Chapter 12: When Fire Meets Fate

The sun blazed relentlessly over the Cebu skyline, but Wendy felt colder than ever.

In the weeks following the launch, Reyes-Pradesh Luxur had soared. Orders flooded in from fashion capitals around the world. Articles praised Wendy as the new face of ethical fashion in the Philippines. International blogs featured Jace's intricate sketches, calling him the next big thing in sustainable design. To the public, they were the dazzling royalty of the design world—unstoppable, unbreakable, inseparable.

But behind the curtain of applause and flashing cameras, something had shifted.

One evening, as twilight fell over the bay and the scent of saltwater clung to the breeze, Wendy stood beside Jace on the balcony of their hotel suite. The sea shimmered in the distance, but the silence between them loomed larger.

"I'm proud of you," Jace said at last, his voice low, the wind catching his words as he stared out at the horizon.

Wendy turned to him, her eyes searching his face. "Then why do you look so far away?"

He hesitated, then gave a small, tight smile—one that didn't reach his eyes. "Because I used to be your world, Wen. Now I feel like I'm just part of your campaign."

Her heart clenched. She reached for his hand, but he didn't take it. "Jace, no. You've always been the dream. This success—it's ours. I wouldn't be here without you."

He finally looked at her, pain flickering in his gaze. "I believe you. But lately… it feels like I'm chasing you. Not walking beside you."

Wendy's throat tightened. "That's not fair. I never wanted to leave you behind."

"You didn't have to want it," he said bitterly. "It just happened. The calls you don't answer, the meetings you forget to tell me about, the way your smile fades the moment we're alone."

She stepped closer, voice cracking. "You think I'm fading away from you?"

"I think I'm losing you," he said, almost in a whisper. "Piece by piece. And I don't know how to stop it."

A silence fell between them—raw, aching.

"You stood by me when no one else did," Wendy whispered. "You believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. Please don't think for a second that I don't see you. That I don't love you."

Jace turned away, blinking back the emotion that welled in his eyes. "I just miss us, Wendy. The version of us before the lights, the press, the pressure. Before you became everyone's inspiration but forgot to come home to me."

Tears pricked her eyes. "I didn't forget, Jace. I just… got lost. Can we find our way back?"

He looked at her for a long moment, then finally reached for her hand. "Only if we walk together this time. Not in front. Not behind. Side by side."

And in the dying light of Cebu's skyline, the cracks between them began to mend.

Meanwhile, at the Rivera headquarters, tension coiled through the air like a storm ready to break.

"We're losing clients to Reyes-Pradesh," one board member said sharply, slapping a printed sales report onto the long conference table. "They're bleeding us slowly—one designer, one trend at a time."

Ricci Rivera stood at the window, arms folded tightly across her chest, watching the city lights flicker below. The golden skyline reflected faintly in the glass, but her eyes were sharp—focused elsewhere.

"Then we sharpen the knife," she said coldly, turning back to face the room.

A heavy silence followed. Everyone knew Ricci didn't throw words around for effect—when she made a threat, it came with an execution plan.

Her strategy? Resurrect a dormant name from Rivera's archives—Calisto, a once-promising brand swallowed years ago by mergers and mediocrity. This time, it would rise again: younger, edgier, bolder. She would lure fresh blood—hungry designers who hadn't yet learned loyalty—and build a collection that spoke in the same language Wendy used: ethical, minimalist, undeniably magnetic.

But louder.

And sharper.

"We don't need to copy her," Ricci said, her voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "We just need to bury her."

A few board members exchanged wary glances. Only one dared to speak.

"Ricci… you really think we can out-smart Wendy?"

"She's not untouchable," Ricci snapped. "She just got lucky first. And luck runs out."

In the corner of the room, Liam Rivera sat in silence, one leg crossed over the other, gaze distant. His jaw tightened as he stared at the Rivera insignia engraved on the wall—a symbol that used to mean something noble to him. Now it felt like a cage.

"She left us," Ricci continued, eyes flicking toward Liam. "She owes us nothing. And we owe her even less."

Liam didn't answer. Not here. Not in this room where power was currency and vulnerability was a liability.

But later that night, in the quiet solitude of his father's old beach house, he let the façade drop.

He sat alone on the weathered wooden deck, barefoot, a blanket draped around his shoulders. The crashing of the tide was a steady pulse in the dark. His phone glowed softly in his hand as he watched a loop of old videos—Wendy laughing as she adjusted a crooked tie before his meeting, sketching on a napkin during one of their late-night ramen runs, twirling under the rain after a successful pitch.

His throat tightened.

"I let you walk away," he murmured, voice thick. "Told myself it was your choice. Told myself it was the right thing."

He paused the video, Wendy's face frozen mid-laugh.

"But I never stopped following you."

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes shining with something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in months: regret.

"You were always more than an idea. More than a campaign. You were… home."

The wind howled gently through the open windows, and for the first time in a long while, Liam didn't feel like the heir to a legacy.

He felt like a man who'd lost the only person who ever made him question what legacy was for.

Back in Cebu, the tension simmered beneath the surface, quiet but persistent—like the pressure before a monsoon.

In the Reyes-Pradesh design studio, Joyce stormed into the room, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor.

"Have you seen this?" she snapped, slamming her tablet onto the table.

Wendy looked up, startled. "What is it?"

Joyce tapped the screen. "A leak. Your unreleased designs—online."

Wendy's breath caught in her throat. She grabbed the tablet with trembling hands. There they were: sketches, mood boards, even fabric specs—plastered across a gossip-heavy fashion blog notorious for publishing industry scandals.

Jace leaned over her shoulder, jaw clenched. "This is our next collection."

Wendy's voice was barely a whisper. "How did they get this? Only three people had access: me, Jace, and…"

She trailed off. Her eyes locked with Joyce's.

Joyce gave a slow, grim nod. "Eloisa. The admin from Cebu."

Jace frowned. "She's just a secretary."

"No," Joyce said firmly. "I thought so too—until I saw her sending encrypted emails from the office network. I followed the metadata trail. She's been in communication with Rivera's legal team for weeks."

Silence fell. Heavy. Awful.

Wendy stood up slowly, her face pale but controlled. "Call her in. Now."

That afternoon, the confrontation unfolded in a quiet conference room overlooking the garden.

Eloisa sat rigid in her chair, hands knotted in her lap. When Wendy entered, the young woman's eyes filled with tears.

"I—I'm so sorry, Ma'am Wendy," she whispered, unable to meet her gaze.

Joyce crossed her arms. "You leaked confidential designs. Why?"

Eloisa's composure cracked. She broke down.

"I needed the money," she sobbed. "Ricci—she offered me double my salary. All I had to do was forward the files. I didn't know they'd publish them online. I swear, I didn't."

Wendy's jaw clenched. She stared at Eloisa, her voice trembling with restrained fury.

"You didn't just betray me," she said, every word deliberate. "You betrayed the artisans. The seamstresses. The women we trained. The community that trusted us. You didn't just sell designs—you sold a dream."

Eloisa wept openly now. "I didn't mean to ruin everything…"

But Wendy didn't flinch. Her voice was steel.

"Pack your things," she said coldly. "You're done here."

Eloisa stood slowly, shoulders shaking, and left without a word.

The room stayed silent long after she was gone.

The scandal hit the media like wildfire—but Reyes-Pradesh didn't flinch.

Their response came swiftly and gracefully: a public statement emphasizing transparency, copyright protection and a firm commitment to moving forward without compromise.

Still, the lines had been drawn.

All eyes turned toward the looming International Fashion Summit in Singapore—the stage where reputations would rise or fall. It wasn't just a runway show anymore. It was a battleground for the soul of Southeast Asian couture.

The energy at the summit pulsed like static electricity. Cameras flashed, editors whispered, and designers from across the region prowled the grand halls like predators in silk.

Wendy moved with quiet power, draped in a gown inspired by indigenous weaves—each thread a homage to her roots. The fabric swayed like water with every step. Behind her, Jace followed, steady and composed, his presence a silent promise of support.

Then—Liam.

Their paths collided near the main presentation hall, the hum of conversation fading to the background.

"Wendy," he said softly.

"Liam." Her voice was cool, measured.

He gave her a once-over, a flicker of nostalgia in his eyes. "You've changed."

She tilted her head slightly. "You haven't. Still chasing ghosts."

He flinched, barely—but recovered with a faint smile. "I came to warn you. Ricci's preparing to file a lawsuit. She's out for blood."

Wendy didn't blink. "Then let her come. I don't build to destroy, Liam. I build to rise."

He stepped closer. "You don't have to face this alone."

"I'm not," she said, casting a glance at Jace behind her. "I never was."

The summit exploded in brilliance—lights, cameras, a standing-room-only crowd. Then came Wendy's moment: her keynote.

She stepped onto the stage, spotlight catching the intricate detail of her gown. The room fell silent.

"To design is not just to make clothes," she began, voice clear and unwavering. "It's to thread stories. To weave identity, culture, and dreams. We are not just fashion. We are the future."

The applause rose like thunder. A standing ovation followed. Reporters scrambled to record every word, and the hashtag #WendyRises began to trend.

Later, seeking a moment of calm, Wendy slipped out to the garden balcony. The soft glow of string lights hung overhead, and the hum of Singapore city pulsed in the distance.

Jace was already there, holding a single rose he'd plucked from a planter box.

"Even roses grow from hard earth," he said, offering it to her.

She laughed quietly, taking the flower. "You still have poetry in you."

"And you," he replied, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face, "still have fire."

Under the stars, surrounded by soft laughter and foreign air, they kissed.

A sharp chime broke the peace.

Wendy's phone lit up: a message from an unknown sender.

"Watch your back. The war's not over."

She showed it to Jace. He read it once, then looked up, his eyes like flint.

"Then let's be ready," he said. "They have money. We have purpose."

She slid her hand into his.

"Let them come," Wendy whispered, fire in her voice. "This time, we burn brighter."

Days after the summit, just as Reyes-Pradesh's triumph dominated the fashion headlines, the Rivera camp struck back—with fury.

The press conference was a spectacle: sleek stage, branded backdrops, a wall of cameras. At the center of it all stood Ricci Rivera, immaculately dressed in crimson power silk, flanked by a battalion of high-profile lawyers and her branding manager.

She gripped the podium like it was a weapon.

"On behalf of the Rivera Group of Companies," she began, her voice crisp and cold as glass, "we are deeply alarmed by the designs presented under Reyes-Pradesh Luxur at the recent International Fashion Summit."

She paused, letting the tension build.

"Several elements bear striking resemblance to concepts developed under Rivera Group, specifically during the tenure of one of our former designers—Wendy Naredo. It is our very own Calisto designs"

The room erupted in gasps. The media frenzy ignited—cameras clicked like gunfire, reporters murmured, and hashtags exploded online.

"We have initiated legal review," Ricci continued smoothly, "and we will take all necessary action to protect our intellectual property."

Back in Cebu, inside the Reyes-Pradesh showroom, the team watched the livestream on a widescreen monitor mounted above the sample racks.

Wendy stood frozen, arms crossed tightly across her chest.

Her face was unreadable—but her clenched jaw betrayed the storm brewing inside.

"Of course. She waited. Let us shine… then pounce. She's not defending Rivera. She's defending her pride."

Joyce slammed a pen down on the counter. "She's cornered. This is desperation."

Jace reached for the remote and killed the feed with a sharp click.

"They're picking a fight they can't win," he said. "And they'll regret it."

But Wendy didn't respond immediately. Her gaze lingered on the now-dark screen. In her mind, Ricci's smug expression kept replaying.

She took a deep breath—slow, deliberate.

"This isn't just about a lawsuit," she finally said, voice low. "This is her warning shot. She wants to drag my name through the mud until no one remembers what I stood for."

"But I won't give her that victory."

She turned to her team—her family—and locked eyes with each one of them.

"Get the legal documents. Every draft. Every sketch. I want timestamps, team logs, source files—everything we've built from day one."

Joyce nodded, already grabbing her tablet. "On it."

Jace stepped forward. "What about the press?"

"We wait," Wendy said, her tone sharp. "Let them talk. Let them speculate. Then we show them not just proof—but purpose."

"She thinks I'm the same girl she once owned. But I've outgrown her shadow."

Wendy turned away from the monitor and faced the large glass windows overlooking Cebu's harbor.

The sun was setting, but her fire had only begun to rise.

Days later, Wendy flew to Manila for a high-level, closed-door meeting—called by Pradesh Luxur, who had just returned from a major investor roundtable in Dubai. The company's future was on the line, and key stakeholders had gathered for urgent damage control.

Wendy arrived at the hotel, nerves steeled, dressed in minimalist power tailoring that spoke louder than words. But before she could reach the elevators, a familiar voice cut through the hum of the lobby.

"Of course you'd show up like nothing happened."

Wendy turned—and there she was.

Ricci Dawnielle Yulo - Rivera, standing by the marble columns like a storm waiting to break. Dressed to kill, eyes burning.

Wendy exhaled. "Ricci."

Ricci stormed forward, heels clicking like gunshots against tile.

"You've really gone too far," she hissed. "Do you enjoy dragging the Rivera name through the mud?"

Wendy's reply was calm, razor-sharp.

"You did that to yourselves."

Then it happened.

Ricci slapped her.

A crack echoed across the marble lobby. Gasps rose from bystanders. A glass of champagne somewhere tipped and shattered.

Wendy's face turned slightly—but she didn't fall. Slowly, she turned back, her eyes blazing.

She slapped her back.

It was louder.

Ricci stumbled a step, stunned. Security guards started forward—but froze, caught in the magnetic pull of a war long in the making.

"You don't get to bully me anymore," Wendy said, voice cold as steel. "Not in public. Not in private. I built something real, Ricci. You built smoke and mirrors—and now they're burning."

Ricci's fists clenched. "Design thief."

"Control freak," Wendy snapped. "You never cared about design—just domination. You never nurtured talent. You hoarded it. Smothered it."

"You'll pay for this," Ricci snarled.

Wendy stepped forward, unshaken.

"Then send me the bill," she said coolly. "I'll pay it—with purpose."

Before Ricci could retort, a new voice cut through the rising tension.

"Ricci, what's going on?"

Liam Rivera emerged from the hallway, face tight with concern as he approached. His eyes flicked between his wife and Wendy, then landed on the red mark on Ricci's cheek.

"You slapped her?" he asked Wendy, disbelief clouding his voice.

Wendy didn't back down. "She hit me first."

Liam turned to Ricci. "Ricci… why?"

"Because she's tearing everything apart!" Ricci snapped. "The company, the legacy—us. She parades herself as some righteous victim, but we built her!"

Liam stepped between them, raising a hand. "Enough. This isn't the place."

"Isn't it?" Wendy said, eyes narrowed. "Because for years, you stood silent while she controlled everything. You saw what she did to me, Liam."

"And I regret not speaking up then," Liam said, trying to keep his voice level. "But this—violence? Public scandal? You're better than this, Wendy."

"No," Ricci interjected. "She thinks she is. But all she's done is use our name as her launchpad—and now she spits on it."

Liam looked at Wendy, torn but resolute. "You had every right to leave, to start over. But did you have to burn everything down on your way out?"

Wendy's eyes flashed.

"I didn't burn it down, Liam. I lit a match to find my way out. What you see burning? That's what she built on top of me."

"Wendy—"

"You said you warned me. And I told you—I'm not afraid. Not of her. Not of you. Not anymore."

Jace stepped in then, calmly but firmly.

"This isn't your battlefield anymore, Liam. You made your choice."

Security moved in slowly. Ricci adjusted her coat with venomous grace.

"You'll regret this."

Wendy met her stare without blinking. "Only thing I regret… is trusting you in the first place."

And as reporters burst through the doors, flashes filling the air, the image was seared into history: Two women who once built an empire—now standing on opposite sides of a war.

And at the center, Liam, caught between legacy and loyalty.

Fashion Twitter exploded. Headlines followed.

"BLOOD & THREAD: Reyes-Pradesh vs. Rivera Erupts in Manila Hotel Lobby Meltdown."

Lines were drawn. Hearts were tested. Alliances, questioned.

And as Wendy stood beneath the lights, beside Jace and in full view of the world, she realized: "This isn't just a scandal. This is the reckoning. And I am not backing down."