Agape Lane didn't believe in coincidences anymore.
The day after the rooftop meeting with Samantha, she received an anonymous package. Inside was a slim black USB drive and a single note:
"Watch carefully. Not everything you lost was ever yours."
She didn't panic. Agape had spent years in the cutthroat world of fashion, and the politics were often dirtier than the designs were glamorous. But this was different. This was personal.
She slid the USB into her laptop and watched the grainy footage unfold—Naomi in a hallway, her back arched against a hotel room door, Patrick's hand sliding up her thigh.
Timestamped.
A week before Agape's birthday.
The pain was immediate, but it simmered under the surface. Agape didn't cry. She didn't scream.
She planned.
---
By Friday, Harmonique Fashion House was abuzz with preparations for the Annual Designers' Gala. Agape had decided to attend not just to showcase the new collection, but to reclaim her place in the world she helped shape.
She invited Samantha to her penthouse that evening.
Samantha arrived with wine and gossip, but paused when she saw Agape's workspace—a wall plastered with printouts, timelines, photos, financial records.
"Okay... should I be concerned or impressed?"
"Both," Agape said, sipping from a flute of rosé. "I need you to help me bury Naomi. Professionally. Legally. Strategically."
Samantha whistled. "I knew she picked the wrong enemy."
Agape tapped a photo of Naomi standing beside a man with a Rolex and an uncertain expression. "This is Jerome Hill. He manages luxury partnerships for Royce Fragrance. Naomi was spotted with him three times in the last month, including a weekend in Monte Carlo."
Samantha blinked. "Is that her new sugar daddy?"
"Possibly. But he's married."
"Scandal."
"We're not using it," Agape said. "But we are going to bait her into denying it. Then leak something else. If she lies publicly, we've got her."
Samantha nodded. "Old school takedown. Subtle. Elegant. Ruthless."
Agape smiled. "Exactly."
---
At the gala, Agape was a vision in a crimson velvet gown that hugged her curves and left a trail of whispers wherever she walked. She didn't need to announce herself—the room bent toward her presence like flowers toward the sun.
Naomi arrived an hour later in gold silk and diamonds. She smiled for the cameras, posed beside Patrick, played her role.
But when their eyes met, Agape saw it.
Uncertainty.
The moment Naomi was alone, Agape approached.
"Naomi."
"Miss Lane," she replied, her voice poised.
"I saw the Royce photos. Monaco looked lovely."
Naomi's eyes darkened. "I was there for a shoot."
"Of course," Agape replied smoothly. "And you happened to have dinner with Jerome Hill because he appreciates good perfume?"
Naomi hesitated.
"You should be careful," Agape whispered. "The world loves to build pretty things up, just to watch them fall."
"Are you threatening me?"
Agape tilted her head. "No, darling. I'm reminding you. I built this world."
---
Meanwhile, Patrick stood with investors, but his eyes followed Agape.
He hadn't seen her look this powerful in months—maybe ever.
Later, he found her near the balcony, a champagne flute in her hand and confidence draped around her like a second skin.
"You still look at me like you want me," she said before he could speak.
"Because I do," Patrick admitted.
"And yet, you chose someone else."
"I made a mistake."
Agape chuckled. "That's the thing with mistakes, Patrick. They always come back around."
She walked away, leaving him breathless.
---
The next day, gossip blogs exploded.
Photos of Naomi and Jerome leaked anonymously. The headlines ranged from "New IT Girl or Gold Digger Extraordinaire?" to "Naomi Jordan Caught in Married Man Drama."
Naomi posted a denial. "Just business."
But Royce Fragrance pulled their endorsement within 48 hours.
Agape watched it all unfold from her office.
One strike.
She wouldn't destroy Naomi overnight.
She'd let her crumble slowly—under the weight of her own ambition.
---
Naomi sat in her luxury apartment, phone buzzing nonstop. She stared at the screen, rage simmering beneath her skin.
She knew it was Agape.
Knew the woman was behind the leak, the whispers, the sudden cold shoulder from brands she'd just begun negotiating with.
She had underestimated Agape Lane. That wouldn't happen again.
---
Two days later, Harmonique received a letter from the Fashion Licensing Board. An anonymous complaint had been filed alleging plagiarism in the Spring Collection.
Agape read the document twice, lips curling into a tight smile.
So Naomi was fighting back.
She forwarded it to legal and said nothing.
Instead, she focused on her next event—an exclusive brunch with Celia Ford, a former Vogue editor turned industry gatekeeper. If Agape could secure a feature in Celia's online magazine, it would crush Naomi's momentum completely.
At the brunch, Agape was calm and calculated.
"I don't just create fashion," she told Celia. "I craft stories. That's what makes Harmonique stand apart."
Celia was charmed, sipping her mimosa with a thoughtful grin. "I've always appreciated visionaries. Send me your lookbook. I'll see what I can do."
A small win.
A necessary one.
---
That evening, Agape called Samantha.
"Naomi's retaliating."
Samantha didn't sound surprised. "Of course she is. She's not stupid. She's venom in velvet."
"Then we outsmart her."
"Already one step ahead," Samantha said. "I've been tracking her endorsements. Her next target is a new tech-couture launch. She's meeting the founder in two days."
Agape grinned. "Then let's give her something to explain when she gets there."
---
Two days later, the founder received an anonymous tip linking Naomi to a scandalous lawsuit involving a photographer in Miami—something she'd paid to have buried. It was just enough to make the founder cancel the meeting, citing 'schedule conflicts.'
Naomi never even got in the door.
The balance of power was shifting again.
---
But Agape wasn't done.
She remembered an old friend of Naomi's—Sierra, a model who'd once shared a flat with her in Paris. Agape reached out, carefully. No threats. Just coffee and a memory.
Sierra didn't need prompting.
"She used to brag about stealing rich men," Sierra said. "She'd mark them like territory. Patrick was just another prize."
With Sierra's permission, Agape had her story published anonymously in a fashion tell-all blog. The quotes were vague, but the descriptions unmistakable.
Social media caught fire.
Naomi's image—once radiant and untouchable—now glittered with cracks.
---
In the quiet aftermath, Patrick called Agape again.
"You're winning," he said, a little broken.
"No," Agape replied. "I'm surviving. There's a difference."
He hesitated. "Do you still love me?"
Agape didn't answer immediately. Then:
"I loved who you were. But you loved the version of me who didn't question you."
"Can't we try again?"
Agape exhaled. "Maybe one day. But not while she's still your shadow."
She hung up.
---
That night, she stood on her balcony, watching the city lights shimmer below. Samantha joined her with two glasses of wine.
"To reclaiming everything," Samantha said, raising her glass.
Agape clinked hers. "And to making sure no one ever forgets who they're dealing with."
Behind them, her office wall bore a new addition—a single printed quote:
"She wasn't born to be second. She was built to lead."
And in the war of reputation, influence, and revenge, Agape Lane was just getting started.
--