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.

Helena sat at her desk for three hours. Her fingers flew across her sketchpad. The neon greens and heavy wools in the Phoenix folder were a nightmare, but she was breaking them apart, restructuring the silhouettes into an avant-garde streetwear line.

Her neck began to ache. She needed coffee.

She stood up, rubbed the back of her neck, and walked out of the chaotic office.

She walked down the quiet hallway toward the communal pantry. As she got closer, she heard a voice.

"Too naive, too simple."

It was a man's voice. Oily and condescending.

Helena stopped. She stepped closer to the open doorway and looked inside.

Alaina was backed into the corner of the pantry, pressed against the refrigerator. A middle-aged man in a tight grey suit had his arm braced against the wall next to her head, trapping her.

It was Warren Finch. The deputy head of Design Group Two.

Warren was holding one of Alaina's sketches.

"You have talent, Alaina," Warren said, leaning his face closer to hers. "But you lack experience. Not just in design, but in life."

Alaina bit her lip. Her hands were shaking violently as she clutched her empty coffee mug. She tried to slide to the right, but Warren shifted his body, blocking her.

"Do not be shy," Warren smiled. His eyes dropped to her chest. "In this industry, who you know is more important than what you know. I can be a very helpful mentor. If you are willing to learn."

Bile rose in Helena's throat. Her blood ran cold, then hot.

She reached into her pocket. She pulled out her phone, opened the voice memo app, and hit record. She held the phone by her side.

"Think about it," Warren said softly. "A private dinner. Just you and me. We can discuss your career path."

Helena tapped the screen to stop the recording. She slipped the phone back into her pocket.

She pasted a bright, oblivious smile on her face and stepped into the pantry.

"Alaina!" Helena said loudly.

Warren jumped back. He dropped his arm from the wall and spun around.

"I was looking everywhere for you," Helena said, walking straight toward them. She ignored Warren completely. "Dad just called. He booked us a table at Le Bernardin for lunch."

Warren's face flushed. He recognized Helena. He knew she was the CEO's other daughter, the crazy one.

Helena grabbed Alaina's arm. She linked their elbows tightly. She could feel Alaina trembling against her side.

"Let's go," Helena said, her voice light and cheerful. "We do not want to be late."

She pulled Alaina out of the pantry without looking back.

Warren stood alone by the coffee machine, his face twisting into an ugly scowl.

Helena pulled Alaina into the stairwell and let the heavy fire door close behind them.

The moment the door shut, Alaina broke down. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

Helena pulled her into a tight hug. She rubbed Alaina's back, feeling the sharp blades of her shoulders shaking.

"He... he has been doing that all morning," Alaina cried into Helena's shoulder. "Every time I am alone."

Helena's jaw locked. Her fingers dug into the fabric of Alaina's suit jacket.

"I am taking you out of here," Helena said firmly.

They did not go to Le Bernardin. Helena walked Alaina down the street to a quiet cafe. She ordered two massive slices of chocolate cake and sat with her until Alaina stopped crying.

An hour later, they walked back into the lobby of the Hancock Group building.

Helena felt Alaina freeze beside her.

Helena looked up. Warren Finch was walking across the marble floor, heading straight toward them. He had a smug, nasty smirk on his face.

Helena stopped walking. She let go of Alaina's arm and squared her shoulders.