My blood turns to ice. This isn't about the dye. This isn't about the dress. It's a surgical strike. She's attacking the only thing I have that's actually mine. She's saying I didn't earn this. She's saying I'm just warming the bed of a hockey player to get ahead.
The urge to slap her is a physical itch in my palms. I take a step forward, closing the distance between us until we are toe-to-toe. I don't raise my voice. I don't need to.
"Say it again," I tell her.
She hesitates. The bravado flickers for a second, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. She didn't expect me to step to her. She expected me to cry. She expected me to run.
"I'm just saying," she backpedals, her tone shifting from nasty to defensive. "Everyone knows—"
"You don't know," I cut her off, sharp as a blade. "You see a headline and you think you have the whole story. You see a dress and you think you understand the work. You don't know a fucking thing about me, Jessica."
I look down at the ruined gown, then back at her. The rage is still there, burning in my chest, but it's calcifying into something harder. Something colder.
"If you think my work is bought," I say, "then you're admitting you're not good enough to beat me on a level playing field."
Her face flushes a dull red. She opens her mouth to retort, but I'm done.
"Clean up your mess," I say, turning my back on her. "And stay the hell away from my table."
I hear her huff, the sound of fabric rustling as she storms away.
I look down at the indigo stain on the silk. It's ugly. It's permanent. But I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to run to Gio and tell him some mean girl ruined my project. I'm going to fix it. I'm going to make it better than it was before. And I'm going to do it without a single fucking word to him.
The silence that returns to the studio isn't peaceful anymore. It's heavy. Judging. I can feel the eyes of the other students boring into my back, waiting for the breakdown. Waiting for the tears. Waiting for me to prove Jessica right.
I don't give them the satisfaction. I grab the roll of paper towels from the shelf and the bottle of industrial solvent. My knees hit the concrete, ignoring the sting as the grit digs into my skin. I start wiping up the indigo sludge. It's messy work. The dye stains the paper towels instantly, a dark, unforgiving purple.
"Zoë, let me help," a voice says from behind me. It's Maya. She's hovering, her hands twisting together in sympathy.
"I don't need help," I say, not looking up. My voice is steady. "I need you to keep the door closed so no one tracks this out."
Maya hesitates, then I hear the soft click of the latch. I'm alone again. Good.
I scrape the last of the shattered ceramic into a dustpan. I scrub the concrete until my knuckles are raw and the smell of chemical solvent burns my nose. The floor is clean. The evidence is gone.
Now for the dress.
I lift the ruined silk off the form. The stain has set, a permanent blotch of indigo marring the emerald gradient. I stare at it for a long time. This is six hours of work. This is the centerpiece of my collection.
I pick up my shears. My hand doesn't shake. I line up the blades below the stain.
Snip.
The fabric falls away. I'm cutting off the damage. I'm cutting off the bottom six inches of the hem. It changes the line. The drape is altered. It changes everything I planned.
I pin the new, shorter hem, my fingers moving with practiced precision. I can fix this. I'll add a contrast band. A sharp, geometric inset in black silk. It'll be edgier. It'll be better. It will look like a choice.
The sun goes down as I work, the fluorescent overhead lights starting to hum with a headache-inducing frequency. My back aches. My eyes burn. But the rage is gone, replaced by a cold, diamond-hard determination.
Stepping back, I look at the altered silhouette. It's sharper. Stronger. I proved I could survive the hit. Now I have to prove I can land the punch.
The next morning, the studio feels different. The air is lighter, the hum of the industrial sewing machines less oppressive. I walk to my station, my coffee in hand, bracing myself for the aftermath. I expect the cold shoulder. I expect the whispers. I expect Jessica to be sitting at her table, radiating smug triumph.
The chair is empty.
I stop. I look at the clock. 8:05 AM. Jessica is never late. She's the kind of obsessive who shows up twenty minutes early to guard her workspace like it's holy ground.
"She's gone." Maya's voice comes from the next station over. She's threading a needle, not looking at me.
