"The school retains ownership of all submitted pieces," she said carefully. "Since you're no longer a student… your design was reassigned."
Venessa blinked.
Reassigned.
Re. Assigned.
Like it was a desk in a classroom, her atelier, as if it wasn't a part of her soul stitched into silk.
She let out a slow, measured breath. "To who?"
Another pause. Then—
"To Stella Rousseau."
Venessa felt everything inside her go cold.
Venessa's spine went rigid. Of course it was Stella, always wearing winter whites because she could afford to live a life untouched by stains. The same Stella who'd "coincidentally" debuted a collection suspiciously reminiscent of Venessa's junior year portfolio just three weeks after sneaking into her studio. The same Stella whose father's lawyers had threatened to sue Venessa for defamation when she'd called it out in class.
"I see," Venessa said, her voice dangerously calm.
"She's submitting it for the fellowship, I assume she'll be taking your place—" Across the desk, Ms. Hargrove shifted uncomfortably. "The transfer was approved by the academic board. Given Ms. Rousseau's... resources to properly execute the design—"
"Her resources," Venessa repeated, lips curling around the word like it was spoiled milk. She knew exactly what that meant: the Rousseau family's ateliers in Lyon, their connections at Vogue Paris, the half-million-euro "donation" Stella's father had undoubtedly made to secure her spot in the graduate showcase.
Her heart pounded so hard it rattled her ribs.
Phoenix in Silk was hers. Every bead, every fold, every painstaking hand-sewn feather. And they had given it away.
Not to a stranger. To Stella.
Though, Stella Rousseau had always appreciated Venessa's work best up close—leaning over her drafting table in the golden-hour light of the studio, her shadow falling across the sketches like a possessive ghost. But Venessa never felt the true appreciation from her just hollow attempt to possess her work.
"This one's breathtaking, Venessa," Stella would murmur, tracing the lines of an unfinished ballgown with a burgundy-tipped finger. "That plunge neckline? The asymmetrical train? It's exactly what they'll love at the spring shows."
Her breath always smelled of mint and envy.
Venessa used to flush with pride at the attention. Now she understood: Stella hadn't been admiring. She'd been appraising.
"Five thousand euros. For the emerald gown sketch alone." Stella's manicured finger tapped the edge of the paper.
Venessa had laughed, tucking the sketch back into her folder with a flick of her wrist. "I don't sell my originals, Rousse. Not even to you."
Stella's smile never wavered—if anything, it sharpened. "Pity." She leaned in, her perfume cloying, her voice a velvet blade. "I would've paid ten. Though, really—what's the point of clinging to them? It's not like you'll ever see them on a runway now."
A pause. A predator's grace.
"Not without my name attached."
Venessa's fingers stilled. The air between them turned to ice.
Stella straightened, smoothing her blazer with a satisfied hum. "But by all means, keep hoarding your little drawings. Maybe one day they'll be worth something... as kindling."
Now, Stella got her hands on one, Venessa let out a shaky, bitter laugh as the realization settled in her bones like acid. She it get now. Why she wasn't told a week before and only after she asked.
Reassigned.
What a clean, bloodless word for what was really happening.
This wasn't some bureaucratic transfer. This was a hostile takeover.
Stella wouldn't just inherit the design—she would consume it.
Stella would submit it, wear her work like a second skin, accept the compliments, take the prize money. Maybe she would nod graciously when the judges praised the meticulous hand-sewn beading, the painstaking color gradients, the innovation of technique. Maybe she'd even say, Thank you. It was a labor of love.
And why shouldn't she?
Venessa wasn't here anymore.
She had signed herself out of existence.
The worst part? There was nothing she could do.
She had no money. No lawyer. No power. No voice.
Just a void where her dream used to be.
She turned back to Ms. Hargrove, who was watching her with pity.
Venessa smiled.
The smile was a lie. It didn't reach her eyes.
But it was all she had left.
"Right," she murmured. "Of course."
Venessa nodded once, then turned, She tucked her withdrawal papers like a death certificate and was about to walk out.
A sharp click of heels echoed down the hallway.
Speak of the devil.
Stella Rousseau glided into the office like she owned the air molecules, her custom Alaïa dress hugging every privileged curve. "Oh! Venessa." Her smile was a scalpel. "I was just coming to finalize the details for our collection."
Venessa's nails bit deeper into her palms. "Our?"
Stella's laugh tinkled like champagne flutes at a gala. "Well, the school did say it wanted to maintain continuity with the original vision." She reached into her Birkin—the same limited-edition crocodile Venessa had been on a waitlist for last year—and produced a fabric swatch. "What do you think of this silk for your ballgown? Daddy's mill just got it in from Como."
The fabric was exquisite. The exact shade of molten gold from Venessa's sketch design but she had already made it then why is she changing the fabric now.
Ms. Hargrove cleared her throat. "Ms. Rousseau has graciously offered to credit you as... inspiration in the program notes."
Stella's manicured hand fluttered to her chest. "Of course! Genius should always be acknowledged." Her eyes locked onto Venessa's. "Even when it's... unfinished."
The barb landed with surgical precision. They both knew the truth—this wasn't inspiration. This was a hunting trophy.
Once the Ms. Hargrove went her way. Venessa's voice dropped. "You always were better at taking things than making them, Stella."
For the briefest second, Stella's mask slipped. Then she smiled wider. "And you were always better at dreaming love than doing it, darling." Her tongue darted out to catch her own cruelty. "Though I suppose Damon never gave you the opportunity to learn the difference, did he?"
The jab was personal, too private. The air turned to glass in Venessa's lungs.
Because Stella wasn't just talking about designs. She was talking about Damon.
About the love period where he'd kissed her goodnight at the door like she was made of porcelain. About the way he'd always stopped when her hands fumbled with his shirt buttons, murmuring "We have time"—only to walk away completely when the bankruptcy hit.
Stella reached into her Birkin and produced a keycard—black, embossed with the gold logo of The Laurent, Damon's family hotel. She twirled it between her fingers like a knife.
"Funny, isn't it? All those nights you spent sketching in his penthouse while he slept alone." A laugh like spilt champagne. "Turns out he just needed someone who didn't treat his bed like a museum exhibit."
The keycard glinted under the fluorescent lights. Suite 1201. The same floor as Damon's private office. Where she would often go to work in his presence, tracing her future in graphite while he murmured tired approval from his office next door and often go for meetings the next.
But her stomach twisted cold and heavy now, settling like iron in her gut.
She'd always believed he was working on the other side of that wall—safe, distant, hers in silence. But maybe he hadn't been working at all. Maybe he'd been next door, resting… and in someone else's arms.
"You're lying," Venessa hissed, her voice trembling with the last shred of conviction she had left. "Damon would never—"
Stella's smirk deepened, her burgundy nails tapping against the keycard. "Oh, sweet, naïve Venessa. You still don't understand, do you?"
Stella's fingers trailed along the edge of the keycard before letting it disappear into her Birkin with a slow, deliberate smile.
"You don't believe me?" Her laugh was dark velvet. "Then let me extend a proper invitation."
From her bag, she produced a single black envelope, its edges trimmed in gold—the Laurent insignia pressed into the wax seal.
"Friday. Nine o'clock. The Sapphire Suite. There's close party, be my guest." She held it out between two fingers. "The same suite where he used to review your sketches, remember? That plush velvet divan you loved so much..." Her tongue darted across her lips. "...it's even more comfortable without clothes."
Venessa's stomach twisted.
She knew that divan. Knew how the fabric caught the light, knew the exact spot where Damon would sit while she spread her designs across his lap—
Stella leaned in, her perfume cloying. "Come see for yourself. Watch through the peephole if you prefer. Or..." She pressed the envelope into Venessa's limp hand. "Or join us. He's saved you a role—" Her nail tapped the paper. "—best supporting ex."
The ground tilted.
"Oh, and Venessa?" Stella paused at the threshold, throwing one last look over her shoulder—eyes wide with mock concern, the kind that masks a kill shot. "If you cry when you see it, do let him know. He's been awfully devastated when you didn't shed a single tear when he ended your engagement. Kept checking your cheeks for streaks. Honestly,"
A slow blink.
"I think he was waiting for it. Maybe even... craving it. Maybe if you did then he probably would have returned back to you.""
Venessa's blood turned to ice.
Her smile turned predatory. "You know what he says? That you were sweetest when you were shattered. That your mouth tasted like salted caramel when he licked the tears off your lips."
"He always said you tasted sweeter… when you cried."