His Unwanted Wife Is A Genius Designer

A black, bulletproof SUV pulled into the heavily guarded underground parking garage of the Eleonore Powers global headquarters on Fifth Avenue.

Arianna stepped out of the vehicle. She wore a tailored beige trench coat, the collar popped up. A black silk mask covered the lower half of her face, and oversized dark sunglasses hid her eyes.

She bypassed the main lobby entirely. She swiped an unmarked, black keycard at the private VIP elevator.

The doors closed, shooting her up to the top floor.

The elevator chimed. As the doors opened, the rich, bitter scent of dark roast coffee hit her senses.

Sitting behind a massive glass desk was Eleonore Powers. The legendary fashion icon had stark silver hair cut into a sharp bob. She was glaring down at a stack of financial reports.

Hearing the click of heels, Eleonore looked up, peering over the rim of her reading glasses.

Arianna reached up and pulled off the sunglasses and the mask.

Eleonore froze. She stared at the sharp, cold face of her former protégé.

Eleonore slammed her hands on the desk and stood up. She grabbed her gold-tipped cane, the metal striking the floor with a heavy thwack.

She marched around the desk, stopped directly in front of Arianna, and slapped her hard across the face.

Arianna's head snapped to the side. Her pale cheek instantly bloomed with a bright red mark.

She didn't flinch. She didn't step back.

Eleonore's eyes were shining with unshed tears. "Six years!" the older woman hissed, her voice shaking with fury. "You buried a once-in-a-generation talent to play house with a man who doesn't even look at you!"

Arianna slowly turned her head back. She looked at her mentor, the fire of rebirth burning fiercely in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Arianna whispered.

She reached into the pocket of her trench coat and pulled out a small, encrypted black USB drive. She placed it gently on the glass desk.

"This is my new collection for the CFDA Awards."

Eleonore let out a harsh scoff, clearly doubting her. She snatched the drive, plugged it into her sleek monitor, and clicked the folder open.

The first sketch loaded onto the screen.

Eleonore stopped breathing.

The design was a violent explosion of emotion. The tailoring was impossibly bold, the lines aggressive and raw. It was the work of someone who had burned to the ground and forged themselves anew in the ashes. It was infinitely better than the young Ember.J from six years ago.

Eleonore's wrinkled fingers trembled slightly as she clicked the mouse, scrolling rapidly through the rest of the collection.

When she reached the final image, she collapsed back into her leather chair. She let out a long, shaky breath.

She looked up at Arianna. The genius was truly back, and she was out for blood.

Eleonore slammed her finger on her intercom button.

"Get the core PR team in here right now. Level one clearance," she barked.

She looked at Arianna. "I will bypass the background checks. You will be entered anonymously."

Within the hour, a highly coordinated storm hit the dark web and the upper echelons of the fashion industry.

Encrypted, untraceable emails landed in the inboxes of the editor-in-chief of Vogue and top fashion critics.

The email contained no text. Only a blurred, extreme close-up of a fabric texture, and a burning wax seal of the letter J.

Forty-five minutes later, anonymous fashion gossip accounts on Twitter exploded.

RUMOR: The ghost of fashion is back. Ember.J is entering the CFDA.

Arianna stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the yellow cabs crawling like tiny insects on Fifth Avenue.

A cold, razor-sharp smile touched her lips.

Chanelle had built her entire brand on stolen ideas and cheap imitations.

Ember was going to burn her empire to the ground.