CHAPTER 39: SABOTAGED

It was the night of the Sirena Couture Fashion Show, and the entire building thrummed with anticipation. The venue was alive, not merely with light and sound, but with the electric hum of whispers, laughter, and the rapid-fire click of camera shutters. Celebrities mingled with business tycoons, designers brushed shoulders with politicians’ wives, and critics from every top fashion magazine in the country prowled the hall, ready to record history or scandal—whichever came first.

Waiters in crisp uniforms floated gracefully among the crowd, balancing trays of champagne flutes and sparkling water, while small conversations flared and faded like sparks. The show had not yet begun, but the atmosphere was already intoxicating. Everyone who was anyone was there.

The hallway leading into the main hall was bathed in a soft blue glow. Projections of water creatures swam across the walls—jellyfish that pulsed faintly with light, stingrays that glided in eerie silence, and schools of silver fish darting as if reacting to the movements of the guests themselves.

The effect was dreamlike, evoking both the warmth of a womb and the vast, unending mystery of the ocean depths. The designer’s obsession with the sea was clear in every detail.

Backstage, however, there was no time for awe. The changing room buzzed with tension as models hurried to get into their first outfits. Alisha sat in front of a mirror, her blue gown clinging to her figure as the stylist adjusted the final straps. The dress was breathtaking—its fabric shimmered faintly under the harsh vanity lights, soft to the touch, with an open back that dipped daringly low and cutouts at her waist that revealed flawless skin.

She had carefully dabbed a foundation over her bandage, blending the shade perfectly with her skin. Unless someone touched her, no one would ever know.

There weren’t as many girls as before. The weeks leading up to the show had been brutal, eliminating anyone who failed to progress, and those left carried the pressure of knowing eyes were on them, waiting for mistakes.

Alisha could feel their gazes even now as the makeup artist leaned close, adding highlights to her collarbones and dusting a faint blush across her cheeks. The others still resented her—jealous of the fact she had been the one chosen to walk beside Katherine at the Met Gala. Their silence wasn’t kindness; it was hostility with a smile painted over it.

She met her own reflection’s eyes and allowed herself a faint smirk. The makeup artist had worked wonders. Her cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut, her lips full and soft, her eyes lined in a way that made them look almost feline. She looked like the version of herself she had been fighting to reclaim ever since waking from the coma.

"Girls, it’s time!" A staff member rushed in, her earpiece glinting under the light as she clapped her hands urgently.

The models snapped into action. The muffled bass of the opening music seeped through the walls, vibrating in their chests. Alisha’s heartbeat quickened, thudding in rhythm with it. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself.

This was it. Her first real runway since everything had changed. Since the accident. Since the coma.

Five minutes later, they were lined up in perfect formation. Katherine, of course, stood at the very front, the face of Sirena Couture, while Alisha found herself leading the second line. The signal was given, and the girls began to move.

The moment their heels hit the runway, the sound of camera shutters filled the hall like a storm of metallic rain. The lights hit the dresses just right, making the fabrics glow like creatures from another world. Each dress was a love letter to the ocean, gowns with flowing hems that mimicked jellyfish tendrils, sequined bodices that resembled scales, and headpieces that shimmered like coral crowns.

For once, Alisha’s chest swelled with pride rather than anxiety. If this show went well, she would walk away with more than just pride. She would walk away with power.

The two lines split, Alisha leading one and Katherine the other. Together, they reached the end of the runway, striking poses for the photographers. The flashes blinded her, but she held her ground, her body angled perfectly, her face serene.

And then she heard something. The sound was soft at first, barely audible over the music, but Alisha felt it. The slight give of fabric, the sharp tug against her skin. She tried to ignore it, continuing her walk with practiced grace. But with every step, the tearing grew louder.

By the time she reached the middle of the runway, disaster struck.

The lower half of her gown slipped loose, sliding down toward her ankles. In an instant, her elegant dress had transformed into a makeshift two-piece, leaving her panties shockingly exposed under the blinding runway lights.

Gasps rippled through the crowd like a wave. The audience sat up straighter, phones angled higher, cameras flashing faster.

Her stomach lurched. This had to be sabotage. Either the tailor had been criminally incompetent, or someone had tampered with her dress before she walked out.

And who else could it be but Katherine?

For the briefest second, panic clawed at her chest. But then instinct kicked in. She bent, caught the fabric, and with smooth, practiced confidence, pulled the fallen piece up to rest against her abdomen. The motion revealed her taut stomach, the defined ridges of her abs, and the dark ink of the rose tattoo peeking above her hip bone.

She did not falter. She did not stop. She lifted her chin and kept walking.

Behind her, Katherine’s smirk spread wide, her eyes gleaming with triumph. Surely, the audience would laugh. Surely, the headlines tomorrow would be cruel. Surely, Alisha was finished.

But the opposite happened.

The cameras didn’t stop. They fired faster, brighter, more frantic than ever, as if the photographers had just been handed the shot of the night.

By the time they reached backstage, stylists swarmed her, horrified.

"How could this happen?!" one cried, her hands shaking as she inspected the torn seams. This was the woman responsible for the gowns tonight, and her career might very well hang in the balance.

Alisha placed a calming hand on her shoulder. "It wasn’t you. Someone sabotaged it."

The stylist froze, eyes wide with terror.

"Don’t worry. I know it wasn’t your fault," Alisha assured. Her voice was calm, steady. But in her mind, she replayed Katherine’s smirk. If Katherine hadn’t done it herself, she had certainly paid someone to.

From the corner of her eye, Alisha spotted Bethany in a shimmering green gown meant to evoke a sea turtle. The girl’s eyes darted away guiltily the moment Alisha noticed.

"The audience is waiting!" the staff member barked, her voice tight with nerves. If one dress had been tampered with, others could be too. The thought hung unspoken in the air.

Alisha slipped into her second outfit, the stylists double-checking every seam, every thread. This time, nothing would fall apart.

When she returned to the runway for her solo walk, the results were undeniable. The photographers lit her up like a supernova, the shutter clicks so rapid they sounded like applause. She struck her pose with perfect precision, then turned, the lights flashing behind her like a coronation.

Katherine followed. And for the first time in her career, the cameras were quieter. The applause was softer.

Something was wrong, she realized. The audience wasn’t mocking Alisha. They were exalting her.

Back in her hotel room hours later, Alisha finally let herself breathe. She showered, washing away the makeup, the sweat, the lingering tension. Wrapped in a towel, she padded into the room, ready to collapse.

Then the door burst open as three men walked in with a gun in their hands.

’Are you kidding me right now?’