"Huh?" Alina blinked, staring at the rapidly retreating back of the enraged girl. She hadn't intentionally bumped into her, and the sudden, blazing hatred in the girl's eyes was completely disproportionate to the minor accident. Alina was utterly bewildered. She couldn't understand the source of the palpable aggression.
Kelly, the receptionist, materialized beside her, leaning in conspiratorially. "Don't even worry about her, Alina. Honestly, I bet she's just green with envy," Kelly replied, popping her bright pink bubblegum with an almost aggressive nonchalance. Her beautifully tanned skin and striking dark brown hair made her stand out among the pale, high-fashion crowd of the reception area.
"Envious? But I literally just walked in the door," Alina responded, a knot of confusion and concern tightening in her stomach. It seemed her new workplace might be far more cutthroat and toxic than she had imagined. At least at VXN Apparel, the venom was usually confined to Melinda's office, not spat in the public hallway.
"You, my dear, are the very first Junior Fashion Designer to be ushered directly into the Director's inner sanctum like that," Kelly explained, lowering her voice further. "Also, and this is crucial, do not, under any circumstances, show your benefits package to the others when you start, no matter how much they beg or persist. Come on, let me take a quick look." Kelly gestured Alina toward the semi-privacy of her high counter desk.
Alina felt a sudden rush of air in her ears. The first? Soléne Couture was proving to be a labyrinth of unwritten rules and startling differences. She handed the official paper to Kelly, who quickly skimmed the document, her expression shifting from casual curiosity to sharp assessment.
"I see," Kelly murmured, her eyes widening slightly as she reached the bottom of the page. "Okay, listen carefully. Your base salary is two thousand dollars higher than a standard junior fashion designer's starting wage. That's almost certainly because of the success of your previous design. Secondly, those specific perks—the free travel, the celebrity styling opportunities, the potential for a personal assistant—those are nearly always reserved for Senior Fashion Designers only. You've been given a golden ticket. That is precisely why you cannot breathe a word of this to your future colleagues when you start on Monday." Kelly finished her whispered briefing with a look of dire seriousness.
A lightbulb flickered on for Alina. So that was the real reason Director Barnes had insisted that the benefit structure was "the same for every junior fashion designer." It was a clever, necessary lie to protect Alina from immediate scrutiny and resentment. It was undeniably smart, but it painted a clear picture of the hostility she faced.
"If anyone tries to bother you, bully you, or if you need any kind of help, you report directly to me. I'll make sure to neutralize the situation. Also, be obsessive about protecting your work. Designs get stolen, destroyed, or deliberately sabotaged here. It's much safer to do all your creative work at home and only submit the finished sketches to the floor manager who will assess their potential for production. Do you understand?" Kelly explained intently, her eyes flickering over the surrounding reception area, scanning for threats.
At that moment, she spotted the aggressive girl Alina had bumped into, positioned across the vast lobby, clearly pointing her phone camera in their direction.
At first glance, it looked like a simple, self-absorbed selfie, but Kelly recognized the predatory angle instantly. Soléne Couture, despite its veneer of high fashion, operated like an elite entertainment industry—rife with intense, backstabbing competition, petty scandals, and vicious internal bullying.
The company was constantly trying to enforce conduct codes, but Kelly knew the truth: stopping it entirely was a fool's errand. "Alina, that's all for now. You need to get out of here. I'll see you bright and early on Monday." She grinned, patting Alina's back decisively. "And again, congratulations."
***
"This is not the work of some random, bored poster," Lucas stated flatly, his voice devoid of his usual deference as he dropped a stack of papers onto Damian's pristine desk.
"The post is secured with end-to-end encryption. Only the original poster has the ability to delete it, and our team is currently tracking the person who is deliberately moving in complex, frustrating circles, as if they knew they were being tracked from the start."
Damian's jaw ticked with barely suppressed fury. "So, Lucas, you're telling me that after all the resources at my disposal, it is impossible to delete a simple viral post and track the amateur malicious person behind it?" he questioned, his voice dangerously low, but rising steadily in sharp, staccato octaves.
"Y-yes, boss—it's proving difficult—" Lucas stammered, alarmed as Damian's hand shot out, grasping his tie and yanking him forward until their faces were inches apart.
"It appears you suddenly become inefficient when the matter concerns Alina and me," Damian replied, his eyes blazing with cold, hard disappointment. He knew—he knew—Lucas was intentionally dragging his feet. "Let me make myself utterly clear for the very last time: I am married to Alina, whether you like it or not. Now, get out of my office. You are suspended from work for one week, effective immediately."
It was the little Damian could do. Lucas was more than an assistant; he was practically family. But his deep-seated, unjustified grudge against Alina was crossing a line Damian could not permit.
Lucas arranged his expensive suit with stiff, clenching teeth and offered a curt, shallow bow. "Yes, boss." He then stepped out of the office, his shoulders slumped in dejection. He hadn't anticipated his boss, the usually preoccupied CEO, would see through his calculated delay so quickly. For all he cared, the wretched girl deserved the public scorn. Why was Damian being so obstinate? Why couldn't he choose Elena, the elegant, well-matched heiress, over a woman dragged from the slums?
Damian reached for his desk phone and tapped in a speed dial number. "Get in here, Winnie," he commanded. Winnie was his personal secretary. While Lucas typically usurped most of her duties, she was sharp, discreet, and now, the ideal person for this sensitive assignment.
A few minutes later, the stunning dark-skinned woman with a cascade of curly hair entered Damian's office. Dressed impeccably in suit pants and a jacket over a crisp white top, she exuded attractive, capable confidence.
"Have you come across any online threads or posts relating to Alina?" he asked without preamble, his fingers flying across his computer keyboard.
Even while trying to salvage his wife's reputation from this digital assault, his corporate schedule was unforgiving, demanding his full attention to review a new flood of proposals for potential legal traps.
"I'm not certain, sir. Is the content… severe?" she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly at the mention.
Alina was, frankly, a rather timid and private person.
"See for yourself." Damian frowned and passed her his phone, the screen displaying the malicious post and the torrent of cruel comments.
Winnie's professional frown deepened as she read the thread. Netizens had an insatiable appetite for scandal, but this felt particularly vicious. She cast a swift, discreet glance at Damian, who was already back to work.
For a man of his colossal wealth and stature to marry a girl with such a publicly fractured life, and then work this tirelessly to protect her, spoke volumes about his deep compassion—or his devotion. Most men wouldn't have looked at Alina twice, yet he was here, fighting to suppress a petty scandal before it could hurt her.
"This is actually a very low-level, petty post," she replied, handing the phone back.
"From the language and tenor of the comments, it appears a female has posted it, but the comment section is dominated by what looks like high school or college students. That explains why it hasn't hit my radar; it's moving on a specific, targeted algorithm. It could also mean someone very prominent or within the entertainment industry is responsible, using their pull to push the story into targeted feeds. That's my initial assessment."
"You are correct," Damian agreed. The malicious content was coming from one of two spheres: an aggrieved student or a person of influence. Now that Winnie had mentioned it, his mind immediately went to the Vaughn family, specifically Philip Hoffman. But after their last confrontation, Damian doubted Hoffman would dare step on his territory again.
"I want you to use every resource available to take down that post and, more importantly, track and identify the poster. I also want you to investigate these names." He passed her a paper listing several names, clearly written in his elegant handwriting. "Check for any possible connection between them and the person behind the post."
Winnie nodded, recognizing the list as a slate of calculated suspects.
What a brilliant, meticulous man. "I'll contact the tech department immediately and initiate a full traceback. Expect a solid answer in an hour or two," she replied, already jogging out of his office, the scent of a serious challenge energizing her.
Damian leaned back in his seat, the leather sighing beneath his weight. Who was targeting Alina and, more importantly, why? She had no fame, no wealth, and no public profile—what was the true motive for this aggressive online drag? Was it purely because of his connection to her? The post had surfaced the morning after his family's dramatic clash with the Vaughns. Could they be the hidden hand behind the campaign?
Still pondering, Damian logged into BlackTrace, a private, elite intelligence platform that fetched every single lead related to a person, typically used only by clandestine agencies. Damian had secured access years ago. He scrolled through the results, filtering out the common name matches.
Just as he was about to log off in frustration, he saw an anomaly: a detailed call record. Alina's name appeared in the summary. He quickly clicked for the details. A brief call had been placed at 22:00 (10 PM) the night before the post went viral. Damian immediately copied the details—the call's time and duration—and sent them to Winnie. This was far beyond a petty act Elena might conceive; this was something deeper, a coordinated scheme.
He logged out and picked up the file Lucas had left: Harry Gray's financial records. Alina's father had accrued staggering, unmanageable debts, leading the banks and other creditors to seize his mansions and exquisite properties as collateral.
His phone buzzed. It was Winnie. He swiftly answered the call. "What's the status?" he asked.
"Sir, the post is confirmed as end-to-end encrypted. Even the platform's administrators can't touch it, so our only option is the traceback. That brings us to the number you sent. It was a landline telephone line. We copied the content and matched it with all the calls made precisely at 22:00 on Thursday night. We found two strong matches: one originating from an address on Melrose Avenue and another from a number registered to Campbell Academy. We are currently working on obtaining subscriber's details."
"Alright. I'll be in touch as soon as I have a clear direction," Damian replied, standing up abruptly. He now had a very faint, sickening idea of who might be orchestrating this scheme, but the motivation still felt elusive. Why did they feel the need to weaponize Alina's past?