Pah!
The sharp crack of a slap echoed through the quiet street, leaving even the onlookers stunned, their eyes widening at the force behind it.
Willow stood frozen, her cheek stinging hotly, her breath caught in her throat. The world seemed to still; the hum of passing cars, the chatter of the crowd—all fell away, leaving only a deafening silence.
That was Flora's reply—a burning slap that forced Willow's face sideways, her hair falling across her cheek like a curtain.
But since Willow wasn't asking for help, no one dared intervene. They simply watched, hesitant, some shifting uncomfortably as they allowed the confrontation to unfold.
Slowly, Willow raised trembling fingers to her cheek, her touch light, as though afraid of what she might feel. Yet she said nothing, her gaze steady.
"That slap is because you ruined my happiest day and turned it into my saddest day," Flora spat, her voice shaking with barely contained rage.
She took a step closer, fists clenched. "You're the reason Alder would never love me. Tell me—why did you even come back? You should have just stayed where you were and never disrupted our lives," she choked out, her eyes filling with tears.
Willow's eyes remained empty, lips parted slightly, but no words came.
Maybe... just maybe, I shouldn't have gone to Alder, she thought, her heart heavy with guilt. Maybe he would have been happily married now. Maybe he wouldn't be in this pain. Maybe I should've been the only one to carry this burden. But instead, I've ruined their happiness for my selfish reasons.
"Just leave, Willow! Just leave and never come back!" Flora's voice rose into a broken cry. "I don't care where you go—just leave our lives. You can go somewhere far away on this earth—and if you like, go to hell! I don't give a fuck about it... just leave!"
Willow blinked once, then tilted her head, studying Flora's contorted face. Her voice came soft, devoid of anger or sadness—almost too calm.
"Miss Flora, aren't you being too harsh?" she asked, her tone unreadable, her body unnervingly still.
"Harsh?" Flora gave a bitter laugh through her tears, as though Willow had spoken madness. "Harsh is you ruining my lifelong happiness just because you felt you had the power to do so… I fuckin' hate you!" she screamed, her voice raw.
She took another shaking breath, her hands curling into claws at her sides. "Because of your existence, Alder will never love me! Just die, Willow! Just die and leave our lives already!"
Why does everyone want me dead? Am I truly so hateful? Willow wondered silently, her lashes lowering for the briefest moment.
Then, lifting her chin, she offered a familiar, hauntingly gentle smile—the kind that masked a thousand wounds.
"I'm sorry for whatever happened," she said softly, turning on her heel to leave.
But Flora wasn't done. With a wild sob, she grabbed Willow's sweater from behind, yanking her roughly. Her hand swung in the air again—
—but this time, Willow's arm shot out, catching Flora's wrist mid-swing. Her fingers tightened, firm but not cruel.
"Miss Flora," Willow said, her voice cool, her gaze unwavering. "I'm not someone you can bully just because you think you can. The first slap is enough to settle the score between us. No need to get physical again—I believe you would lose terribly."
She released Flora's wrist with a sharp jerk, leaving the other woman gasping in frustration.
Without another glance, Willow turned and walked toward her apartment, her back straight despite the heaviness in her chest.
Behind her, Flora sank to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
She had come here to vent her anger... but now, what could she do? How would she ever make Alder love her compared to Willow, who looked so ordinary... or so she thought.
---
Cloud Company Scene
---
"Good morning, guys," Mirable Voss called out with a bright smile as she entered the design floor.
"Good morning, ma!" the floor echoed, though the greetings were scattered, voices uneven.
"How are you doing?" Mirable asked again, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor.
"Fine, ma," the team replied, this time more distantly, the tension already creeping in.
"In an hour, I want you all to bring your designs for this week to be assessed by my team and me," Mirable said, her voice crisp beneath the smile. "And I hope I won't be too disappointed today."
Although she wasn't a designer herself, she led the Creative Review Team that evaluated all designs before they reached production and marketing.
The Creative Review Team was responsible for evaluating all design submissions before they were passed to the production and marketing departments. They looked at trend relevance, feasibility, and alignment with the brand's seasonal theme.
"Okay, ma'am," came the scattered replies. Some were pleased with their designs, others visibly annoyed—resenting the rushed hour ahead.
Why don't they even have anything to submit? some thought, eyes darting nervously to their unfinished work.
"Good luck, guys," Mirable added breezily before disappearing into her office.
Instantly, the floor erupted into controlled chaos. Designers dashed about, comparing sketches, exchanging frantic advice.
Clara and Wren were caught in the frenzy as well.
"Clara, what do you think about this?" Wren asked, holding up her work.
"Nice," Clara replied with a smile, calmly painting over her design.
"Wow, Clara—this is so beautiful," Wren praised.
"Thanks," Clara replied, her smile turning proud.
Thud!
Michael slapped a thick book onto the table, drawing every eye.
"Can you guys go back to your seats?" Michael echoed sternly.
One by one, the designers shuffled back to their places.
"Why turn this place into a market square?" he asked sharply. "Just because Willow isn't around doesn't mean you should act however you like."
With that, he returned to his seat, shaking his head.
When Willow was here, they wouldn't have dared. Even if she wasn't the type to scold, she was strict in her own way—anyone acting out during the week would have their designs withheld from the review team.
And if your designs didn't reach them, there was no guarantee of your work being used. Everyone had learned to keep their act together.
Even Clara and Wren could remember the sting of seeing their work rejected when they got careless.
An hour and a few minutes later—
Michael gathered everyone's designs and carried them to Mirable Voss and her team. Soon after, the designers would be summoned to hear the critiques—both good and bad.
The Creative Review Team began their evaluations, red pens dancing across papers, murmured comments exchanged.
Mirable Voss smiled politely—but her smile was razor-sharp. Many dreaded her praise more than her criticism, knowing how cutting her words could be.
One by one, the designers were called in. Some left in tears, others with clenched jaws. A few waited anxiously for their turn.
"Elizabeth, you're getting better," Mirable said coolly. "But do your best—and stop submitting work that can't be used by the company."
Elizabeth nodded with a small smile. She'd long since grown used to Mirable's sharp tone—once it had brought her to tears; now she simply accepted it and moved forward.
"Rosemary, this bag design is beautiful—at least you're worth what we're paying you," Mirable said.
Then her gaze shifted. "Rose, what was Miss Jasmin doing when you were picking this color?"
"She never asked my opinion," Jasmin replied calmly from beside the review team.
Jasmin wasn't a designer—she was part of the review team and an expert colorist, capable of turning the strangest palettes into masterpieces.
"I just thought the colors looked bold, ma," Rose said hesitantly.
"You thought neon green and olive green were a good match?" Mirable raised a brow, unimpressed. "And what exactly inspired this... eye-sore?"
"Miss Willow's outfit last week," Rose admitted. "She wore lemon green with army green, and it looked really nice."
Mirable folded her arms. "That was lemon green—a soft pastel. Not neon. And army green—not this lifeless olive. You've taken inspiration and turned it into confusion."
"I just thought it would be better with neon green and olive green," Rose mumbled, her face burning.
"You know you're bad with color—why improvise without asking an expert?" one of the team members asked bluntly.
"Because she thought she was good enough on her own," Mirable said, voice laced with sarcasm.
"Sorry, ma'am," Rose whispered.
"Mr. Henry, tell me—what the hell are you doing?" Mirable demanded next.
"Drawing," Henry said flatly, sarcasm dripping from his tone.
Like Elizabeth, he'd gotten in through back channels—but unlike her, he refused to learn or improve.
"I really don't understand what you're doing here—just as you don't deserve to be here," Mirable said, flinging his design aside.
"This is nice, Miss Wren," Mirable said next.
"Thank you, ma—"
"I mean, the colors you used are good," Mirable cut in before Wren could finish, leaving her flustered.
"You've been in this company for years, but you're not getting any better. Even Elizabeth is improving faster than you. I already advised you to become a colorist like Jasmin—that's the only thing you're good at. But you're hell-bent on designing, which you know nothing about," Mirable said.
"Your designs worsen every time we assess them," she continued. "Tell me—if you owned a company, would you let someone with your skill level keep working?"
"I'm sorry, ma," Wren whispered, shrinking behind Clara's confident smile.
"This is good, Miss Clara," Mirable said.
"Thank you, ma," Clara replied, her voice steady.
"That's what I would have said," Mirable continued, her eyes narrowing, "if you hadn't copied and pasted."
"No, ma'am," Clara protested quickly, her smile faltering.
"Really?" Mirable arched a brow. Without another word, she pulled out her phone, typed something quickly, and then turned the screen to the room—displaying an image.
"This is Willow's design from a year ago. The only thing you changed was the color," one of the review team members said.
"And the bead at the ankle—you changed it to a flower," Jasmin added, her tone neutral but sharp.
A few designers around the room murmured, nodding.
"Do you think just because she isn't around, we wouldn't recognize when you plagiarize?" another reviewer asked, voice laced with disappointment. Clara's eyes widened, her breath catching.
"Yes—plagiarize," Mirable said pointedly. "You changed someone's work from a bead to a flower—that is plagiarism. If this had been a design from another company, it would have been a legal issue. Here, you're allowed to draw inspiration from your peers, but that does not mean you copy and paste."
She let out a long sigh, the room holding its collective breath.
"You have potential, Clara," she said, her tone softening slightly, "but your obsession with being better than Willow is making you weak and desperate. Do you really think you'll surpass her by envying her? It won't happen."
Clara swallowed hard, her face pale.
"Go back and work on yourself," Mirable added, then swept her gaze across the room.
"Are you all telling me that without Willow, the footwear design team will crumble? None of you brought anything worthwhile today. If not for the bag design team, this entire meeting would have been a waste of my time."
The designers flinched under her words, shame and frustration rippling through the group.
It wasn't that they didn't have good designs— Willow's designs had simply raised the bar so high that many of their works now looked second-rate in comparison.
"You're all dismissed," one of the review team members announced flatly.
As the designers began to file out, Mirable leaned back in her chair, her voice thoughtful.
"I already miss Miss Willow," she said quietly. "If she were here, she would've filtered the designs before they ever reached this table. I wouldn't have to waste my breath like this."
"Yeah, that's right," someone replied with a weary yawn, the room gradually emptying.