The streets of Brooklyn never slept, but Isabella Laurent had learned to tune the noise out.
The hum of traffic, the distant sirens, the muffled arguments from the apartment downstairs—it all blended into a steady rhythm. It was the soundtrack of survival.
She had grown up with that noise. She had grown up with loss.
Her father had died in a car accident when she was sixteen. One phone call, one rainy night, and he was gone. Two years later, just as she was learning to breathe again, her mother became pregnant by a man who promised "forever" and disappeared the moment responsibility showed up.
Her mother died giving birth to Laura.
Five years ago.
Isabella had been eighteen, standing in a hospital hallway that smelled of antiseptic and grief, holding a tiny, crying baby while a nurse avoided her eyes.
"You're the next of kin."
That was how her adulthood began.
Now at twenty-three, Isabella carried that weight like a second spine.
She worked. She studied. She cooked. She paid bills late and prayed the landlord wouldn't knock too hard. She tucked Laura into bed every night and whispered stories about a future that felt impossible, yet necessary.
Fashion wasn't just a dream. It was a lifeline.
It had been her mother's dream once—designing dresses that made women feel powerful, seen, and unforgettable. Life never gave her the chance.
So I'll take it for her, Isabella thought. For her. For Laura.
Every scrap of fabric from thrift stores.
Every late night hunched over her sketchpad.
Every coffee-fueled dawn before class.
It was a promise.
She had just graduated, and for the first time, the dream felt close enough to touch. Terrifying. Beautiful. Heavy.
But she couldn't do it alone.
Knock. Knock.
Isabella blinked, shaking off the fatigue. "Bella! Don't tell me you forgot."
She laughed softly, nearly tripping over a pile of fabric swatches as she hurried to the door. Standing there, leaning against the peeling wallpaper like she owned the entire building, was Victoria Hale.
Victoria—her best friend since high school.
They had met freshman year when Isabella was sketching during lunch. Victoria had leaned over and said, "If you're going to be famous one day, at least draw me looking thinner."
Two girls from nothing. Two girls who refused to stay there.
Victoria had ambition in her bones. Sharp. Strategic. Calculating in ways Isabella wasn't. Where Isabella saw art, Victoria saw opportunity. Where Isabella hesitated, Victoria pushed.
"Still buried in your designs?" Victoria asked, stepping inside.
Isabella nodded, brushing charcoal off her fingers. "I can't help it. I want everything perfect."
Victoria's eyes scanned the cramped studio—the worn couch, the leaking ceiling, Laura's tiny pink backpack by the door.
"Perfect doesn't pay rent," she said casually. "Smart does."
Isabella smiled faintly. That was Victoria—always three steps ahead.
"I just want them to see me," Isabella admitted. "Not just some girl from Brooklyn with a sad story. I want them to see the talent."
Victoria's gaze lingered on the sketches spread across the table. They were breathtaking. Bold silhouettes, rare lines—the kind of work that changed industries.
"They will," Victoria said softly. "If we play this right."
We.
That word was Isabella's safety net. They had a plan: Start small. Build the brand. Victoria would handle the business—the sharks, the contracts, the money. Isabella would simply create.
Together, they would be untouchable.
"Vicky!" Laura ran into the room, her curls bouncing.
Victoria crouched down, hugging the girl. "Hey, superstar. Being good?"
"Bella says we're gonna be rich one day!" Laura chirped.
Isabella flushed. "I never said rich, honey."
"You said we won't be broke forever," Laura corrected, crossing her arms.
The room fell quiet. Victoria stood up slowly, brushing invisible dust off her jeans.
"And she's right," Victoria said.
But something unreadable flashed across her face. It wasn't doubt. It wasn't pride. It was a cold, flickering hunger.
Later that evening, as Isabella worked on a new silk draping, Victoria stood behind her longer than usual. She studied the lines like a general studying a map.
"Hmm," Victoria murmured. "Not bad."
Isabella smirked. "Just 'not bad'?"
"Okay... it might just blow people away."
Isabella let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. "I just don't want to fail."
"You won't," Victoria said, her voice dropping to a low, steady hum.
But her eyes weren't on Isabella. They were on the sketches. On the genius. On the spotlight that was destined to follow this work.
In that tiny apartment—somewhere between loyalty and desperation—something shifted.
Isabella didn't notice. She was looking at the future.
Victoria was looking at the throne.
And outside, Brooklyn moved on, unaware that a dream was being built—and a betrayal was being sewn into the seams.