Date: 2018/03/19 – Day: Monday – Time: 20:00 PM
Place: Shibuya Hikarie Complex – Tokyo
That night was nothing like the one before.
In the beating heart of Tokyo, at the elegant Shibuya Hikarie Complex, the vast hall shimmered with soft lighting in shades of white and gold. The flashes of cameras went off nonstop, falling like rain made of starlight.
The venue had been meticulously prepared to serve as the stage for the Autumn/Winter 2018fashion show. Rows of carefully arranged chairs, draped in plush velvet, lined the space. A sleek runway stretched forward, its polished surface reflecting the lights like an enchanted mirror. Backstage pulsed with movement, as designers and models readied themselves like soldiers preparing for a battle of elegance.
The hall was packed.
Professional photographers.
Journalists in tailored suits with sharp, critical gazes.
Influencers and celebrities.
Political and economic figures of note.
Yet beneath the surface of this glittering crowd… there was an invisible energy. A hidden tension, as though something unexpected was on the verge of unfolding.
Just as everyone began taking their seats and conversations faded to murmurs… the lights rose over the stage, and a female voice echoed through the microphone, in both Japanese and English:
> "Welcome to the Tokyo Fall/Winter 2018 Fashion Show… the presentation will begin shortly."
•••
Location: Backstage – Shibuya Hikarie Complex
Away from the dazzling glow of the main hall, backstage thrummed with a different life — chaotic, loud, yet somehow perfectly organized. It was like a mad orchestra conducted by dozens all at once.
Makeup artists leaned in close to the models' faces, applying final touches with painstaking precision, their fingers moving like painters crafting masterpieces that would vanish the moment the night ended.
Hair stylists darted between chairs, blow-drying, teasing, tying, spraying — everything performed in a desperate race against the clock.
Models stood in neat rows. Some stared blankly into space, lost in thought; others whispered to one another in Japanese, English, even French. A few laughed, while others silently rehearsed their steps in their heads as if walking an invisible runway.
Dressed in opulent gowns and striking fall coats, the models moved lightly back and forth as though preparing for takeoff — one adjusting a slipping heel, another straightening a shoulder with practiced poise.
And through it all, voices rang out:
> "You! Don't stand there, your place is over here!"
"That coat isn't yours, change it now!"
"Hurry! Five minutes to the first round!"
"Who left this bag here? Get it out of the way, now!"
Organizers pointed, shouted, adjusted, and dashed through the crowd like black-clad phantoms, hurling orders in every direction without pause.
The atmosphere buzzed with an electric tension. Not exhausting, but exhilarating — the adrenaline-fueled calm before a storm of beauty.
Amid the noise of shouts, zippers, and the hum of broadcasting equipment… she walked in.
Her steps were steady, unhurried, and confident — though there was a faint nervousness about her.
She wore a fitted winter jacket in fiery shades of yellow and orange, its design inspired by traditional Chinese attire but with bold, modern touches — lightly puffed shoulders, ornate brass buttons, and hidden embroidery that caught the light at every movement.
Her trousers were a masterpiece of their own — cut with echoes of Eastern tradition yet charged with contemporary style, crafted from thick, soft fabric in harmony with her jacket, their edges trimmed with delicate golden threads.
Her boots rose to the ankle, with a modest heel in burnished orange-copper, wrapped in fine yellow fur that hugged her leg. A matching Russian-style winter hat crowned her head, with soft locks styled into two low buns that gave her a look both delicate and rebellious.
At her wrist dangled a small fur handbag in the same hue, bearing the emblem of the house she now represented:
[Velora]
Every piece screamed identity. It wasn't simply clothing.
It was a statement.
Her face, luminous and striking, carried only light makeup — peachy tones on the lids, a soft sweep of lipstick, lashes thick yet natural.
She wasn't trying to be beautiful.
She simply was.
As she passed through the bustling crowd, whispers rose among the models and staff:
> "Who is she?"
"Isn't that…?"
"It's her… the model opening the show for Miss Bella's brand?"
But she didn't turn. She didn't need to.
Eyes followed her. The air shifted after her. The space braced itself for something different.
The girl walked with hesitant grace, almost disappearing into the organized chaos around her. Her eyes flicked constantly — searching. Not for a door, nor for anyone in particular with certainty… but for hope.
Behind her faint smile lay a clear nervousness, that sharp edge of anticipation one feels before the moment of a lifetime.
She whispered to herself, barely audible over the noise:
> "I just… want to see her. Even if only for a second."
Pov Laila
It's only been one month… just one month since I walked through the gates of Velora. The house I had always dreamed of… and now, I'm part of it. I'm one of its models. I keep repeating that to myself, afraid the words might slip through my fingers and vanish.
But the strange thing is… despite all this, I haven't seen her. I haven't seen Bella Leclair.
Her name alone is enough to make my heart race.
Bella…
Is she really real? Or just a living legend? People talk about her as if she's a story to be told, not a human walking among us. Her beauty? They say it surpasses imagination. Her elegance? The world can't stop talking about it. So many photos are taken of her that she's even been called "the most photographed person alive."
And the more I hear about her, the more I'm convinced she's different… that she doesn't belong to our world. She comes from an old French noble family, her name heavy with history, her power equal to her elegance.
And me? Just a girl… whose life didn't truly begin until the day she stepped through the doors of this house. As if Velora isn't just a fashion house… but a gateway to another world.
And today…
Today is the day. The official Fall/Winter 2018 fashion show.
And me? In my very first month here… I'm standing at this grand event, as if living a dream my heart never dared to draw.
Could it be? Could it really be that Bella herself chose me?
End Pov Laila
Despite the anxiety knotting in her chest, one thought would not leave her:
> "I think she's here… and I'm going to find her."
Her steps were hesitant, yet charged with determination. She heard a voice nearby, low laughter threaded through conversation. That voice! Yes—it was hers.
Miss Bella Leclair.
Deep, smooth, like the notes of a piano in the late hours of the night. She knew it instantly. She'd heard it in interviews, in recordings she used to play on repeat in her room.
But now… it was alive. Close. Only a few steps away.
She began to move slowly toward it, as if following strands of light.
And then… she saw her.
Bella stood there, back turned, radiant in her poise, speaking with a small circle of brand owners.
Her jet-black hair was styled in a regal partial updo, a few strands falling onto her forehead as though signing her face with extra beauty. She wore a blazer in deep cherry red over a sleek black blouse, paired with teal wide-leg trousers that gave her a bold, modern presence.
Her high heels, perfectly matched to the trousers, added a few more centimeters to her already commanding stature. A blazer-colored handbag rested effortlessly on her shoulder.
She stood as though she owned the ground beneath her. Hands tucked in her pockets, talking, smiling, analyzing, directing. Every inch of her said one thing:
"I am the leader here."
The girl froze, eyes brimming with tears, her cheeks warmed by a faint flush. Her gaze shimmered not with simple admiration, but with something close to worship.
She inhaled deeply, ready to step forward—
—but before she could, a man suddenly cut across her path.
She stumbled into him by accident, forcing her to step back.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, somewhere in his fifties or sixties. Elegantly dressed, with a watch that gleamed with every movement. His suit was cut to perfection, his tie chosen with care. Gray hair, meticulously styled. And that aura—of influence, and of effortless confidence.
He glanced at her, expression calm but observant. Speaking in English colored with a European accent, he said:
> "Ah… pardon me, I didn't see you. Are you lost?"
The girl smiled faintly.
> "It's fine, nothing happened."
He nodded politely and continued on, not waiting for a reply, his presence alone leaving a trail of weight behind him.
He walked with steady steps toward the circle where Bella stood—the circle of those who mattered in the fashion world.
When he reached it, he greeted her warmly, yet with confidence:
> "Miss Bella."
Bella, who had been laughing amiably with a European designer, stopped.
Her smile softened into stillness, as though time itself stepped aside to let something greater arrive.
She turned.
Her wavy black hair moved with her in a slow cascade, the loose strands across her forehead dancing with the air. Then came her eyes, framed by perfectly long, thick lashes.
And for a moment—everything else vanished.
Even the girl, watching from behind the man, gasped silently.
Those eyes…
Not ordinary eyes.
A world of their own.
Pupils black as starless voids, pulling all gaze inward.
Irises blue as celestial oceans, speckled with glimmers of starlight—living stars.
Veins of rainbow light flickering across them like meteors burning through a midnight sky.
Bella wasn't merely beautiful.
She was a beautiful, incarnate.
Her face was taut with effortless simplicity.
Her lips—heart-shaped, lightly tinted red, as though sculpted to kiss poetry itself.
Her height, her stance, the aura of confidence wrapped around her—every detail of her body declared:
"I am the Moon's Rose."
Not a name given to her.
A name born of time itself… and adopted by legend.
The girl could only stare. She was watching her childhood dream breathe before her—only grander, more dazzling, more commanding than she had ever imagined.
Bella smiled.
A soft smile, yet not an ordinary one…
It carried a signature, as if wordlessly declaring:
"I am here… I don't need a voice to own this room."
A smile that made one designer sigh unconsciously. That made a nearby photographer's lens tremble. Hearts melted, effortlessly.
Bella turned her gaze toward the man who had just approached, addressing him by name in a warm, formal tone:
> "Alberto, I wasn't expecting you this evening."
They greeted one another with the ease of long acquaintances.
Alberto (smiling with confidence):
> "Miss Bella, as I thought… you still steal the spotlight without ever stepping onto the runway."
Bella (with calm poise):
> "And you still exaggerate your compliments, Alberto."
Alberto:
> "Tell me… how are things at Velora? I've heard your new line is making waves in Paris."
Bella (smiling lightly):
> "Making waves? It has surpassed every wave. Now, we're looking for new horizons."
Alberto (laughing):
> "Always so certain. What do you think of this season's European designs? Personally, I find them… confusing."
Bella (cool, elegant):
> "They're not confusing… just suffering from an identity crisis. Unsure if they're winter or spring… or if they're even clothes at all."
Alberto:
> "Ha! Always killing them softly. Your style hasn't changed."
Bella (lifting an eyebrow faintly):
> "I don't kill, Alberto… I simply open their eyes. Gently… and sometimes with a velvet punch."
They continued speaking, Bella laughing lightly at one of his remarks—a laugh soft yet enchanting, pulling everyone around her into shared laughter, even if they hadn't heard the joke.
And the girl… she stood in the shadows, swaying between dream and despair.
"How can I even approach her?"
She murmured to herself, eyes fixed on the woman who ruled a world she did not belong to.
> "I'm… just a beginner model.
And she… she owns an empire.
A noblewoman, rich, beautiful, successful.
And me? Nothing."
Her chest tightened with a strange mixture of suffocating admiration and painful longing. Her face began to lose color, her fingers trembling without her realizing it.
She gave Bella one last look… long, still, broken.
Then she turned.
She walked away.
To wherever she didn't know. Between bodies, behind curtains, among the equipment… she just wanted to disappear.
But…
What she didn't know was that Bella had noticed.
Bella had seen the reflection of the girl's cosmic blue eyes, her hesitation, her retreat, her silent departure. She said nothing. Moved not a muscle. Yet her gaze followed the girl until she vanished behind the wall.
Then she turned back to Alberto… but her eyes were not the same as before.
A few steps from the center of the event, where the elite gathered, stood a woman in her early thirties, slender, deliberately elegant, as if stitched from the same thread used to craft the haute couture she sold.
Her hair tied in a classic updo, icy green eyes staring silently—not with admiration, but with resentment.
A champagne glass in her hand remained untouched. Her gaze fixed on one woman alone: Bella Leclair.
She whispered to herself, barely audible:
> "It's her… always her."
She glanced around. No one noticed her. No one cared she existed. Bella alone was the center of the universe.
> "Her beauty? Not human. No one has that face… no one.
Her eyes? A scientific phenomenon. Literally. Scholars have written about them in global journals…
And even her voice? Fools call it 'golden'… soft, deep, as if an angel with a killer mood spoke."
She leaned slightly forward, her gaze burning.
> "Why does everyone love her? Why this madness? Billionaires beg for a moment with her, just one glance!
And she? Already rich, effortlessly.
From a noble family, yet she also made her own fortune.
She owns her brand, and she owns the hearts of all genders, all ages."
A small, bitterly ironic smile curved her lips.
> "And everyone here orbits her like planets around the sun."
She looked at the crowd surrounding Bella—brand owners, top designers, media figures… all present.
> "Why can't it be me? What do I lack? Is this really impossible?"
Her eyes dropped for a moment. The only time she looked fragile, human.
Then… she lifted her gaze again.
This time, with determination in her eyes.
•••
The air was charged, lights beginning to dim, the pre-show music playing softly in the background.
Amid all this, an elegant woman approached Bella with quick, organized steps.
Amélie Fontaine, her personal assistant, small in stature compared to Bella, but sharp-featured, with shining green eyes that commanded respect.
She wore a professional black suit, a silky gray blouse, lightly tinted pink lips that complemented her fresh skin, and her short brown hair neatly tucked behind her ears.
She hurried toward Bella, whispering urgently:
> "Bella… we have a problem."
Bella turned, her starlit eyes narrowing with interest.
> "What is it?"
Amélie lowered her voice further:
> "The model scheduled to open the show… has disappeared."
Bella's eyes widened slightly—not in shock, but rational surprise.
> "Who is she?"
Amélie raised her tablet, showing the girl's image—the same innocent, frightened face she had seen minutes ago.
Bella gasped softly:
> "Ah… it's her. I saw her. She was… troubled."
> "Where did you search?" Bella asked quickly.
Amélie scrolled through the digital files:
> "Search teams are everywhere… back rooms, restrooms, model corridors, side exits… only a few abandoned corners remain on the upper floor."
Bella paused for just a second.
Then—without another word—she shrugged off her blazer lightly and ran.
She ran by herself.
High heels didn't stop her. Her bag was left behind. The crowd didn't notice immediately.
But she moved.
As if intuition whispered that this girl was not just a lost beginner…
But something deeper, something that must be saved before it was lost.
Somewhere in that massive complex… Bella was searching for one of her audience—or perhaps, a broken reflection.
•••
Location: Small, secluded room behind one of the upper-floor show corridors
Minutes passed, three rooms, anxiety rising.
Bella, barely visible in the hallways, now searched herself—eyes, steps—for a face she did not know, yet felt strangely drawn to.
She opened the last door.
A small room, barely enough for a desk and two chairs.
Heavy silence.
But then—a faint sound…
A broken, sad intake of breath, a failed attempt to stifle a runny nose.
Bella raised an eyebrow and stepped forward.
Behind a low partition, she saw the scene.
The girl sat on a wooden chair, head down, hands in her lap, shoulders slumped as if the world rested upon them.
Bella exhaled lightly and smiled:
> "If it weren't you, a ghost would have appeared, and I don't like bad omens before shows."
She stepped forward calmly.
The girl hadn't noticed yet, lost in herself.
Bella stopped in front of her, a little closer… then spoke gently, without any tension:
> "May I come closer?"
The girl slowly lifted her head… gasping.
Her eyes widened as if she were witnessing a miracle.
Bella Leclair.
Just like the pictures… no, even more beautiful.
And here she was. Standing in front of her.
Smiling… at her.
Stars seemed to play with the light near Bella's face, as if the universe itself was hosting this encounter.
The girl, still shocked, felt deep embarrassment. She looked at the floor, then her hands, then the floor again.
But Bella, naturally, extended her hand and said:
> "I'm Bella… Bella Odette Leclair. Pleased to meet you, what about you? Sorry, sometimes I forget the names."
As if it were not already known.
But she wanted to break the barrier. She wanted to treat her as a person… not a fan.
The girl jumped up, flustered, eyes a wild mix of excitement, embarrassment, and shock. She lifted her hands quickly, grasping Bella's hand with both of hers, more forcefully than intended.
> "No… it's alright, I-I'm Laila! I'm a new recruit at the house, only a month in! Pleased, soooo pleased!"
Bella laughed lightly, that warm chuckle that melts all tension.
> "Laila, is it? And your age…?"
> "Eighteen!"
She said it quickly, as if afraid the moment might be taken from her.
Bella smiled gently, shaking her head:
> "Eighteen?! My little girl, and you're opening Velora's show? Seems I was wise in my choice."
And still, her hand was in Laila's.
The greeting was not over…
But something else had begun.
Bella, with a warm smile:
> "Are you all right now, dear? I found you in the last place I would have expected."
Laila, shyly, a small smile forming:
> "Yes… sorry, I didn't mean to cause any confusion. I just… felt like I didn't deserve this place."
Bella, looking into her eyes:
> "Don't ever say that again. Your being here is no coincidence… I saw something special in you."
Laila, whispering in surprise:
> "Really…?"
Bella, with soft confidence:
> "Yes. Your talent is clear, and the way you wear the design showed me how real you are. We're not just looking for beauty… we're looking for spirit."
Laila, in a low voice:
> "I've wanted to be like you for years… but I felt like there were worlds between us."
Bella, smiling gently and patting her hand:
> "I only took a few steps ahead, but the same path is open to all of us… and now you're walking it."
Laila, with gratitude in her tone:
> "Thank you… I feel like you saved me from myself."
Bella laughed lightly:
> "No, you saved yourself. I just came to remind you… that you deserve to be seen."
Bella spoke softly, warmly, checking if the girl was comfortable, thanking her for her effort, reassuring her that the show would succeed as long as she was there.
But Laila… was in another world.
> "My dream… I'm talking to Bella Leclair herself… no, no! I'm touching her hand!"
Her eyes wandered over Bella's features, taking in everything as if unwrapping a long-awaited gift.
> "Oh my God… her eyes are so beautiful, as if they belong to another galaxy.
And her voice? It's like Beethoven and Celine Dion combined to create an unforgettable human melody.
And her hand… long, elegant, fingers delicate yet strong… and her skin? Soft, so soft, as if it just emerged from a cloud."
Gradually, Laila's expressions shifted: a dreamy smile, wide eyes, a relaxed jaw, a tilt of the neck, silently saying, "Ah…"
Bella suddenly stopped speaking and stared at her quietly.
She raised her left eyebrow and asked:
> "Are… are you all right?"
Laila blinked rapidly, as if waking from a dream within a dream.
Her face flushed immediately, and she nearly pulled back her hand—but forgot she was still holding Bella's.
> "S-soooorry! I'm so sorry! I was just… I mean… I thought…"
"I mean, not thought… I just…"
"Oh my God, I'm going to be fired before the show even starts!"
Bella laughed warmly, that laughter carrying both warmth and nobility.
A laugh that eased embarrassment instead of intensifying it.
> "Calm down girl, No one gets fired for dreaming."
She looked at her, then added, patting her shoulder gently:
> "But if you don't focus, you'll stumble on the runway… and then, maybe we'll have to fire you temporarily."
Laila erupted into a nervous, shy laugh, but her heart felt lighter… stronger.
•••
Bella sat next to Laila on the old wooden chair.
She was ready to speak, but her phone rang suddenly.
She glanced at the screen and answered calmly:
> "Yes, Amélie?"
Her assistant's voice sounded sharp, anxious:
> "Have you found her? The show starts in minutes!"
Bella smiled lightly, looked at Laila, and said:
> "Yes, I found her. I'll bring her myself."
She ended the call, closed the phone quietly, then turned to the girl beside her.
She looked gently at her and asked softly:
> "Laila… why did you run?"
Laila lowered her head, eyes full of guilt, whispering:
> "I thought… I thought I was ready to open the show, but I was wrong. Maybe I overestimated myself."
Bella raised an eyebrow, as if puzzled:
> "But… didn't you say you were used to cameras?"
Laila replied, flustered:
> "Cameras are one thing… opening a show of this size is another.
Everyone will be watching me. I'm afraid I'll stumble… look awkward… or do something wrong in front of everyone."
Bella smiled, a look of deep understanding, not pity.
> "It's natural to be afraid. Sometimes… fear is the clearest sign that we're on the right path."
Laila hesitated for a moment, then asked:
> "When do you think they started filming me?"
Laila laughed lightly, as if the question were strange:
> "Since you came out of your mother's womb."
Bella laughed too, then said, softer:
> "True enough. Yet, I still get nervous… sometimes, a lot."
Laila was shocked:
> "You? But you're… you're Bella Leclair!"
Bella shook her head, smiling:
> "I am Bella, yes.
But I'm still human. And I get nervous because I fear that moment…
That moment when I might make a mistake, stumble,
And people will look at me not as a symbol… but as a failure.
But…"
(She paused, taking a small breath)
> "I've learned that nervousness doesn't mean weakness…
It means I care about giving my best."
Then… she stood.
She bent down to Laila, an unplanned gesture that startled the girl.
She held her hand gently, looked into her eyes, and said:
> "Trust yourself.
If you want to succeed for yourself… not for anyone else…
Think in the right way. Don't focus on failing, focus on what you want people to feel when they see you."
She pressed Laila's hand gently:
> "If you think only about the consequences… you'll fall.
But if you think about the impression you want to leave… you will soar."
Laila's eyes filled with tears. She couldn't believe that a woman of Bella's stature would speak to her like this… and stand before her with such gentleness.
She nodded… then whispered:
> "I'll try…"
Bella smiled:
> "No, don't try. Do it."
Bella's gaze met hers—eyes unlike any human's.
A look full of strength, warmth, and quiet confidence…
A look that said: I believe in you. So do it.
Despite her heart still pounding fast, Laila felt restored.
As if something broken inside her had been carefully put back together.
Bella stood first.
With all her serene elegance, she extended her hand and helped Laila rise.
> "The show begins in just seconds,"
she said in a practical tone, though her voice still carried a special warmth.
Laila nodded quickly, a small smile sneaking onto her lips.
She picked up her Russian fur cap, which had been left by the chair.
She placed it gently on her head, then grabbed the matching handbag.
With Bella's help, she stood tall.
Her shoulders straightened.
She looked into the half-broken mirror on the wall,
and she saw a different face.
The same face, yes,
but her eyes—her eyes had changed.
Bella smiled, a calm, confident smile.
Then she began to walk, her steps steady and graceful…
And Laila followed behind her, moving lightly,
though inside… she was running.
Running with joy, with excitement, with triumph.
She wasn't walking only toward the runway…
She was walking toward a new beginning.
•••
Location: The backstage hallway – seconds before the show
The corridor was charged with tension—voices crossing, whispers anxious:
> "Where is she?"
"She was supposed to start 30 seconds ago!"
"If she doesn't show up within a minute, we'll—"
"Shh! Listen…"
Then, a clear voice rose—feminine, deep, calm as water:
> "She's ready."
Everyone turned instantly toward the source… Bella Leclair.
As if time froze for a moment, and all the tension melted from the air.
Then Laila appeared, walking behind Bella with steady, majestic steps, ready.
The staff exhaled in relief, the models straightened up,
as though Bella had reset their rhythm.
Bella moved toward Amélie, who helped her slip back into her blazer.
Her eyes, however, were on Laila, who now stood at the very front of the line, ready to open the show.
Bella watched her with calm reassurance, an unspoken encouragement, carrying a single message:
You can do this.
But before the show began, Bella stepped forward to the center.
She turned to face all the models, raising her voice with quiet confidence:
> "Listen to me, all of you…"
"I know some of you are nervous. Some of you are excited. And some of you just want this show over with."
(She smiled lightly, and some laughed.)
> "But what I want from you today… is not perfection.
What I want is this: breathe… and enjoy it.
Remember: you are not just displaying fabric.
You are showing stories, souls, and emotions.
Every step you take on that runway… is a message."
A silence fell.
Then she added, with a look of pride:
> "I am proud of you. Proud of each and every one of you… Just remember: you are the light. So shine."
Laughter, deep breaths, smiles…
As if all the anxiety evaporated from their bodies.
Bella had given them something no organizer ever had: the feeling of being seen… and of mattering.
While everyone else buzzed with renewed energy, Laila stood in the front row trying to look steady… but her body betrayed her.
A nervous little smile on her lips, tears threatening at the edges of her eyes.
Her fists clenched tight, as if holding herself together.
Her breathing was audible, ragged, heavy.
The camera zoomed in on her face—her eyes trembling, lips quivering.
Then suddenly… a glance.
Toward Bella.
Who gave her a calm, pure smile, as if to say without words: I'm here.
Laila closed her eyes for a moment, then exhaled sharply, as though releasing months of weight.
She inhaled once… twice… three times.
Her chest settled gradually.
She bowed her head shyly toward Bella, sneaking her a strange little nod of gratitude—awkward, almost comical.
Bella raised her hand to cover her mouth… then burst into a short, clear, warm laugh.
A laugh that shattered the tension, that broke the seriousness of the moment.
A laugh that made Laila blush deeper… but this time, she smiled from the heart.
A practical voice cut through the moment:
> "Miss Leclair, it's time."
One of the crew stood by the door to the stage.
Bella nodded lightly:
> "All right."
She turned back to the whole team—one sweeping look.
Then one last glance, private, just for Laila.
A glance full of trust, support, a message that needed no words.
Then she walked.
Her steps are steady, elegant, her soft perfume trailing behind.
And she entered the stage.
White lights exploded across the hall.
Thunderous applause.
The audience half-rose, cameras flashing endlessly.
Bella smiled to herself, proud of the immense positive impact she had left.
She lifted her hand lightly, with a formal smile—that quick gesture everyone knew.
A queen's salute.
Then she turned and walked back inside, graceful as ever…
Leaving behind an awestruck crowd, and a team charged with new energy.
As for Laila… her eyes shone as she watched Bella return from the stage,
as if Bella had come back from a battle won without ever losing her grace.
Bella drew nearer to where Laila stood,
and in those short but steady exchanges of glances between them…
there was understanding, support, and a promise unspoken.
Bella reached her side, placing a gentle hand on Laila's shoulder—a soft touch carrying silent encouragement—then continued forward with her calm steps.
Laila drew in a deep breath, a confident smile spreading across her face, the kind of smile that said: I can do this.
She began walking toward the stage, her steps steady, her heart brimming with determination… and the lights caught her, fixed on her, as if announcing the beginning of a new journey.
•••
Time Skip.
Midnight in Tokyo.
The city breathed slowly, neon lights sparkling like artificial stars. The streets were nearly empty, the silence broken only by the whisper of wind and the distant hum of cars. Everything was quiet—so different from the frenzy of the fashion shows—as though the city itself had exhaled deeply after the day's chaos.
A luxury residential tower, Aman Residences, Tokyo, rose in the heart of Toranomon. Its mirrored glass façade reflected the colors of the city lights, and each apartment glowed like a small star in the sky—a symbol of privilege and serenity, the life of the elite tucked away from everyone's eyes.
Inside one of the apartments, Bella descended the stairs slowly, [dressed in cozy, plush velvet pajamas. They were white, decorated with scattered pink peach patterns. The cuffs and pockets were trimmed with pale blue stripes, adding a playful touch. The jacket was buttoned with small white buttons and had wide pockets. The pants were loose, soft, and pink]. Her hair was loose, her movements natural, warm. She smiled now and then as she spoke through a video call on her phone.
Her voice was childlike, warm, motherly, as though she were speaking with an old friend—or a close family member.
> "Shimo, my little one, how I've missed you… You're still as silly as ever… Did you finish all your food today?"
On the small screen, Shimo—her quokka—appeared.
He hopped close to the camera, his wide smile and sparkling eyes full of mischief. His tiny ears twitched happily as he spun in a circle, letting out short, funny sounds, as if trying to answer her words.
Bella laughed softly, her eyes glimmering with affection. She extended her hand to touch the screen, as though trying to mimic a real caress.
> "I know you love me just as much as I love you… don't you?"
Shimo nodded joyfully—bouncing again as if the whole world was contained in this tiny moment between them.
Bella sat down on the last step of the staircase, her gaze fixed on her little companion, her smile soft, calm, brimming with warmth.
This wasn't just a woman talking to her pet; it was an intimate moment that revealed another side of Bella—the side no one knew. Human, childlike, loving. A side untouched by lights and cameras.
Shimo pressed closer to the camera, rubbing his tiny body against it. Bella let out a short, pure laugh, filled with the tenderness she reserved only for him.
It was a magical moment—simple, yet affirming a single truth: real strength is not only in fame or wealth, but in the ability to love and be loved, sincerely.
Bella ended the call, a soft ache lingering in her chest, a longing to return to France and see her little one again. But she felt comfort too, a warmth in knowing part of her heart was still close to him despite the distance.
She rose from the last step, her movements light and easy, and walked toward the dining table. There sat Amélie, Bella's secretary and closest friend, [dressed in an all-black pajama set—simple, elegant. The long-sleeved top was loose with a round neckline, the trousers wide and soft, offering total comfort ]. Her short hair was tied back in a practical style as she ate dinner, unbothered by Bella's arrival.
Bella sat opposite her. Suddenly, she let out an exaggerated groan—like the sputtering of an old car—her voice dripping with mock despair.
> "Amélie… why didn't you wait for me? That's not fair!"
Her eyes were wide, her mouth stretched in theatrical misery, her whole face surrendering to a comical sense of hopelessness.
Amélie stared at her blankly for a moment, then rolled her eyes and kept eating. In a flat, quiet tone, she replied:
> "Oh… you finally showed up princess."
Her gaze was half-lidded, brows raised slightly, lips straight—as if Bella's arrival hadn't changed a thing.
> "You're mean," Bella huffed, puffing her cheeks childishly.
"Eat your food and shut up, that's better for you," Amélie shot back without interest, completely used to Bella's antics.
The comedic contrast was clear: Bella—childish, animated, restless; Amélie—cool, detached, indifferent. Yet beneath it, the room pulsed with a soft, unspoken laughter.
Bella began eating. After a brief silence, Amélie raised her teacup and, without looking at her, asked:
> "Heard the news?"
Bella looked up from her plate, puzzled:
> "Nope…"
Amélie sighed, her gaze steady now, voice serious:
> "They found the body of an overweight man in an abandoned building. Authorities confirmed it was suicide—the gun was by his side. No signs of torture or struggle. It happened last night."
Bella shook her head, sipping tea, confused:
> "Oh… sad… Did he have a family?"
Amélie replied simply:
> "No. They're still digging into his past… but they already know he was trafficking children's organs."
Bella nearly spat her tea again, coughing before she broke the silence:
> "That's… shocking. Well, maybe he felt guilty. Maybe he deserved death for torturing kids… But honestly, suicide doesn't solve anything."
Amélie muttered indifferently while chewing her meat and rice:
> "Yeah… right."
Then she added:
> "Also, 86 people have disappeared or gone missing in Tokyo this month. No trace at all."
Bella frowned, uneasy:
> "That's terrifying, honestly."
> "Yeah, you're right. Let's stop talking about it," Amélie answered simply.
A faint silence hung between them, the mix of seriousness and sarcasm painting their bond as natural, real, warm despite the heavy topics.
Amélie lifted her cup slightly, looking at Bella with half-shut eyes:
> "Did you speak with your husband?"
Bella blinked, scratched her head lightly, as though trying to recall something important:
> "Oh… I forgot to call him. I was busy… talking to little Shimo."
She smiled faintly, then chuckled—a small, nervous, childlike laugh.
Amélie sighed, her voice low, weary yet teasing, as she stared at Bella:
> "Honestly… no matter what you do, you'll always be clumsy."
Bella's laughter rippled through the room, light and spontaneous, but she still arched a playful brow:
> "Clumsy? Hehehe… maybe. But at least I'm clumsy with charm!"
Amélie shook her head—half resigned, half amused—as the two continued their dinner, as though that small dose of silliness and affection had made the night a little warmer, a little lighter, after such heavy news.
•••
A luxurious hotel living room.
It opened onto a breathtaking panoramic view of Tokyo glittering with neon. Curved sofas faced the towering windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Two orange lamps cast a warm glow over the space, creating an atmosphere of comfort and serenity while the chaos of the city pulsed far below.
Bella sat on the sofa, as if caught in a moment of deep thought. Her gaze lingered on the vast window, her elbow resting with quiet confidence on the sofa's raised arm, her fingers brushing her chin in a classical gesture. Her legs were crossed in comfort, her other arm draped lightly along the back of the sofa.
The room was silent… the only sound, the faint hush of wind pressing against the thick glass.
The camera inched closer, catching her features—illuminated by the lamp's soft glow, her expression carved with the seriousness of a marble statue.
Then a tighter shot—her blue eyes, gleaming like crystal in the dim light. The stillness magnified their intensity, as though they reflected not just the city beyond, but something hidden, deeper, buried within her.
> "Someone's behind all of this… but who could it be?"
•••
At the same time…
Elsewhere.
Tokyo's night is still drowned in neon. Below, the city resembled a glowing circuit board—roads glittering with streams of headlights, towers like glass spears piercing the sky. Higher up, the wind was sharper, whistling around the corners of skyscrapers, carrying with it a chill of solitude.
The camera rose slowly… revealing the Tokyo Skytree, towering like a luminous spear splitting the darkness. Its body glowed with blue and white lights, but its uppermost platform swallowed all radiance, standing apart, isolated from the world's noise.
There… on the roof.
A figure stood.
The face hidden—completely consumed by shadow. Only a few details were visible:
A long black coat, whipping violently with the wind, as though it were part of the storm itself.
And beside him… a black staff, planted firmly on the metal roof, its tip catching the faint shimmer of moonlight.
The camera circled from behind, halting on a silhouette—mysterious, unyielding.
No words. No movements. Only the heavy silence of presence, the weight of a moment that was anything but fleeting.
The whole city sparkled beneath his feet.
And yet, in his solitude, he seemed to stand above a world he did not belong to.
To be continued…
"What do you think of the chapter? I hope you enjoyed it 🤍 Tell me, what do you think is the nationality of the mysterious character? Don't forget to share your thoughts in the comments, and also don't forget the Power Stones ✨"