The press called it a coincidence.
But everyone inside the industry knew better.
Two days after Freya rejected Lucian's deal, Blackbourne & Co. announced the launch of their new luxury capsule line—aesthetic eerily similar to Étoile Lennox's unreleased spring collection.
Freya saw it live during a fashion tech expo in Tokyo—Lucian stepping onto the stage with all the flair of a monarch reclaiming his throne. Tailored black suit, silver cufflinks, a model in a satin storm-blue dress that mirrored Freya's proprietary hue, down to the thread count.
And then, the final blow: Lucian's voice, smooth as ever, broadcast across the auditorium.
"Innovation belongs to the bold. And survival? To those who know how to adapt. Even when others refuse to evolve."
The media spun it like poetry.
Freya saw it for what it was: a declaration of war.
Back in her studio, Freya slammed the door behind her.
"He stole it," she hissed to Kael, throwing her phone onto the table. "That shade. That silhouette. That launch window. He's weaponizing me."
Kael, calm but burning beneath the surface, flipped through his notes. "Three clients have pulled from us in twenty-four hours. Two defected to Blackbourne. He's making it look like you've lost your grip."
Freya's eyes narrowed. "Then we show them I haven't."
The response came fast—and calculated.
Freya appeared on the cover of Élan the following week, dressed in a sleek, blood-red suit, no accessories. Her expression? Sharp, unapologetic.
Inside, the article was pure precision:
"I don't play games. I set standards. If Lucian Blackbourne wants to chase my vision, he's welcome to follow—just know he'll always be behind."
The quote went viral in under an hour.
By nightfall, Lucian's counterpunch came via Sebastian Kade, his grinning second-in-command, during a livestream interview:
"We don't follow Freya Lennox. We pave over her."
The gloves were off.
* What followed was chaos in heels and ink:
* Freya's name trended on social media every time Lucian's did.
* Designers began choosing sides.
* Paparazzi swarmed their events, hoping for one heated exchange, one icy glare.
* Anonymous articles flooded the net, accusing Freya of being difficult, unstable, obsessed.
She didn't flinch.
Because with every insult Lucian threw, he showed his fear. And Freya Lennox had no intention of going quietly.
This wasn't rivalry.
This was war.
And she had just begun to sharpen her crown
It began with a dress.
A storm-blue gown, structured with angular grace and whispered edge—eerily similar to a design Freya had previewed only in internal meetings.
Except it wasn't walking down the Étoile Lennox runway. It debuted at the Blackbourne & Co. Winter Reveal—a showcase dripping with theatrical flair and ego. Lucian himself stood at the center of the spectacle, cool and collected beneath lights that shimmered like falling stars.
The fashion press hailed the collection as "cutthroat elegance."
Freya saw it for what it was: theft, dressed in confidence.
She watched the livestream from her office, fingers clenched around a glass of scotch. Kael stood behind her, silent.
And then came Lucian's closing statement, aired globally:
"In this business, timing is everything. You can either lead the future or get lost in someone else's past."
Freya didn't flinch. But her voice cut sharp and low:
"He's calling me obsolete."
Kael's jaw tightened. "No. He's scared. And he's overreaching."
But by morning, three top-tier clients had withdrawn from Étoile Lennox. One of them—an A-list celebrity—posted a vague Instagram story with the caption: "Chasing clarity. Change is good."
Freya didn't respond.
Not publicly.
Not yet.
Instead, she crafted her rebuttal where it would hit hardest: in the eyes of the world.
One week later, she appeared on the cover of Élan, fashion's most influential editorial.
The photograph was pure power—Freya seated on a minimalist chrome chair, dressed in black silk and shadow, her hair swept back like a blade.
Inside, her feature ran five pages deep.
"I don't chase trends," she said. "I define them. Let them copy. Let them follow. A shadow only exists because something greater is blocking the light."
Within hours, #FreyaUnfiltered trended across every platform.
The industry took notice.
Lucian responded not through press, but through precision—his team swooped in on smaller clients, offering impossible incentives, bleeding Étoile Lennox from the edges.
Freya responded by poaching one of his junior design leads—and launching an exclusive sustainable line in collaboration with a startup he'd once dismissed as irrelevant.
It wasn't just business now.
It was war written in silk, scandal, and strategy.
A storm was coming—and the fashion world was watching.
And for the first time in a long time, Freya wasn't just defending her empire.
She was burning the old world to build her own.
The public war with Lucian raged hotter by the day.
But behind closed doors, a quieter battle was brewing—one Freya hadn't seen coming.
It started with subtle shifts. Missed meetings. Design files edited without her approval. A campaign concept leaked before it was finalized—nothing explosive, just enough to stir doubt.
Kael noticed it first. He didn't say much at first—he rarely did unless he was sure. But the unease in his eyes said more than words.
Late one evening, after another press ambush outside Étoile Lennox, he stepped into her office and placed a dossier on her desk.
"Don't panic," he said. "But read it."
Freya opened the file and stilled.
Isabella Morrell.
Her strategy chief. Her closest confidante in the business. A woman who had walked beside her through the blood and silk of every deal since Year Two.
Meeting logs. Offsite rendezvous. Encrypted communications.
With Sebastian Kade.
Lucian's fixer. His bulldog in a suit.
"She's been feeding them," Kael said simply. "Product lineups. Timelines. Supplier changes. Even concept boards."
Freya stared at the pages. "How long?"
"Three months, maybe more."
The betrayal stung deeper than Lucian's sabotage ever could.
Because Isabella hadn't just betrayed the brand.
She'd betrayed her.
That night, Freya didn't sleep.
Instead, she waited until dawn—when the Étoile Lennox was still, when only the ghosts of ambition moved through the hallways—and called Isabella into her private office.
The strategist walked in without hesitation, dressed in a bone white trench coat and a calm that didn't belong to the innocent.
Freya didn't bother with pretense.
"You've been working with Rune."
Eliana tilted her head slightly. "I did what I had to. You've made enemies of everyone, Freya. Clients are scared. Investors are spooked. And you're too proud to pivot."
Freya stepped forward, voice low but lethal. "So you sold me out to the one man who wants to destroy everything I've built?"
Eliana didn't flinch. "He offered security. You offer chaos. People are tired of bleeding for your brilliance."
There it was.
The real reason.
Freya's lips parted slightly. Not in shock—but in bitter clarity.
"You always hated being in my shadow," she whispered.
Eliana met her gaze. "No. I hated knowing you'd never let anyone step into the light with you."
The room was silent for a beat too long.
Then Freya turned away, her voice sharp as shattered glass. "Pack your things. You're done here."
No tears. No second chances.
Eliana left without protest.
But as the door closed behind her, Freya felt the cost of war settle heavier on her chest.
One battle at a time, she thought.
And then we rebuild.
Freya stood alone in the silence that followed Eliana's exit.
Outside, the morning sun bled through the tall windows of Étoile Lennox, gilding the space in warmth that didn't quite reach her skin. She walked slowly back to her desk, the weight of betrayal settling like dust on her shoulders—light, but
inescapable.
She didn't cry.
She didn't rage.
She just… reset.
Kael entered a moment later, silent as always, but the look on his face said everything: I'm still here.
Freya looked up at him, her voice steady, composed.
"Eliana was a weakness. I see that now. But she was also a warning."
"A warning?" Kael asked.
"That the war isn't just outside these walls." Her gaze turned steel. "It's here. Quiet. Strategic. Personal."
He nodded once. "What do you want to do?"
Freya stared at her reflection in the dark glass of her office door.
"I want to remind the world who started this fire," she said. "And make damn sure they know it's far from burned out."
Her fingers tapped against the desk—sharp, precise.
Calculating.
She would not be blindsided again.
In the shadows of betrayal, Freya didn't break.
She sharpened.
The next move would be hers.
And the world would watch her rise.