"The cruelest fall is not from grace—but from the illusion of power you thought you earned."
She had always known how to perform.
Bianca Donga had spent years perfecting her stage—curating the smile, controlling the narrative, commanding the room. In the world of fashion PR, perception was everything. And Bianca? She was the master of illusion.
Gaia Eyala had taught her that.
But Bianca had long since decided she'd surpassed her mentor.
After all, hadn't she won?
Hadn't she walked Gaia out of her own company with a sympathetic smile and a perfectly timed board vote? Hadn't she inherited the fashion empire? The press? The power?
Then why—why—couldn't she sleep at night?
It began with the whisper.
A murmured comment during a panel interview.
"She reminds me of the Eyala era—Phoenix Noir. Same precision. Same fire."
Bianca had smiled, dismissed it with a soft laugh, a casual, "Gaia was a talent, yes. But the industry moves forward."
Except... it hadn't.
Not really.
Designers were suddenly referencing Gaia's signature cuts again. Magazine spreads compared her current collection to Phoenix Noir's underground debut—and not in Bianca's favor.
There was an undeniable energy returning to the fashion scene. One that belonged to Gaia. And no matter how many times Bianca denied it, ignored it, buried it—it was rising again.
Worse, Theo was starting to spiral.
He wasn't the steady partner she'd once schemed with. His paranoia had bled into their meetings. His eyes darted too much. His voice lowered to whispers even in private. And worst of all, he had said it aloud.
"What if it's her?"
That sentence haunted Bianca.
Because beneath all her bravado, all her press-perfect answers and red carpet struts, she knew Gaia.
And Gaia was not the type to die quietly.
At first, Bianca told herself she wasn't afraid. Gaia had no proof. No allies. No brand. She was nothing more than a shadow of her former self.
But shadows, Bianca was learning, had teeth.
She stared at her reflection in the penthouse mirror that morning. Her silk robe slipped slightly off her shoulder, revealing the goosebumps on her skin. Her phone buzzed.
New Message from PR Control Group: "Do you have a comment on Phoenix Noir's rumored return to Yaoundé Fashion Week?"
Bianca's throat tightened.
Return? To Yaoundé?
That wasn't just symbolic. That was war.
And then came the second message—from someone she didn't recognize.
"How does it feel to wear stolen crowns?"
She dropped her phone.
Her hands trembled for the first time in months. She gripped the counter, trying to steady her breath. Her manicured nails left faint dents in the marble.
No. No. I'm still in control.
But control was slipping. Slowly. Then all at once.
Later that evening, during a closed-door meeting with Theo and their legal team, she found herself distracted. Not by the strategy. Not even by the contracts.
But by the sound of faint footsteps—echoing in her mind.
Footsteps that used to walk these halls. Footsteps in heels sharp enough to cut through silence.
Gaia's heels.
"She's not back," Bianca whispered to herself as the board room emptied.
Theo looked at her. Really looked.
"Yes," he said quietly. "She is. And she's letting us feel it before she ever says a word."
Bianca didn't reply.
Because for the first time since the takeover, she realized—
They hadn't won.
They'd only delayed the reckoning.