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rosachae · 2 days ago

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ii. too couture | daniela avanzini x reader

⁍ song: fame is a gun - addison rae ⁍ requested: yes! this is part 2 to 'it's couture'. please be sure to read the first part before reading this one. ⁍ genre: fashion designer AU, manon x daniela and lara x y/n if you squint. ⁍ a/n: sorry for the delay in getting this out, i've been particularly busy lately. i hope this is what you were looking for! ⁍ w.c: 10.3k ⁍ warnings: curt language, suggestive. ⁍ synopsis:

daniela avanzini and y/n couldn't stand eachother. period. when lara raj, a big name model, hires both of them to style a head turning dress for the upcoming met gala, daniela starts questioning her own emotions. especially when she sees her rival in a stunning wedding dress.

the last thing daniela thought she would carry home from the met gala, tucked between the weight of borrowed jewels and the polite exhaustion that came from too many cameras, was the way her stomach had started to twist at just the thought of you. it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. not with you. for so long you had been a thorn in her side, a sharp reminder that no one could get under her skin quite the way you did. but somewhere between the champagne toasts and the hush of the car ride back to her hotel, your name had taken up space in her head in a way that felt dangerously sweet. it reminded her of a version of herself she thought she had left behind years ago when she was eighteen and foolish enough to wear her heart on her sleeve for anyone dazzling enough to notice. back then she had been an apprentice designer scrambling behind a famous stylist her parents had begged favors for, too eager to prove herself and too naïve to guard her heart. she still remembered the ache that bloomed when she spent long hours fitting dresses on manon bannerman, hollywood’s flawless golden girl, so stunning daniela had convinced herself it meant something real when manon laughed at her jokes or let their shoulders brush backstage. she’d learned the hard way that you never fall for someone who can fake affection as easily as they cry on cue under studio lights. for years she’d held that lesson close, a shield she thought you’d never crack. but now here you were, a thought lodged in her chest, turning her steady heartbeat reckless. she hated how much she wanted to see you again, how the memory of your sharp words made her smile when she should have still been angry. something in her was shifting, loosening all the rules she had set for herself.

daniela had always been a smart girl. sharp enough to spot the trap before she stepped into it, careful enough to keep her heart tucked away where no one could bruise it. so why, all of a sudden, did her mouth go dry the second she saw you standing there in that goddamn wedding dress all those days ago? for as long as she could remember, all you stirred in her was anger, the kind that burned through her veins like cheap liquor. every time your eyes met hers across crowded dressing rooms or dimly lit after parties, every time you threw her that smug grin that made her want to throw her drink at you just to wipe it off your face, she told herself she hated you. she clung to that anger like armor, because it was easier to be furious than to admit that underneath the arguments and pointed insults, something else had been waiting. she’d been too quick to snap, too easy to provoke, and you had always known exactly which buttons to press to watch her unravel.

despite everything— the biting words, the nights she’d spent replaying your arguments like they were some twisted game she kept losing— daniela had to admit it to herself. not even the lara raj could compare to the way you looked when you wore that dress. even when lara walked the carpet in it, drenched in diamonds and framed by the kind of spotlight that turned her into something untouchable, every curl of hair set perfectly, every inch of fabric clinging just right, every angle caught by cameras that adored her— she wasn’t you. even lara, with all her flawless poise, couldn’t touch the way you looked in that moment. that dress belonged to you, like it had been waiting for your body to bring it to life. you were radiant in a way that made her forget why she ever wanted to stay angry.

when she finally stepped into her suite, the events of the afterparty clung to her mind in such a way it was debilitating.

the met gala afterparty was the kind of place that smelled like spilled champagne and the pheromones of people with egos too big for their own bodies. the music was too loud, the floor sticky under thousand-dollar shoes, but none of it matters when daniela’s pinned in the corner by a railing older than most of the influencers packed around it, cold stone pressing her spine straight while her glass sweats in her hand, untouched and useless. she couldn’t bring herself to even take a sip when her eyes instinctively drifted towards the door at the sound of your voice over the commotion.

she watched you walk in, draped so easily on lara’s arm, the two of you cutting through the soft buzz of the room like you owned it. she hated how good you looked together, how easily lara could pull laughter from your mouth and tilt your smile toward the light as if she had every right to it. but almost as soon as you arrived, lara was swept away. she tossed an apologetic grin over her shoulder as a cluster of supermodels surrounded her like moths to a flame. it left you standing alone, fingers grazing the edge of your clutch as you scanned the room like a predator hunting for something familiar. daniela told herself she didn’t care, that she was perfectly content half-hidden behind the marble monstrosity some designer thought passed for décor, that she wasn’t holding her breath as your eyes skimmed the crowd. but then you found her, like you always did, like you knew exactly where she would be pretending not to wait for you. and before she could look away, your mouth curved into that smile she hated and wanted in equal measure, the one that promised trouble she’d gladly let herself fall into.

for a moment you both just stand there. it was almost funny, how despite all of the moving bodies in the room, you gravitate towards each other. you stand there by the door, hip cocked, mouth set in that tight line that’d gotten sharper since copenhagen. but daniela’s the first to open her mouth.

“nice work not making a fool of both of us tonight. i know how much you just adore fucking something up somehow. did you botch the hem on your side of the dress on purpose, or were you just letting everyone see how sloppy you really are under the lights?” daniela’s voice dripped with the kind of sharpness she usually saved for incompetent interns and botched fittings, but with you it always came out meaner, hotter, tinged with something she didn’t want to name.

you threw your head back and barked a laugh, that rough, too-pretty sound that made her stomach twist even when the words that followed bit just as hard. “it’s adorable you think anyone’s looking at the hem when they can’t tear their eyes off your smug face. you could wrap her in duct tape and they’d still write you up like you invented couture. all this undeserved confidence must make you so tired.”

“jealousy’s not your shade,” daniela shot back, her words as smooth as they were poisonous. “makes you look desperate.”

you didn’t flinch. instead you leaned in just enough for her to catch the smug curve of your smile, the one that always made her teeth grind.

“yeah? well at least i’m not lurking in a corner like nosferatu waiting for someone to glance my way.”

the insult slipped out of you so easily, so casual and cruel it almost made her laugh. instead, she held your stare, jaw tight, telling herself she wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of seeing just how close you always came to getting under her skin. the bass shudders through the wall behind daniela, rattling her glass, her bones, everything she’s spent all night bracing tight.

“ironic coming from you. you can slap makeup on a pig all you want, doesn’t make it any less vile. who are you trying to impress, huh? lara?”

“who’s jealous now?”

“i’m not.”

“sure about that? you sound pretty defensive for someone who’s so above it all.”

daniela’s mouth twitches, almost a snarl. the air tastes like sweat and cheap perfume. somewhere behind you, someone laughs too loudly, but all she can hear is the blood pounding in her ears.

maybe it’s the atmosphere of the party, fumes running high. maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe it’s the way you’re looking at her right now, like you’re daring her to do something reckless. she speaks before she fully registers the words leaving her mouth, voice low but sharp enough to slice through the noise.

“careful. keep looking at me like that and i might think you want something you’re too scared to ask for.”

you freeze, eyes flicking down to daniela’s mouth, then dragging back up to hers. your pulse slams against your throat. you stand closer now, and neither of you moves to break it. the music behind you feels muffled, the whole room shrinking down to the heat between your chests.

you shift closer, just enough that your breath brushes daniela’s jaw when you lean in, voice soft and vicious all at once. for half a second daniela swears she feels your lips ghost hers. warm, promise and punishment wrapped in silk and teeth. she smells the alcohol on your breath. it made sense, then, why you were being so brazen. liquid courage was one hell of a companion.

but then someone across the room shouts your name, loud enough to snap the moment in half. you pull back so quickly it’s like you were never there at all. daniela peers over your shoulder and recognizes the caller immediately, some drunken celebrity you worked with during that winter campaign in twenty-twenty-four, all slurred charm and clumsy waves. before she can say a word, you beat her to it.

“enjoy the party, avanzini.” you spit the nickname like poison, soft enough only she can hear. then you turn, weaving through the press of people, already several feet away when you toss the last word over your shoulder. it’s a hiss, half-laughed, slurred mean and low.

“bitch.”

then you’re gone, swallowed up by flashing bulbs and greedy eyes, leaving daniela standing there alone, jaw tight, the taste of what almost was burning on her tongue.

daniela snapped herself back to reality with a sharp shake of her head, a bitter grimace twisting her lips as she dragged a shot glass and a half-empty bottle of tequila across the coffee table. it scraped against the surface with a sound that grated her nerves just the same. she sank into the familiar sprawl of the couch, the one that had known her at her worst, her loudest, and her most unbothered. she kicked her heels off without grace, letting them thud somewhere on the floor like forgotten thoughts.

the penthouse felt unchanged, like time had decided to wait at the door. same view, same walls, same luxury glossed in night lights and silence. yet she felt like a stranger haunting her own space. the suite she had bought without hesitation, once meant to be an escape, now felt like just another place she no longer belonged to.

it hadn’t always been like that. the last time she had stood in that exact spot, she’d been pacing furiously, practically yelling down the phone at her manager because of some stunt you had pulled backstage. her blood had been boiling, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. she had called you every name in the book and had meant every one of them.

but now, she couldn’t even look at you without her breath catching. my, how the tables had turned.

something about your presence made her nervous in a way that felt childish, unfamiliar. her body had once known exactly how to respond to you. fists clenched, jaw set. now, she just froze. everything inside her stalled. her heart beat out of rhythm, and her mouth went dry before a single thought could form, let alone a sentence.

the daniela who used to spit your name like venom wouldn’t have hesitated to knock your teeth in. but that wasn’t the daniela sitting here now. this one could barely hold her glass steady.

she tipped the shot glass back and let the tequila burn a path down her throat. the taste felt wrong, jarring, like her body no longer knew what to do with it. or maybe it was her. maybe she had become the thing that didn’t fit. everything about her felt foreign now, especially when you were in the room.

two weeks later, it was paris, and the air inside the old opera house buzzed with something electric. money, caffeine, ambition, and barely-contained panic hung so thick in the atmosphere, you could gather it by the handful, stitch it into a gown, and send it down the runway as haute couture. every corner of the building pulsed with nerves and power, the kind of pressure that made even seasoned veterans forget how to breathe.

daniela had the closing slot. the crown jewel of the show. the last look. the final walk that turned rising stars into legends or burned them alive under the lights. it was the headline moment, the one they would write about in glossy spreads and breathless reviews. she hadn’t left the backstage area in three days. she lived on espresso and adrenaline, hair pulled tight, sleeves perpetually rolled, voice sharp and relentless as she barked out commands in three languages. she floated between fittings and last-minute adjustments like a general on the eve of war, while her assistants tried their best not to cry on the organza. every misplaced pin, every loose hem, every smudge of lipstick was a threat to perfection, and daniela didn’t tolerate threats.

you, however, were supposed to be somewhere else.

you had a pop-up showcase nearby, tucked inside a converted gallery space with wine so sour it made your teeth ache. your name was painted in bold, deliberate strokes on the glass door. it was supposed to be your night. your statement. your moment to steal the spotlight, even if only for a few hours. but you couldn’t help yourself. the very second you caught wind that daniela was in the same city, you jumped into action.

you didn’t need to say anything at all for a certain model to read the look on your face as you clutched your phone in an iron grip, stalking the headlines surrounding daniela’s hype.

“y/n, you can’t seriously be thinking about ditching your own showcase just to go embarrass this girl.”

megan skiendiel was all mischief, her voice laced with disbelief. she stood backstage beside you, dressed in one of your latest creations, a silken, asymmetrical masterpiece that caught the low light just right. she looked like a walking editorial spread, but the furrow in her brow told you she wasn’t thinking about the cameras. she was watching you.

you began working with each other not long after the met gala, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. megan was one of lara’s friends, if not her best friend, and from the moment she laid eyes on your work, she was completely taken. she was captivated in that effortless, magnetic way models sometimes are when something speaks directly to their ego and their aesthetic at the same time. she wanted to be styled by you immediately, said it with a kind of breathless certainty that didn’t leave room for negotiation, like it was already inevitable. and if you were being honest with yourself, the idea that both renowned models—lara and megan—chose to work with you over daniela filled you with a particular kind of coy smugness, the kind that curled in your chest like smoke and laced your smile with something just a little bit mean. it was the kind of satisfaction you didn’t bother hiding, the kind you took a certain petty pleasure in flashing directly in daniela’s face. and you had, more than once.

you shake your head at the chinese girl, slipping your phone into your pocket. “embarass makes it feel like something petty. i’d prefer to think of it as doing a service to the world by curbing a bitches ego.”

megan opens her mouth to respond, but whatever words she had fell on deaf ears. you’d already made up your mind.

in hindsight, maybe you should have stayed. maybe slipping out just before your own curtain call wasn’t the smartest move. maybe circling daniela’s venue like a shark scenting blood wasn’t the most rational response, but the pull had been too strong. self-restraint had never been your strong suit, and whatever shred of it remained dissolved the second you caught sight of her. you told yourself it wasn’t personal, that it was just business, just strategy. but the truth was in your footsteps, in the way you moved past the velvet ropes like you belonged there, like the building had been waiting for you. you couldn’t resist slipping into the mouth of the machine she had built—not from grit, not from hunger, but from access and timing and every door that had opened for her without her having to knock. and there you were, backstage, minutes before her closing walk, bargaining with a frazzled stage technician and pressuring him into leading you to the cue rig like you had every right to be there. maybe you did. maybe that was the point.

the cue rig was hidden behind a blackout curtain near the house lights, a tangled nest of wires and timers calibrated to perfection, all designed to flood the runway with light the moment daniela’s final showpiece made its entrance like some divine blessing. in theory, it was simple. one wire pulled loose, a slight reroute in the system, just enough to kill the spotlight at the exact wrong moment. just enough to leave daniela floundering in the dark while the audience murmured and the cameras kept rolling. just enough to make her stumble, even for a second, and give the press something to chew on. except maybe you should have taken an extra second to actually look at the stage technician, because if you had, you might have noticed the oversized intern assistant badge clipped crookedly to his polo. the moment he pulled the fuse, eager and a little too proud of himself, the entire grid buckled—chaining straight back to the same circuit that powered your pop-up venue. when the lights cut out mid-finale at daniela’s show, half the audience gasped in unison, phones flying up like vultures catching scent of a spectacle. but three streets away, your gallery was swallowed by the same blackout. your models stood frozen, half-pinned into raw silk, barefoot on cold concrete, blinded while editors fumbled through their bags for flashlights and muttered sharp little insults about amateur hour under their breath.

the lights stuttered back to life just in time to catch the worst (or rather infuriatingly, best) possible angle. daniela’s final gown still shimmered under the backup spots, the model pivoting with practiced grace, unbothered, untouched. the moment had fractured, but only slightly, just enough to be spun into some bold statement on restraint. avant-garde minimalism, intentional disruption, whatever the press needed it to be. but your showcase was finished. not in a blaze of brilliance, but in a slow, flickering death. half the front row was already uploading blurry shots of half-finished corsets and exposed seams, captions dripping with irony about the edgy girl genius who couldn’t keep the lights on.

you wanted to claw your own face off. wanted to find daniela in some endless marble hallway, grab her by the wrist, and spit every ounce of blame straight into her mouth, whether she swallowed it or not. but more than anything, you wanted to vanish. crawl inside the blackout you accidentally created and stay there, wrapped in silence, until the next season rolled through and erased your name from its memory. but the worst part (the part that twisted in your gut and stayed there) was knowing she wouldn’t forget.

by the time you made it back to your studio that night after the chaos had dulled and the worst of the noise faded into background static, the first thing that left your mouth was a groan. not from exhaustion, but from the weight of it all. megan’s stare had carved itself into your brain, sharp and unrelenting. she hadn’t said anything when you returned to the gallery, but she hadn’t needed to. her eyes had done enough. that quiet judgment, that look of someone who knew you had no one to blame but yourself, hung over you even now.

if there was one thing you knew to be true about yourself—undeniably, unshakably true—it was that you were stubborn. hardheaded, even. self-reflection had never come easily. introspection was a mirror you usually turned away from. and yet here you were, pacing your own studio, sick with regret and shame, feeling like your insides were folding in on themselves.

why did you always go too far? why did the line between ambition and sabotage blur the moment daniela’s name crossed your mind? why did it feel worth it, even for a second, to put your own career on the chopping block just to prove a petty point?

there had to be something broken in you. something misaligned. something not quite right in the way you lost control the moment she entered the picture. it wasn’t just resentment. it was hunger. it was that awful, aching sense of unfairness every time you saw her at the top, gliding through prime event slots and front-page features like they were handed to her on silver trays, while you bled for table scraps. it wasn’t just jealousy. it was fury. the kind that made you want to set fire to anything that shined too easily on her skin.

you left your phone buried somewhere under your coat and ignored every ping and buzz that came through it. the night stretched around you like a punishment. you wandered the studio in slow, deliberate silence, dragging a cart behind you filled with the wreckage. gowns crumpled, fabric torn from panicked hands during the blackout, beads loosened from rushed dressing, stitches pulled where they shouldn’t have been touched. the air was still, the kind of quiet that settled deep into your chest.

only one light stayed on, casting a soft pool above your workbench as you gently laid each piece out, smoothing the creases like an apology. your fingers moved carefully, reverently, as though tending to wounds. it was just you, the silence, and the broken pieces of what should have been your night.

the last thing you expected that night was the sound of footsteps. soft, deliberate, the quiet clink of shoes moving across the studio floor without hurry. it was subtle at first, so faint you almost thought you imagined it. you hadn’t heard the studio door open, hadn’t heard the building’s security guard call your name from downstairs like he usually did before letting someone through. the silence had been absolute until it wasn’t.

for a moment, you told yourself it was probably your manager coming to talk damage control, or maybe an overzealous intern hoping to earn favor by offering late-night help before your next showcase. you were already bracing for a conversation you didn’t want to have. instead, it was neither.

“you’ve got nerve, y/n.”

it was 1:47 in the morning when daniela walked into your studio, unannounced and silent, like she belonged there. her hair was down for once, loose curls falling around her shoulders in soft contrast to the tension that lined her face. the sleeves of her linen shirt were shoved up past her elbows, and the skin beneath her eyes was bruised with exhaustion, but her gaze still held the same brutal clarity it always had. she moved with that same effortless precision, not a hint of hesitation in her step, as if she had rehearsed this moment somewhere in the back of her mind long before tonight. she wasn’t entirely sure what brought her to your studio that night. she told herself it was convenience, that she happened to be nearby, that her flight back to new york wasn’t until the weekend and she had nothing better to do. she even convinced herself, for a moment, that she just wanted to watch you squirm. maybe humiliate you a little. maybe enjoy the sight of you eating the consequences of whatever petty sabotage you had tried to pull during her show. but that wasn’t the truth, and she knew it.

the truth settled in her gut the second she saw the first few posts trickle in online. your name, dragged through the dirt. images from your showcase, models caught mid-step, lighting flickering, chaos bleeding through every frame. she saw the headlines spiral into jokes, the tone turn cruel. instead of feeling victorious, instead of the rush she usually got from watching you falter, all she felt was something cold and uneasy curling at the base of her spine. she didn’t feel smug. she felt sick.

no matter how she tried to brush it off, to tell herself it was just curiosity or schadenfreude, the truth clung to her like static. she was there because something in her couldn’t bear to see you crumble like that. not you. not like this.

she didn’t bother knocking. she stood near the entrance, watching you from a distance with the quiet patience of someone who had come here for a reason and wasn’t in a rush to leave.

you looked up the second her voice cut through the quiet, every nerve in your body snapping to attention. the warning bells in your mind were deafening. your eyes darted toward the door, and in the same breath, you made a mental note to fire security the moment the sun came up. useless. absolutely useless. frustration simmered under your skin like a fever, crawling higher with every second she stood there.

still, despite the shock, despite the twist in your gut, you scoffed.

“wow,” you said, your voice dragging rough against your teeth. “look who crawled in from her ivory tower. you lose your driver or something?”

daniela didn’t bother replying. not out loud, anyway. she crossed the studio like it belonged to her, heels muffled against concrete, and let a bolt of duchess satin fall onto the table with enough force to jolt the scissors. it landed like a statement, all sheen and weight, catching the low light and throwing it back in silver and cream. showroom grade. untouchable. something that didn’t belong here, not among the scorched muslin, tangled threads, and the wreckage of your last six hours.

you didn’t ask where she got it. didn’t need to. wouldn’t have mattered even if it had fallen off the back of a delivery truck.

“get out,” you said, snapping the words sharp as the seam ripper you raised like a threat. your hand was tight around the handle, knuckles pale, the edge trembling with how close you were to unraveling. “take your savior complex and that overpriced bolt and get the fuck out.”

“no,” daniela said, cool and unbothered, voice smooth like silk drawn taut between fingers. she peeled the plastic from the fabric with a flick of her wrist, eyes skating over your disaster zone of half-stitched panels, scorched edges, and dreams gutted under fluorescent lights. “move.”

“no.” you planted yourself in front of the table like you were shielding something sacred. “i don’t need your charity, avanzini. go micromanage your interns or ruin someone else’s night.”

she stepped in until there was barely space to breathe, her brow lifting, mouth set in something that wasn’t quite a smirk but wasn’t far from it either. the air between you buzzed, electric and suffocating, charged by the kind of tension only two people who knew exactly where to cut could build.

“here i am trying to be nice after your bullshit tonight, and this is how you’re acting?” daniela said, reaching across the table to shift a stack of pattern pieces with one finger, like the mess offended her. she didn’t look at you when she said it. she was too busy surveying the damage you’d done, her mouth tight with judgment, with something almost like pity.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.” you kept your voice flat, eyes locked on her hand as it hovered too close to your work, too close to the fragile edge of your patience. you crossed your arms to hide the way your fingers curled into your sides, defensive.

daniela scoffed, low and sharp, before turning to face you fully. her eyes found yours and didn’t let go. “oh, don’t give me that, y/n.” she stepped closer, each word gaining weight as she moved, as if the accusation could press you into the floor. “you and i both know that only you have the balls to try something so stupid and come out on the other end of it a joke.”

she was close now, and it felt like standing in the blast radius of something too polished to be safe. heat coiled behind her teeth, frustration slipping through the cracks of that poised exterior. her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut. she wasn’t here to yell. she never needed to.

you scowled. your body was thrumming, barely contained. it didn’t make sense. no text, no knock, no call ahead. just her, waltzing in like the locks meant nothing and the rules never applied, like the studio you bled into wasn’t yours to defend.

“how the hell did you manage to slip past security? i should have them come in here right now and remove you. or do i have to do that myself, since clearly they’re so fucking incompetent?” your voice was sharp, trembling at the edges with the kind of fury that only came when logic failed to explain the situation in front of you. you’d given strict orders, locked every door behind you, made sure no one without clearance so much as breathed near your workspace. and yet, here she was.

“clearly even your own people value my name enough to let me do whatever the hell i want.” daniela didn’t flinch. if anything, she looked more amused now, like your outrage only confirmed what she already knew. “maybe it’s time for you to get it through your thick skull that there’s nothing you can possibly do to ruin me.” her voice was low, venomous, but laced with that signature smugness, like this was a game she’d already won before you’d even stepped onto the board.

“i fucking hate you.” the words left you like steam through clenched teeth, bitter and boiling, not nearly enough to match what was clawing under your skin. your hands were fists at your sides now, not from fear, but the unbearable need to keep yourself from being violent.

“that’s fine by me, corazón. now drop the attitude and let me help you.”

you stared at her, blank and disbelieving, your mind struggling to catch up. help you? after everything? after the mess you had made of the night, the blackout, the fallout, the whispered accusations already curdling online? it didn’t track. nothing about this moment did. not her presence, not her calm, not the fact that she stood here in your studio like she belonged, unarmed but still so insufferably composed. you shook your head once, like the motion alone might wipe her from your sight, like it could banish the way her pet name had landed heavy in your chest and knocked the breath out of you.

before you could find the words to shove her back, before you could twist your frustration into something clever and biting, she spoke again. her voice was quieter this time, stretched thin with exhaustion and something else that pricked at the edges of your composure.

“move.”

you surprise even yourself when you let the latina place a hand on your shoulder, firm as she shoved you gently to the side. you didn’t recognise yourself. didn’t recognise the way your breath hitched when her palm met your shoulder, or how you felt your stomach drop when she hummed, pleasantly surprised by your sudden agreeableness.

“good girl.”

in just an instant, your scowl returns and your guard envelops you whole again.

“you’re annoying,” you snap, watching as daniela unrolls the satin, fingers steady, movements sharp and precise like she’s cutting open an artery. “you think you can just waltz in here and fix it all because you have deep pockets and zero shame?”

“yes,” daniela says, doesn’t look up. she’s already got her chalk out, marking the salvage line with short, ruthless strokes. “also because i’m better at this than you when you’re four cups of stale coffee away from a psychotic break.”

“fuck you,” you spit, but it’s half a laugh this time, half a sigh you try to swallow back down. you watch daniela work, the way her knuckles ghost your fabrics like she owns them, like she owns everything she touches. “seriously. fuck you.”

“later. hold the edge.”

somehow, impossibly, you listen. it makes no sense to you. your pride is still raw, your ego still aching, but your feet carry you sideways, clearing space you swore you wouldn’t give her. daniela steps in without hesitation, her eyes already on the fabric, not on you, as if this were any other late-night work session and not the aftermath of mutual sabotage and public disgrace. she doesn’t gloat. she doesn’t explain. she simply reaches for a pair of shears and begins to cut.

your hands move before your mind catches up. fingers brushing hers when you both reach for the same tailor’s chalk, an unintentional contact that sparks something low in your chest. it’s too much and not enough all at once. you feel the static bite beneath your fingernails, and it lingers as you pin a hem, her knuckles brushing yours again. the air between you is charged, thick with everything unsaid. it isn’t forgiveness. it isn’t even truce. it’s something stranger. something stitched from spite and precision and the twisted satisfaction of knowing that when the two of you work, you work.

you fall into rhythm, not speaking, not needing to. the silence isn’t gentle, but it’s familiar. sharp like scissors, taut like thread. every motion between you choreographed by long practice and longer resentment. she smooths out the bodice while you adjust the neckline, your arms brushing again, the fabric trembling between you as if it knows it’s being shaped by hands that might strangle each other on any other day.

once, you graze her wrist, more forceful this time, a careless reach for a needle that leaves your fingers skimming along the edge of her skin. she doesn’t flinch. she doesn’t move away. her mouth twitches at the corner, betraying something. a smile? a sneer? you can’t bring yourself to look directly at her, because you’re not sure which would be worse.

time slips around you unnoticed. the windows stay dark until they begin to bloom with early light, soft and diluted, the kind of light that makes ruined things look whole again. exhaustion clings to you like gauze, but you don’t stop. not until daniela makes the final stitch, her hands steady, her breath barely audible. she ties off the thread like it’s a promise you’ll never hear out loud.

you press your palms against the edge of the worktable, every muscle humming, your head heavy with fatigue. the mess of unfinished garments still surrounds you, but the piece in front of you gleams in the low light, sharp and alive and better than anything you thought you’d pull from the wreckage.

you glance at daniela from the corner of your eye, and she’s already looking at the dress, not at you, her expression unreadable. it still makes no sense. not her presence, not her help, not the way she didn’t flinch when you snarled, or the way she didn’t gloat when she could have.

“you’re still an insufferable bitch,” you say, quieter now, your voice rough but no longer sharp. it comes out softer than you meant, like the fight had drained out somewhere between the pleats and pinned hems.

daniela doesn’t answer right away. she finishes threading the last needle into the cushion beside her, then finally looks up. her eyes catch yours, steady and unreadable, but there’s something behind them that isn’t entirely cold. “good,” she says, tone even and dry. “i’d hate for you to forget who you’re dealing with.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it. she’s smug and stubborn and arrogant in all the ways that used to drive you crazy. but tonight, somehow, she showed up. your hands found a rhythm with hers almost immediately, like you had when you were working together on lara’s met gala dress. as much as you hated to admit it, as much as it chafed your pride to even think it, the two of you fit. not in the way you wanted, maybe not in any way that made sense, but you did. your talents overlapped where they needed to, your instincts balanced each other, your silences filled the gaps where words would only get in the way.

you didn’t want to rely on her. you didn’t want to need the help. but for a few hours in the stillness before dawn, with only thread and fabric between you, you worked like a team.

it drove you crazy.

you knew the paris incident would slow things down for a while. there was no denying the weight of public humiliation, not when your name had been passed around social media like a punchline, mentioned in the kind of group chats that held just enough influence to ruin someone quietly. you had expected a lull in your momentum, expected to be sidelined for a beat or two. what you hadn’t expected was the silence to stretch into a week, a full seven days of feeling like the world had already moved on without you.

what surprised you even more was daniela. her sudden appearance at your studio that night still played over in your head like a scene out of a film that made no sense. the way she rolled up her sleeves and worked beside you in silence, the way her eyes flicked across your designs without mockery, the way she didn’t gloat. you never asked why she came, and she never offered a reason. the next morning, she left before the sun had fully risen, without a goodbye. the only trace she left behind was the stitching on one of your garments, her signature clean lines woven into the fabric like a watermark.

you didn’t hesitate. the moment she was gone, you sat at your workbench with a seam ripper and tore through every thread she touched. not out of spite, but because you couldn’t stand the feeling that something so inherently hers existed inside something that was meant to be yours. her uncharacteristic generosity haunted you, filled your chest with a pressure you didn’t know how to shake. it felt like a trap, like some slow-burn sabotage dressed up as grace.

so when the news came—when the email landed in your inbox letting you know that, despite everything, you had secured a last-minute slot at an exclusive upcoming showcase—your first instinct wasn’t relief or pride. it was suspicion. and that suspicion turned into anger the second you saw the list of names involved in curating the lineup. daniela avanzini’s name sat at the top, right where it always seemed to sit, threaded through the event like an invisible hand pulling strings.

you didn’t waste time. by noon, you were stomping your way up the steps of daniela’s studio in prague, barely registering the chill in the air or the protests of her assistant trying to intercept you. your fists were clenched, your jaw tight, and your expression carved with a fury so pointed it could cut through glass. you didn’t care about appearances. not now. not when every instinct in your body screamed that she had manipulated this, that she was playing a game you hadn’t agreed to be part of. and you had no intention of being her pawn.

daniela heard you the moment the heavy studio doors swung open, your voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. it echoed across the high ceilings, sharp and full of purpose, trailing just behind the hurried footsteps of her assistant who was already pleading for you to calm down, to wait, to reconsider barging in unannounced. none of it slowed you. each stomp of your shoes on the polished concrete floor grew louder, more pointed, and daniela didn’t need to lift her head to know exactly who was coming.

she stayed where she was for a moment longer, hands still resting on the edge of her workbench, eyes scanning the neat row of fabric samples she had been sorting before you arrived like a storm. her jaw tightened, not in surprise, but in quiet resignation. she had been expecting this. not the exact hour, not the precise day, but the inevitability of your arrival had lingered at the back of her thoughts from the moment she attached her name to the event’s advisory panel. she knew you would see it, and she knew exactly what it would stir in you.

as your voice rose again in the front corridor, this time louder, angrier, she let out a long, steady breath. the kind that came not from irritation, but from anticipation. the kind of breath someone takes before facing a wave they know is going to hit hard. daniela straightened slowly, her fingers brushing down the front of her shirt as if smoothing out the fabric could also smooth out whatever tension was about to explode between the two of you.

she didn’t move to intercept you. didn’t bark at her assistant to let you through or to push you out. she simply waited. because this was always going to happen. because she knew you well enough by now to recognize that fury was just another way you processed confusion. and she had made a decision that she didn’t regret, even if she knew you would.

daniela had landed yet another avant-garde finale for prague fashion week. your name, however, wasn’t on the list. not as a guest, not as a feature, not even as an afterthought. your seat had been quietly pulled from the table long before the invitations were printed. there was no official rejection, no neat line in an email citing scheduling conflicts or creative divergence. just silence. the kind of silence that speaks louder than any denial. the kind that comes from backroom conversations and private emails marked confidential. the kind that hinted at someone’s grudge still simmering beneath a polished smile. your exclusion wasn’t an oversight. it was deliberate.

daniela told herself it had nothing to do with her. she had no hand in your erasure, no reason to lift a finger, not after what had happened between you. not after the sabotage, the fallout, the absolute mess you left for her to sweep up in paris. but the truth clung to her ribs like splinters, impossible to ignore. when she saw the lineup and noticed your name absent, something in her twisted. it wasn’t satisfaction. it wasn’t vindication. it was closer to guilt, though she hated to call it that. it tasted metallic in her mouth, bitter and heavy, the same way it did the first time she saw your dress on a runway, fearless and infuriating and electric. so she made the call.

it was late, and she didn’t think it through, not really. she called a producer who owed her, someone whose silence could be bought with a favor and a memory of a shared weekend in milan neither of them would ever admit to. she didn’t just ask for you to be put on the guest list. she asked for a slot, a real one. your name printed in ink, your designs closing the side showcase that trailed behind hers, just far enough apart to be deniable but close enough for you to be seen. she brokered it like a secret, and the producer took it like a bribe. no one needed to know. no one would know.

except now, clearly, you did.

when you finally shoved your way into her space, the echo of the door slamming back against the wall rang sharp through the studio. daniela looked up with a slow turn of her head, the motion unhurried, deliberate, as if she had expected this moment down to the second. you crossed the threshold like a storm, footsteps hard against the polished floor, energy vibrating with fury. it was almost poetic, really. a week ago, it had been her standing in the doorway of your studio, unexpected and uninvited, arms full of fabric and arrogance. now, the roles had reversed, though the tension in the air was the same—cuttable, thick, laced with something old and unresolved.

your expression was thunderous, eyes narrowed and mouth already twisted with disdain, your fury barely restrained. it wasn’t just the kind of anger born from a bruised ego or professional slight. it was deeper than that. older. you looked like someone who had been betrayed, and who hated how much it still mattered.

“you think i’m your fucking charity case now?” your voice hit the room like a slap, torn at the edges from shouting or maybe just from everything you had swallowed in the days leading up to this moment. “you think i need your pity?”

daniela didn’t flinch. she didn’t even blink. instead, she lifted one hand and gave a small, dismissive wave toward her assistant, who had been hovering a few paces away, clutching a clipboard like it might protect her from what was about to happen. the girl opened her mouth, clearly caught between professionalism and panic, but daniela didn’t even glance her way. the message was clear. leave.

the assistant left with hurried steps, her soft apologies trailing behind her like smoke, and then it was just the two of you, sealed off from the rest of the world in a silence that buzzed.

you stepped farther into the studio, every movement sharp and calculated, like you were walking into a fight you’d already half lost. you slammed the door shut behind you without ever taking your eyes off her. daniela watched you carefully, arms crossed over her chest, gaze unreadable. she didn’t speak right away. she never did. instead, she studied you the way she might study a fabric swatch, trying to determine whether it would hold its shape under pressure or fall apart at the seams.

the pause stretched out, long enough to turn your rage into something brittle. but you couldn’t stop now. you had come all this way. you were running on adrenaline and pride and whatever fragile thing was left between you that still made all of this feel personal. so you kept going. of course you did.

“you don’t get to do this,” you snapped, stepping closer, voice low now but no less volatile. “you don’t get to swoop in, fix things behind the scenes, and then pretend like we’re fine. like i owe you something.”

daniela tilted her head slightly, one brow lifting. “i never said you owed me anything.”

“bullshit,” you said, teeth bared behind the words. “you did this to feel better about yourself. to look down at me from whatever marble balcony you’ve built with your connections and your legacy and your glossy magazine spreads. and then, what, toss me a bone? say, oh, poor thing, she can’t keep her career from bleeding out, maybe i’ll toss her a bandage and feel righteous about it?”

daniela’s mouth thinned to a line. she didn’t rise to the bait like you wanted her to, didn’t meet your anger with more fire. instead, her voice came out level, almost surgical. “it wasn’t pity,” she said. “it was fairness. you deserved that slot, and everyone with eyes and half a brain knows it.”

you laughed, loud and joyless, the kind of laugh that hurt on the way out. you wiped your cheek with the back of your hand, smearing a streak of makeup like ash across your skin, like a soldier painting their face before battle. “you don’t get to decide what i deserve,” you said, eyes flashing. “you don’t get to buy me a seat at the table and expect me to say thank you for the scraps off your plate.”

daniela pushed back from the desk, the scrape of the chair legs loud against the floor. she stepped around it with careful control, approaching slowly, like one wrong movement would shatter whatever brittle tension held the two of you in place. now she was close enough to see the tremble you hadn’t meant to show, the flicker of something vulnerable tucked between your fury. your jaw was locked tight, but the skin at your throat betrayed you, the fluttering pulse giving you away.

“i didn’t buy you anything,” she said. her voice was low, steady, but each word felt like a blade. “i didn’t give you charity. i balanced the fucking scale. you want someone to be angry at? be angry at the people who act like your name doesn’t belong next to mine when it always has. since day one. and you know it.”

you didn’t blink. didn’t move. but you saw it then, the flicker in her expression. the slip. something aching, something almost human, almost soft. the word caring hovered just behind her teeth, stuck on the back of her tongue like a bruise she couldn’t bite down hard enough to hide. it twisted there, caught between breath and confession, and even though she swallowed it whole, you saw the ghost of it all the same. the way her lips faltered, the way her eyes looked anywhere but yours for half a second too long.

“say it,” you said, voice tight with something that wasn’t quite anger anymore. you took a step closer, closing the gap between you until there was barely room to breathe. “say what you actually mean. stop hiding behind your diplomacy and your power plays and your fucking curated morality. say it plain for once.”

daniela’s throat worked around the weight of everything she couldn’t quite give language to. her jaw tensed, her breath unsteady now, her hands clenched so tight the knuckles turned pale. she looked at you like she was standing on the edge of something, like one more push would send her over.

“you deserved it,” she said. the words came out cracked, scraped raw from someplace deep. “just this once. you deserved it.”

the silence that followed was thick and oppressive, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. it settled between you, heavy and suffocating, wrapping itself around your limbs until neither of you could move.

you didn’t say ‘thank you’. didn’t spit another insult or storm out and slam the door. you stood there, breathing shallow, mascara smeared under your eyes, your stare locked on her like a spotlight. like if you looked long enough, hard enough, you could peel her open and read the truth etched into her bones. the truth she still wouldn’t give you. the truth she wasn’t ready to name.

daniela steps in close, so close the warmth of her breath threads through the fabric at your shoulder, subtle and unnerving. she doesn’t speak, not right away. instead, she lingers in the hush between words, her eyes dragging down to your hands: hands that tremble in that careful, controlled way you think no one ever notices. but she sees it. of course she does. she’s always seen too much when it comes to you. maybe that’s what drives her mad.

she wants to resent you for it, for the way you still manage to twist yourself into something vulnerable without even meaning to. she wants to shove you away and shake you by the shoulders and ask why the hell you still get under her skin like this, after everything. but most of all, she wants to reach out. wants to feel you. wants to know, for sure, that what’s burning in her chest is mirrored somewhere in yours.

it’s reckless, the way her fingers drift toward you, light as a secret, brushing just barely along the inside of your wrist. the skin there is warm and thin, and when she touches it, she feels the pulse hammering beneath the surface. it jumps like a live wire against her fingertips, like it knows her, like it remembers. like her own heartbeat is answering to yours.

she lets her hand linger, just enough to feel it again, to be certain.

“you drive me insane,” she says, and this time, the words don't hit like a weapon. they slip from her lips low and wrecked, frayed at the edges with everything she’s spent years trying to press down into silence. it’s not the kind of thing daniela says. not to you. not to anyone. it’s too soft. too honest. but it’s out now, trembling between you like something sacred and dangerous, and she doesn’t try to pull it back.

you feel it before you understand it, the slow churn of something tectonic shifting beneath your feet. the moment doesn’t crack open like lightning. it stretches instead, long and taut, the air thick with the weight of everything that’s been unsaid and everything that cannot be taken back. her words settle over your skin like the echo of heat after a flame has passed too close, like the trace of a bruise that hasn’t fully surfaced yet. the room seems to fold in on itself, pulling the two of you into the center of something quiet and enormous. you are aware, all at once, of the way your own breathing has changed, shallow and cautious, like the wrong inhale might unravel the fragile, impossible thing that just entered the space between you.

she’s watching you, and you know it without needing to see her eyes. you can feel the weight of her gaze like pressure against your collarbone. your throat tightens, your spine refuses to settle. your heart beats so loud it drowns out the silence. still, you don’t move. still, you don’t speak. you just stare at her like she is the answer to a question you never wanted to ask but have spent years quietly repeating.

because you understand. god, you understand. because it has always been like this. sharp words and long stares. near-misses that weren’t really accidents. the way she always walked one step too close. the way your voice always turned to ash around her name. you’ve spent so long pretending not to feel it that now, with it staring you in the face, you don’t know what to do with your hands. with your mouth. with your want.

because she isn’t the only one who’s been driven mad by this thing between you. you’ve been carrying it too. tucked beneath your ribs, buried beneath every insult and every stolen glance, growing in the dark.

every fight, every ruthless critique, every time her name landed on the same lineup as yours and her eyes found you across the room like a loaded weapon—sharp and certain, like she knew exactly where to hit to make it hurt—all of it had built to this. the hours spent battling each other from opposite ends of runways and boardrooms, backstage chaos and whispered sabotage. every time she looked at you like you were a threat, a challenge, a mirror she never asked for but couldn’t stop watching. you had called it hatred. you’d spat that word in conversations and monologues and journal pages you never let anyone read. maybe it was hatred, once. or maybe it was just the easiest word for a feeling you didn’t know how to name.

and now, standing here in the charged silence of her studio, all that old language feels useless. it falls apart in your hands, fragile as tissue, unable to hold the weight of this moment. because daniela is looking at you in a way you’ve never seen her allow herself to. like she’s tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of pretending there wasn’t always something molten and dangerous smoldering beneath every word between you. like whatever lines you both spent years drawing have all finally blurred past recognition.

“daniela…” your voice cracks around her name, brittle and unsure. but then she’s moving. slow, deliberate, like she’s giving you time to stop her. her hand grazes your jaw, barely there, a whisper of contact that sends sparks ricocheting down your spine. she’s so close you can taste the peppermint on her breath, see the tremble behind her carefully guarded expression.

“tell me to stop,” she says, voice hushed and wrecked, but you don’t.

you should. you should slap her hand away, turn and leave and slam the door behind you. you should remind her how many times she’s burned you, how many wounds she’s left behind without once looking back. but your body betrays you. you lean in, and that’s all she needed.

the kiss is all teeth and bruised mouths and years of things unsaid, of nights spent imagining this exact moment with equal parts hunger and hatred. she grabs at your shirt like she’s trying to tear it off or maybe hold herself together. her hands fist the fabric near your collarbone and yank you closer until there’s nothing left between you. your bodies slam together with the force of it, chest to chest, hips aligned, like instinct is doing all the work now. your hands drop to her waist, squeezing hard, dragging her flush against you like you’re terrified this will end before it really starts.

you groan into her mouth when she bites your bottom lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your knees weaken. she tastes like something sweet gone bitter, like lipstick and adrenaline and the remnants of every time she’s glared at you across a runway or a bar or a dressing room and made your blood boil.

she presses you back into the wall with a roughness that leaves your head spinning. your nails scrape along the curve of her back through her shirt as her thigh pushes between yours, hot and demanding. you rock forward without thinking, chasing the friction, the contact, the heat. it’s clumsy but deliberate, every move a challenge, a dare, a demand. her kiss deepens, rougher now, her tongue sliding against yours like she’s trying to make you forget every reason you ever hated her. you both taste like frustration, like desire twisted up in fury,like something that was never supposed to happen but always, always would.

her teeth drag across your jaw as she pulls away just enough to speak, her breath hot against your skin. "is this what you wanted?" she murmurs, voice low and smug and soaked in the kind of confidence that makes your stomach flip. "all that yelling just to get my mouth on you?"

you glare at her, or try to, even as your hips tilt forward, searching for more of her thigh. "don't flatter yourself."

she laughs. actually laughs. it's a low, rough sound, and it sends a shiver down your spine. "oh, corazón," she purrs, the word laced with mockery and something darker beneath it. "i don’t need to. you're doing it for me."

you shove at her shoulder, more for show than to make her move, but she doesn’t budge. she presses in harder instead, thigh dragging upward with slow, punishing pressure that knocks the breath right out of your lungs. your head tips back against the wall, a hiss slipping between your teeth.

"fuck, daniela."

"mm. that’s better," she says, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth, soft and infuriating, like she’s rewarding you for breaking. "you sound prettier when you stop pretending you don’t want this."

"you’re such a bitch," you gasp, because you hate how good she feels. how good she knows she feels.

"and you're wet for it," she whispers, voice thick with amusement. her hand slides down your torso, slow and sure, fingers skating over the waistband of your pants. "so who's really winning here?"

you grab her wrist, not to stop her, just to feel her there, to pretend like you’re still in control. "this doesn’t mean anything," you manage, though your voice shakes.

her mouth finds your throat, open and biting, a mark blooming beneath her lips like a bruise. "keep lying," she says, her hand slipping beneath your waistband now, her smile pressed to your skin. "but i’ll make you beg anyway."

here, now, pressed up against you with her lips swollen from kissing, her breath shallow and uneven, daniela didn’t look untouchable. her hands were still clenched in your shirt, knuckles white with tension, like letting go might shatter something between you. her eyes, usually so unreadable, flickered with something wild and unscripted. she didn’t speak again. she didn’t need to. her silence roared louder than any insult she had ever thrown your way. and you felt it, deep in your chest, that low hum of something shifting. for the first time, she wasn’t the daniela everyone else got. she was something only you got to see.

daniela avanzini had never felt like more of an enigma than she did in this moment now.

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