Fashion Fraud Exposed

The silence in the showroom felt suffocating as the third model walked off the runway, leaving behind scraps of fabric that had once been my meticulously crafted evening gown. My vision blurred as I watched years of work disintegrating before my eyes. The European buyers exchanged uncomfortable glances, their pens no longer scribbling notes of approval but of disappointment.

Lucas's face transformed from shock to rage in seconds. He crossed the room in long, purposeful strides, his expensive cologne hitting me before his words did.

"What the hell happened?" he hissed, loud enough for everyone to hear.

I stared at the fallen pieces of fabric. "Someone switched the materials. These aren't the fabrics I selected."

"Excuses," he spat, his voice rising. "Always excuses with you, Sarah."

The buyers shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Victoria stood nearby, her expression a perfect mask of concern, though I caught the slight upturn at the corner of her lips.

"This is completely unacceptable," Lucas continued, his voice echoing through the now-silent showroom. "Do you have any idea how much this presentation means? These buyers flew in from Milan for this!"

"Lucas, I—"

"You're careless," he cut me off, each word a slap. "Unprofessional. This is why I needed Victoria to take over the creative direction."

The room spun slightly. Six years of dedication reduced to this public flogging. My hand instinctively moved to my stomach, a protective gesture for the secret growing inside me.

"Clean this up," Lucas ordered, turning away from me as if I were nothing more than hired help. "Victoria, please show them your backup collection while Sarah deals with her... mess."

I knelt on the cold floor, gathering the ruined fabric as tears threatened to spill. Nobody offered to help. Nobody dared to contradict Lucas Sterling. From the corner of my eye, I saw Victoria guiding the buyers to another room, her hand resting possessively on Lucas's arm, my grandmother's ruby glinting at her throat.

The next morning came with a vengeance. I barely made it to the studio before the nausea hit—a cruel reminder of my new reality. I rushed to the bathroom, emptying what little breakfast I'd managed to eat into the toilet. Morning sickness, they called it, though mine seemed to last all day.

I stumbled out of the bathroom, the world tilting dangerously. The hallway stretched before me like a funhouse mirror, elongating with each step I took. My knees buckled, and I reached for the wall, but my fingers found only air.

The floor rushed up to meet me, and then... darkness.

I came to gradually, aware first of the cool tile beneath my cheek, then of voices somewhere distant. How long had I been unconscious? I pushed myself up slowly, my head pounding.

Beside me sat a paper cup of tea, still steaming. A small note was tucked underneath. I unfolded it with trembling fingers.

"You deserve better," it read simply, signed with only the letter "D."

I looked around, but the hallway was empty. Who was D? And how had they known exactly what I needed to hear at that moment?

The tea was perfect—ginger with a hint of honey—exactly what my churning stomach required. I sipped it slowly, the warmth spreading through me, a small comfort in a day that promised more storms.

By afternoon, those storms arrived with hurricane force. My phone wouldn't stop ringing—calls from industry contacts, from fabric suppliers, even from designers I'd collaborated with in the past.

"Have you seen it?" my former assistant Maria asked when I finally answered.

"Seen what?"

"The article on Fashion Forward. Sarah, it's bad."

I pulled up the blog on my computer, my blood turning to ice as I read the headline: "STERLING ATELIER SCANDAL: LEAD DESIGNER SARAH CHEN ACCUSED OF PLAGIARISM."

The article detailed how I had supposedly stolen designs from an up-and-coming European designer—complete with side-by-side comparisons that had been manipulated to look damning. The comments section was already filled with industry professionals expressing their disappointment in me.

My phone pinged with a text from Lucas: "My office. Now."

As I stood on shaky legs, preparing for another confrontation, I caught sight of Victoria through the glass walls of the conference room. She was watching me, her perfectly painted lips curved into a satisfied smile.

That's when I realized—this wasn't just about Lucas choosing her over me. This was systematic destruction. She wasn't just taking my place; she was erasing me completely.

I pressed my hand against my stomach again, a silent promise forming. Somehow, some way, this would not be how my story—our story—ended.