonsense. Everything and nothing. Whatever came to mind.
After our shopping trip, I dropped Angie off at her place, then headed back home.
Once I kicked off my heels and curled up on the sofa, I called my office. Gave them a quick rundown. Told them the essentials. Mom would handle the rest.
And me? Oh, I'll just enjoy this bonus vacation time without a single care in the world.
…Okay, maybe a tiny bit of care.
Especially with my father going fully bananas over the whole Love Island thing.
Since I still had plenty of free time before the show, I figured… why not? Might as well check out a few of the past seasons. Nothing intense—just a little background research.
A girl should at least know who's who and what's what.
I poured a glass of wine, curled up on the couch, and let the chaos roll in.
Five minutes in, I already had notes.
Some of them are hot, sure—but the egos? Unbearable. The drama? Manufactured.
Still… entertaining.
A few familiar names popped up.
People I've seen at events, people who follow me, people who tried to get in my DMs once upon a time.
It's kind of funny watching them scramble for attention on screen.
Not judging. Just… observing.
With a second glass in hand.
The next day, Angie showed up unannounced.
No text, no call—not even a heads-up. Like any normal friend might give.
But was I surprised? No. Not even a little.
"We need to spend the rest of the week together," she declared, dropping her bag like she lived here.
"I won't be able to see you for a few weeks. You're okay with that, right?" She asked, but her tone said you have no choice.
"I don't think that's necessary. I'll mostly be reviewing documents and—" I stopped mid-sentence. She clearly didn't care. Not even pretending to.
I sighed. "Sure. Make yourself at home."
I gave up. There's no winning with Angie. Only surrender—with style.
As she settled onto the couch like she owned the place, she looked at me and grinned.
"You know what? I just know people would actually love to see you again."
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Yeah. You disappearing after your season? Iconic. Mysterious. Leaving them wanting more? Genius."
I gave a small smirk. I mean… she's not wrong.
But still.
"I didn't disappear," I said, sipping my drink. "I studied. I had things to do."
"Okay, scholar queen," Angie teased, already scrolling through her phone.
"People recognize me," I continued, ignoring her, "but they never come up to me."
She looked up. "Because you look like security might tackle them."
I rolled my eyes. "They're probably just second-guessing. Like, why would I be in their country?"
Angie burst out laughing. "You're not wrong. You've got that face like, 'yes, I flew private to show up at your Zara.'"
"Exactly."
"See, this is why you're perfect for this season." She sat up straighter. "You're not just a contestant. You're a legend. They'll eat it up."
"Is this your way of telling me to cause chaos?"
"Not cause it. Just… allow it to orbit around you."
I paused. "That actually sounds fun."
She tossed me her phone. "Here. Cast list. I did some digging. You're welcome."
I glanced at the screen. "Who are these people?"
"Exactly," she smirked. "No one you can't handle."
One week flew by in a blur of packing, planning, fittings, and scheduling—or more accurately, rescheduling.
The morning of my flight arrived quietly.
No chaos. No last-minute panic. No frantic suitcase zipping or forgotten chargers. Everything had already been handled. Of course it had.
My driver pulled into the circular drive just as I drained the last sip of my coffee. I stood, adjusted the cuff of my linen shirt, slipped on my sunglasses, and picked up my carry-on.
My luggage—four suitcases, one hat box, zero shame—had been sent ahead. Pre-cleared, pre-weighed, pre-approved. Levi had coordinated it all with the villa team days ago.
Angie had left the night before, reluctantly, after triple-checking that I'd packed the heels she loaned me. She'd texted twice this morning, and once again while I was in the car: Don't forget to be hot and mean.
Now, it was just me.
Upon landing, they took me straight to a quiet luxury hotel, tucked just far enough from the cameras. Nothing flashy. Just clean lines, soft neutrals, and the kind of scent that lingers in cashmere.
The room was stunning, of course. A pale-cream suite with wide windows overlooking water I couldn't swim in. I stood at the glass for a while, watching waves break against distant rocks. Then I turned away and started unpacking.
The first day was for wardrobe prep—sifting through each outfit Angie and I had pre-styled, pairing heels, flagging anything that needed steaming.
The second was for VTRs and interviews. Hair, makeup, lighting. Smile here. Look mysterious there. Give them nothing. Give them everything.
The rest of the time? I spent alone. Thinking. Or not thinking. Floating somewhere in between.
By the time villa day arrived, I was more than ready.
The drive was long and winding—past cliffs and brush, through wide roads that narrowed into secrets. My car pulled straight up to the front, past hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives and lighting already set to golden hour.
I looked up at the villa. The smooth white facade. The soft neon glow tracing every edge.
It hadn't changed.
Dramatic, yes. Bold. Almost comically polished. But familiar.
And something about that—that—made it all feel real again.
This brings back memories, I thought, as the driver opened the door.
Especially those neon lights.