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.

Warren stopped three feet in front of them, blocking their path to the elevators.

"Enjoying your long lunch, ladies?" Warren asked. His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Some of us actually have to work for a living."

Helena stared at him. Her eyes were dead and cold.

"Unlike some people," Helena said, her voice low and sharp, "who get their entertainment by harassing interns."

Warren's smirk vanished. The skin on his neck turned a dark, angry red. Several employees walking through the lobby slowed down, turning their heads to watch.

"Harassing?" Warren spat. He took a step closer, trying to use his size to intimidate her. "I was giving little Alaina here some friendly advice. In this world, a pretty face can get you far. You should know all about that, shouldn't you, Helena?"

The insult hung in the air. He was calling her a whore in the middle of the company lobby.

Beside Helena, Alaina let out a sharp gasp. Hearing Warren casually insult the sister who had just rescued her, Alaina felt her usual terror instantly evaporate, replaced by a sudden, boiling flash of protective anger. She looked down at the cold plastic cup in her hand-the very drink Helena had bought to comfort her.

Alaina raised the half-full plastic cup of iced coffee she was holding. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she threw the dark liquid straight into Warren's face.

The ice cubes hit his nose with a loud smack. The brown coffee dripped down his white shirt and ruined his silk tie.

The lobby gasped collectively.

Warren let out a roar of absolute rage. He wiped the coffee from his eyes.

"You little bitch!" Warren screamed.

He pulled his right arm back, his hand curling into a heavy fist, aiming straight for Alaina's face.

The moment his fist went up, two security guards who had been closely monitoring the escalating argument sprinted out from their posts by the front doors. But Helena was already moving.

She stepped in front of Alaina. She did not know how to fight, but pure, adrenaline-fueled instinct took over. She threw her entire body weight forward, slamming her shoulder violently into Warren's raised arm. The impact knocked his aim wildly off course.

"Security!" Helena shrieked at the top of her lungs.

Before Warren could recover his balance, Helena raised her foot and brought the razor-sharp stiletto heel of her designer shoe down with bone-crushing force right onto the bridge of his foot.

Warren let out a breathless howl of agony. He buckled forward, clutching his foot. Taking advantage of his momentary weakness, Helena violently shoved his chest, sending him tumbling backward until he crashed hard onto the marble floor. She quickly pushed Alaina behind her own body, acting as a human shield.

"You do not touch my sister!" Helena hissed, her voice vibrating with raw rage, ready to kick him again if he tried to stand.

"What in the hell is going on here?"

The voice boomed across the lobby like thunder. It carried a weight and a fury that froze the blood in Helena's veins.

She stopped in her tracks, her chest heaving.

The crowd of employees parted instantly, scrambling backward to clear a path.

Hayward stood ten feet away. He had just stepped out of the private executive elevator. Behind him stood a group of pale, terrified overseas partners. He appeared to have just concluded an important meeting and was personally seeing his key guests out to their cars.

Hayward's eyes were locked on the scene on the floor.

Helena slowly lowered her guard. She took a half-step back from the groaning man on the floor, her hands still trembling from the adrenaline rush.

The two security guards who had rushed over finally reached them, grabbing the whimpering Warren by the arms and hauling him roughly to his feet.

Hayward did not look at the guards. He did not look at the board members. He turned his head slightly toward his assistant, Milos.

"Get them to my office," Hayward ordered. His voice was dangerously quiet. "All three of them. Now."

Hayward turned on his heel and walked back into the private elevator. Helena grabbed Alaina's trembling hand.