The black stretch Lincoln glided smoothly along the highway toward Manhattan.

Helena sat on the plush leather seat. She wore a simple, perfectly tailored white sheath dress. She rested her arm on the door, watching the trees blur past the tinted window.

Across from her, Alaina sat rigidly upright. She wore a stiff navy blue business suit. Her hands were clamped tightly around a thick black folder resting on her lap. She kept biting her lower lip, chewing on the skin until it turned red.

The silence in the car was thick with Alaina's nervous energy.

Helena turned her head. "Nervous about the first day?"

Alaina jumped slightly. She nodded. "A little. I am worried I will not do well."

"You graduated from Parsons," Helena said smoothly. "You will be brilliant."

Alaina's eyes flickered with a brief light at the mention of her design school, but it faded quickly. She looked down at the black folder in her lap. Her fingers traced the edge of the plastic cover.

She took a deep breath, unclasped her hands, and held the folder out across the space between them.

"These are some of my sketches," Alaina said, her voice shaking. "Could you... could you take a look?"

Helena reached out and took the folder. She opened it and rested it on her knees.

Inside were pencil and watercolor sketches of evening gowns.

Helena's posture changed instantly. Her eyes narrowed in focus. Her thumb automatically moved to the seam of her white dress, rubbing the fabric in a slow, rhythmic motion.

The designs were beautiful. Alaina had raw talent. But the structural logic of the garments was flawed.

Helena turned the page. The silence stretched.

Alaina held her breath. Her stomach twisted into knots. She was terrified Helena would laugh at her.

"This draping is beautiful," Helena said suddenly. She tapped her finger against a sketch of a flowing blue gown. "The way you have handled the chiffon creates a sense of movement. Like water."

Alaina let out a shaky breath. Her shoulders dropped an inch.

"But for this silhouette," Helena continued, her eyes scanning the lines, "you might want to consider a heavier silk blend for the lining. It will give the skirt more structure without losing the flow. Right now, the weight of the bodice will drag the waistline down."

Alaina stared at her. Her mouth parted slightly.

Helena turned another page. "And here. The seam placement on the bias cut will pucker if you use this satin. Move the zipper to the side seam."

She spoke with absolute authority. It was the voice of a seasoned professional.

Alaina scrambled to open her purse. She pulled out a pen and leaned forward, writing notes directly onto the plastic sleeves of her folder.

"Helena..." Alaina stopped writing and looked up. "How do you know all this?"

Helena froze. Her thumb stopped rubbing the seam of her dress. She had slipped into her old life.

She looked at Alaina's wide, amazed eyes.

Helena let out a light, breathy laugh. She leaned back against the leather seat.

"I am not entirely sure, honestly," Helena said, waving her hand with a touch of hesitation. "I think I read it in an editorial in Vogue once? They were talking about how heavy fabrics need proper lining. Plus, I ruined a perfectly good bias-cut dress last year because the zipper was in the wrong place. You just pick these things up when you buy enough couture and ruin half of it."

Alaina blinked. The explanation fit the old Helena perfectly. The shopping addict.

Alaina smiled. The tension completely left her body. She reached into the folder, pulled out a sketch of a stunning red cocktail dress, and handed it to Helena.

"This is for you," Alaina said softly. "As a thank you."

Helena took the paper. She looked at the careful pencil strokes.

"It is beautiful," Helena said. "Thank you, Alaina."

The Lincoln pulled up to the curb in front of the massive glass-and-steel Hancock Group headquarters.

When Alaina stepped out of the car, she did not look at the ground. She looked up at the building, her chest filled with a new, quiet confidence. She walked close to Helena, trusting her completely.

The lobby of the Hancock Group building was a cavern of white marble and polished steel.

Helena and Alaina walked through the revolving glass doors. Heads turned immediately. Whispers hissed through the air as employees recognized the two daughters of the CEO.

They walked straight to the private elevators and rode up to the top floor.

The Human Resources Director stood waiting for them in his glass-walled office. He wore a tight smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Welcome to the company, ladies," the Director said. He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk.

He handed them each a thick packet of paperwork.

"Miss Alaina," the Director said, his voice warming up. "You will be joining Design Group Two. It is our core evening wear design team, led by Mr. Sterling. He is one of our best."

Alaina's face lit up. She clutched her packet tightly to her chest. "Thank you so much."

Helena smiled for her. Group Two was the elite team.

The Director turned his head to look at Helena. His smile became stiff and mechanical.

"Miss Helena," he said. "You will be in Design Group One."

Behind the Director, a young HR assistant holding a clipboard suddenly looked down at her shoes. Helena saw the pity flash in the girl's eyes.

Her stomach tightened.

"What does my sister's team do?" Alaina asked happily.

The Director cleared his throat. "Group One handles... special projects. More experimental concepts."

Experimental. In corporate language, that meant a graveyard.

"The assistant will show you to your floors," the Director said, standing up to signal the meeting was over.

The young HR assistant led them back to the elevator. The doors slid shut.

The elevator stopped on the twentieth floor.

"Good luck, Alaina," Helena said.

Alaina hugged her quickly and stepped off the elevator. The doors closed again, leaving Helena alone with the assistant.

The elevator began to drop.

The assistant shifted her weight from foot to foot. She looked at the security camera, then looked at Helena.

"Miss Hancock," the assistant whispered quickly. "About Design Group One... you should be prepared."

"Prepared for what?" Helena asked, keeping her voice calm.

"It is... different," the assistant said, her eyes darting nervously. "It is where they send designers who are too difficult to manage. Or who are not performing. We call it the Island of Misfit Toys."

Helena felt a cold knot form in her chest.

"The team leader, Lysander, is a genius," the assistant added. "But he is notoriously eccentric. No one has stayed in that group for more than six months."

Helena stared at the metal doors. Hayward. He had arranged this. He wanted her to quit.

The elevator dinged at the twelfth floor. The doors opened.

The hallway looked nothing like the rest of the building. The walls were covered in chaotic, spray-painted graffiti. Music thumped faintly from behind a heavy metal door at the end of the hall.

The assistant pointed to the door. "This is it. Good luck."

The girl hit the lobby button and the elevator doors shut instantly, as if she were fleeing a fire.

Helena stood alone in the hallway. She looked at the metal door. She felt the familiar urge to rub the seam of her dress, but she stopped herself.

She let out a slow breath. Hayward wanted her to break.

She walked down the hall, grabbed the heavy metal handle, and pushed the door open.

Helena stepped into the room.

The office was a disaster. Rolls of fabric were piled on the floor like fallen trees. Half-dressed mannequins stood in random corners. Sketches were taped to the windows, blocking out the sun.

Four people were lounging around a central cutting table, drinking coffee and laughing.

The heavy door slammed shut behind Helena. The loud thud echoed through the room.

The laughter stopped instantly. Four pairs of eyes locked onto her.

A girl with bright pink hair sitting on the edge of the table sneered.

"Look what the cat dragged in," the pink-haired girl said loudly. "Another little socialite sent here to play designer."

A man in a loud floral shirt laughed. The mockery in the room was thick and heavy.

Helena did not say a word. She stood perfectly still. She let her eyes sweep over the room, taking in the mess, the people, the hostility.

She unbuttoned her light trench coat and slipped it off her shoulders, draping it over a nearby chair.

She stood in her perfectly tailored white dress. The cut highlighted her posture. She looked like she owned the building.

The room went dead silent.

The pink-haired girl stopped sneering. She looked down at her own oversized sweater and pulled at the hem awkwardly.

The man in the floral shirt let out a low whistle. "Well, at least this one is easy on the eyes."

"Donovan, shut up."

The voice came from the darkest corner of the room. It was a deep, lazy drawl.

A man stood up from behind a mountain of black velvet. He was tall, with shoulder-length dark curls. He wore a loose silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

Lysander.

He walked slowly toward Helena. He did not look at her face. He looked at the seams of her dress. He looked at how the fabric fell across her hips. He circled her like a predator inspecting a meal.

"You have a good eye," Lysander said, stopping in front of her. "Or a very good stylist."

"I picked it myself," Helena said. Her voice was flat and steady.

Lysander looked up into her eyes.

"I do not care who your father is," Lysander said, stepping closer. "I do not care who you know. In my studio, you are judged by one thing only. Your talent. Do you have any?"

His aggression hit her like a physical wave.

Helena did not step back. She held his stare.

"Show me," she challenged.

Lysander's lips curved into a sharp smile. He liked that.

He turned around, walked to a dusty metal shelf, and pulled down a thick, battered black folder. He walked back and dropped it onto the table in front of her. Dust flew into the air.

"This is the Phoenix project," Lysander said.

The pink-haired girl gasped. Donovan shook his head.

"A resort collection for a client who went bankrupt halfway through," Lysander explained. "It is a mess of conflicting ideas and unusable materials. It has been sitting here for two years. It is garbage."

He tapped the folder with a long finger.

"Your task is simple. Make something beautiful out of this garbage. You have one week."

It was a trap. A death sentence for a new designer.

Helena reached out and flipped the folder open. She saw neon green synthetic fabrics paired with heavy wool concepts. It was a disaster.

She closed the folder. She looked up at Lysander. Her heart beat a steady, calm rhythm against her ribs.

"I do not need a week," Helena said. Her voice rang clear through the silent room. "I will have a concept board for you by tomorrow morning."

Lysander's smile vanished. He stared at her, his eyes searching her face for the joke.

Helena picked up the heavy folder, turned around, and walked toward an empty desk by the window.