Chapter 355

Author’s POV

The Breaking Point

The design studio reeked of desperation and cold coffee. Vivi surveyed her team—hollow-eyed zombies hunched over laptops, their creativity bleeding out with each rejected draft. Empty energy drink cans formed a small mountain by the printer, a monument to their collective exhaustion.

"That’s it!" Vivi slammed her palm against the table, making everyone jump. "We’re done bleeding over this tonight. Pack it up, people. Go home before you start hallucinating unicorns in the color swatches."

A collective groan rippled through the room—relief mixed with bone-deep fatigue. They’d finally cracked it. After seventy-two hours of creative warfare, they had something that didn’t make their eyes bleed. Victory never tasted so much like stale donuts and regret.

God, we actually pulled it off, Vivi thought, rubbing her temples. The prototype wasn’t perfect, but it had that spark—that indefinable quality that made people stop scrolling and start staring. She could already picture Serena’s approving nod, Sally’s rare smile of satisfaction.

"No heroics tonight," Vivi called out as laptops snapped shut. "Sleep. Real sleep, not whatever you’ve been calling those three-hour comas."

Claire gathered her things with mechanical precision, shoulders rigid with unspoken resentment. While others chatted about weekend plans and actual beds, she moved like a ghost through the motions—scarf wound tight, bag slung over one shoulder, eyes fixed on the exit.

The October air bit at her cheeks as she stepped outside.

"Another glamorous night in my spectacular career." she thought bitterly, watching her breath form angry little puffs. The sidewalk stretched ahead, empty except for scattered leaves and her crushing sense of invisibility.

That’s when the headlights found her.

The beam hit her square in the face, turning the world white-hot. Claire threw up her hand, stumbling backward. "What the hell—"

The light dimmed, revealing a sleek black sedan that probably cost more than her annual salary. The rear window glided down with a whisper-soft hum, and Claire’s irritation shifted into something sharper. Something dangerous.

"Claire Smith." The voice that emerged was silk wrapped around steel. "Such a pretty name for such a talented girl."

Every instinct screamed run. Instead, Claire found herself stepping closer, drawn by the magnetic pull of someone who clearly didn’t belong in her world of discount coffee and shared apartments.

"Do I know you?" Claire’s voice came out smaller than intended.

"Top of your class at Parsons. Portfolio that made professors weep. And now..." A pause, deliberately cruel. "An assistant. How deliciously tragic."

The words hit like physical blows. Claire’s fingers tightened around her bag strap until her knuckles went white. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"I’m someone who recognizes wasted potential." The figure leaned forward, and Claire caught a glimpse of sharp cheekbones and predatory elegance. "Tell me, darling—how does it feel to watch mediocrities climb over your back on their way to the top?"

Stop talking. The smart part of Claire’s brain was screaming warnings, but the wounded part—the part that had been collecting rejections and swallowing pride for months—was drinking in every word.

"You don’t know what you’re talking about," Claire whispered, but her heart wasn’t in the denial.

"Don’t I?" The woman’s laugh was soft, devastating.

Then the sunglasses came off.

"Oh my God." Claire’s breath caught. "You’re Sophie Anderson."

"Guilty as charged." Sophie’s smile could have cut glass. "The question is, Claire—are you ready to stop being a victim of your own integrity?"

The words followed Claire home like hungry ghosts. She fumbled with her keys, Sophie’s business card—pristine white with embossed numbers—burning a hole in her pocket. The apartment felt smaller than usual, walls pressing in with the weight of another wasted day.

Her phone buzzed. Vivi’s name flashed on the screen.

"Need those revisions on the Morrison account by tomorrow morning. Thanks! - V"

Claire stared at the message until the words blurred. Another late night. Another thankless task. Another reminder that she was expendable, invisible, nothing more than a warm body to handle Vivi’s overflow.

"Screw it." The words came out as a snarl. Claire hurled the phone onto her unmade bed and watched it bounce twice before settling into the wrinkled sheets.

She should do the work. She should be grateful for the job. She should swallow her pride and soldier on like a good little assistant.

Instead, she pulled out Sophie’s card.

The number rang once. Twice. On the third ring, that silk-wrapped-steel voice answered.

"Claire, darling. I was wondering when you’d call."

"I want in." The words tumbled out before Claire’s better judgment could stop them. "Whatever you’re offering—I want in."

Sophie’s laugh was warm honey laced with poison. "I knew you were smarter than they gave you credit for. Tell me, sweet thing—what do you know about Elegant Realm’s Fashion Week plans?"

Claire’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. The line in the sand, the point of no return. On one side: her integrity, her loyalty, everything she’d been taught about right and wrong. On the other: recognition, money, a chance to finally matter.

"Everything," she heard herself say. "I know everything."

"Excellent." Sophie’s satisfaction purred through the speaker. "Tomorrow, you become Chief Design Supervisor at ARt. Tonight, you become my inside woman. Are we clear?"

The title hit Claire like a drug. Chief Design Supervisor. After years of being overlooked, underestimated, stepped on—finally, someone saw her worth.

"Crystal clear," Claire breathed.

"Wonderful. Send me everything—concepts, timelines, vendor lists. I want to know what Elegant Realm is thinking before they think it."

As Claire rattled off details about themes and logistics, she felt something shift inside her chest. The guilt was there, sharp and acidic, but underneath it was something sweeter: anticipation. For the first time in months, she was moving toward something instead of running in place.

"You won’t regret this, Mrs. Anderson," Claire said, surprised by how steady her voice sounded.

"Of course not, darling. And Claire? Welcome to the winning side."

The line went dead, leaving Claire alone with her racing pulse and the intoxicating taste of betrayal. She fell asleep with Sophie’s business card pressed against her palm, dreaming of corner offices and respect.

Morning came with Vivi’s voice cutting through the office like a buzz saw.

"Where are the Morrison revisions, Claire? The client’s breathing down my neck!"

Claire kept her eyes on her computer screen, watching Vivi’s reflection rage in the black monitor. Around them, conversations stuttered to a halt as people turned to watch the show.

"I asked you a direct question." Vivi’s voice climbed higher. "This is completely unacceptable. We have deadlines!"

You have deadlines, Claire thought, fingers steady on her keyboard. I have options.

"Claire?" Someone touched her shoulder—Maya from accounting, voice gentle with secondhand embarrassment. "Maybe just apologize? She’s having a rough morning."

But Claire was done apologizing for existing. Done making herself smaller to fit into other people’s comfort zones. ARt was calling, Sophie was waiting, and Vivi could choke on her precious deadlines.

"I’ll get to it," Claire said finally, not bothering to look up.

The office held its breath. Vivi’s face cycled through several shades of red before she stalked away, muttering about professionalism and consequences.

Claire smiled at her reflection in the monitor. In twenty-four hours, she’d be the one giving orders. The thought tasted like champagne and victory, washing away years of swallowed pride.

Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: "Looking forward to our partnership. -S"

The winning side, indeed.