The sky over Kairos was streaked with violet as twilight gave way to the night of nights.
Iraaya stood at the edge of the massive glass-walled venue that housed the Aurora Runway, the grandest fashion event the world had ever seen. More than the Met, more than Paris, more than anything. It was the Everest of design. Designers who showed here were remembered forever. Legends had been made, and destroyed, on this runway.
Now, her name was on that list.
She still could barely believe it.
Her collection-"Threads of Becoming"-would close the second segment of the show, right before the intermission.
A strategic slot: high visibility, maximum impact. The kind of placement that could change the course of a career overnight.
She could see the crowd gathering through the vast entrance hall: editors from Vogue, Elle, Harper's, buyers from New York, Milan, Dubai, Tokyo. Royalty. Celebrities. And, most meaningfully, craftspeople from across India, whose art had been woven into every stitch of her collection.
She ran her fingers along the edge of a rack backstage. Soft handwoven brocades from Varanasi. Mirror work from Gujarat. Phulkari panels from Punjab. And her signature innovation, Kantha-inspired structural draping, reimagined for the global stage.
Each piece bore a tiny embroidered tag inside the hem: In honor of the hands that shaped this.
She had insisted.
Backstage was a controlled chaos.
Models flitted between stylists and makeup chairs.
Assistants scurried with last-minute adjustments.
Photographers buzzed like wasps.
And at the heart of it all stood Iraaya, her sketchpad tucked under her arm like a shield, a measuring tape around her neck, and determination in her eyes.
"Final checks," called Aanya, her voice steady despite the frenzy. She had flown in with the Elysian Drapes team to support Iraaya's segment. More than that, she believed in her.
"Show me the order again," Aanya said.
Iraaya flipped open the running list: Ivory-draped jumpsuit with Kantha panels Midnight black saree-gown with embroidered constellation back Ruby jacket over a fluid brocade skirt The finale piece, a lehenga reimagined for the modern bride:
Structured, sculptural, stitched with light. Vicky appeared out of nowhere, eyes wide.
"I got in! Oh my god. I got in!" She hugged Iraaya so tightly the measuring tape nearly strangled her.
"You look like you're about to faint," Vicky whispered, grinning.
"You've got this."
"I hope so," Iraaya said, voice shaking.
"You do," Vicky said fiercely.
"You always did."
In a corner of the backstage zone, Amma stood watching quietly. She had traveled to Kairos for this one night, standing in an unfamiliar, gleaming world that had once seemed so distant.
Their eyes met. Amma gave the smallest of nods. Pride. Iraaya swallowed the lump in her throat.
Then: call time.
The producer's voice echoed through the comms.
"Segment Three: 'Threads of Becoming.' Models in first positions. Designer ready?"
Iraaya exhaled."Designer ready."
The lights dimmed.
Music-low, thrumming, with a heartbeat flow.
The first model stepped onto the vast mirrored runway.
The Show
The audience, 3000 strong, held its breath. The ivory jumpsuit glided forward, sleek lines offset by the warmth of hand-stitched Kantha, the human touch beneath the modern silhouette.
Gasps rippled through the room.
Then came the black saree-gown, stars embroidered across sheer panels, backless, as if the wearer carried the night sky itself.
Flashbulbs burst. Phones rose.
Third look: ruby jacket with sharply tailored shoulders, opening to reveal a whisper-soft brocade skirt that moved like liquid.
By now, the energy was rising.
Then: finale.
The music shifted-a single violin note, rising.
The model emerged in the reimagined lehenga: sculptural pleats folding like origami, subtle metallic threads catching light with every step. No dupatta. No heavy jewelry. Just the garment itself-strength and grace made visible.
The audience rose. Spontaneous ovation.
Iraaya stood frozen in the wings, tears threatening. Aanya squeezed her hand.
"Go," Aanya whispered.
And so she walked onto the runway herself as the segment ended, joining her models under a rain of camera flashes. The Aftermath
The next 24 hours were a blur.
By the time she reached the greenroom, her phone was vibrating non-stop.
Vogue India: "Threads of Becoming: The collection that stole Aurora Runway.
" WWD: "A new star rises from Kairos.
" BoF: "An ode to craft and courage-meet Iraaya, the designer rewriting fashion's future."
Her inbox flooded with interview requests. Buyers clamored for appointments. Even an offer to collaborate on an exclusive line with a luxury house in Paris. Global coverage.
Her name everywhere.
Rukmini called from home.
"You did it!" "Not alone," she said, voice breaking.
Amma's voice came next, quiet but fierce.
"You walked through the fire, girl. You earned this."
The next morning, a courier arrived with a single velvet box.
Inside: an Aurora Runway Designer of Distinction medal, awarded to the night's standout collection.
Few had ever received it.
In the days that followed...
A new phase began.
Elysian Drapes board called an emergency meeting.
Aanya presented a proposal: to give Iraaya her own capsule label under the house.
The board approved.
In a matter of weeks, Threads of Becoming by Iraaya launched across flagship stores.
Pre-orders broke all projections.
Critics hailed it as "the rebirth of couture."
But success brought shadows. Kritika, once a colleague, watched from the sidelines with narrowing eyes.
She had expected Iraaya to stumble, not ascend. In the bright halls of Kairos' fashion world, envy sharpened like a blade.
And in one darkened studio, far from the glare of Aurora's lights, a plan was already taking shape.
Two weeks later, the adrenaline of Aurora Runway had not faded, if anything, it had intensified.
Kairos had caught fire with Iraaya's name.
Every major fashion publication was writing about Threads of Becoming. Stylists were clamoring for pieces for red carpets.
A well-known Bollywood actress had already worn the black saree-gown to a film premiere in London, setting Instagram ablaze.
But with fame came a new kind of weight.
The Studio
Aanya had secured a dedicated studio space for Iraaya's label, a sun-drenched floor in the Elysian Drapes building, glass walls, white oak tables, a full team of seamstresses, pattern makers, and assistants.
It should have felt like victory. Instead, it felt like pressure.
"We have to be ready for Paris Fashion Week," Aanya said one morning, sliding a thick dossier onto the table.
"Buyers are already asking if you'll be showing."
Paris.
The word rang in her head like a bell.
"You're not a debutante anymore," Aanya added gently.
"You're a brand."
The team tripled overnight. Half of them were new hires. The rest came from Elysian's core group, some curious, some supportive, some wary of this sudden star in their midst.
Kritika was among them.
She had not spoken to Iraaya since Aurora, though they passed each other in corridors. Once, their eyes met; Kritika's expression was unreadable.
Vicky visited often.
"You need a second phone," she joked, watching as Iraaya's device buzzed endlessly.
"Or a second life," Iraaya replied.
They laughed, but exhaustion shadowed her features.
The Work
Designing under a microscope was different.
Every sketch was scrutinized. Every fabric choice second- guessed.
Buyers wanted more of the same, but also something new.
Journalists sought quotes for profiles. TV crews requested interviews.
A Netflix docuseries on Aurora Runway wanted her as a central figure.
Most of all, people now expected her to be extraordinary, every day.
"Don't lose yourself," Amma warned during a rare phone call.
"Your stitches told a story because you meant them. Don't stitch for applause."
"I won't," Iraaya promised. But some days it felt like drowning in light.
At night, she returned to the apartment.
Vicky and a few old friends called. They teased her, kept her grounded. But Iraaya felt the shift.
She was becoming someone else, not above them, but moving into a world they couldn't quite follow.
One evening, sitting cross-legged on her chair, she talked to Vicky:
"I'm scared. What if I can't keep up?" Vicky gasped.
"You will. And if you fall, you get up. Same way you always have."
The Paris Collection
Under impossible deadlines, the new line took shape. This time, she pushed boundaries further:
Silk organza jackets embroidered with calligraphy.
Reversible capes with double-sided Kantha work.
Sculpted dresses inspired by temple architecture.
The concept: Rooted Flight, fashion that carried tradition into the future.
Every piece bore the fingerprints of Indian artisans, a deliberate stand against fast fashion's soulless churn. But tensions rose.
Some team members complained about her perfectionism.
She wants every seam to be hand-finished. It's insane on this timeline. Kritika grew increasingly cold.
Once, overhearing Iraaya discussing designs with a buyer, she muttered to a colleague:
"She acts like she invented embroidery."
Rumors began to swirl:
She's difficult. Arrogant. Obsessed with control.
Aanya shielded her as best she could.
"She's building something lasting," Aanya told the board. "Let her work."
But even Aanya couldn't stop the undercurrents.
The Break
One evening, two weeks before Paris, Iraaya stayed late at the studio. The others had gone. Moonlight spilled across her desk.
She unfolded an old piece of muslin, tracing faded lines:
Manaly's sketches.
She had drawn garments that breathed. Not costumes, clothes for people who lived and loved and struggled.
She whispered to the empty room:
"I hope I'm doing this right."
A soft knock.
It was Kritika, surprisingly.
"Late night?"
"Couldn't sleep," Iraaya replied.
Kritika lingered.
"You've come far." There was no warmth in her tone.
"I'm trying," Iraaya said cautiously.
A strange smile flickered on Kritika's lips.
"Well. Some of us try for years."
And then she left.
Something cold settled in Iraaya's chest.
The Day of Departure The day the collection shipped for Paris, Iraaya barely slept.
She oversaw every garment's packing herself.
Each seam checked. Each bead secure. Each tag correct. This was her name now, her life.
As the crates were sealed, Aanya hugged her.
"Now comes the real part," she said.
"You've survived the storm. Now you fly."
Vicky met her at the airport with a ridiculous sign: GO QUEEN IRAAYA!
They laughed, but as the plane took off, Iraaya's heart thundered.
Aurora had been a miracle. Paris would be the test.
Arrival in Paris
The city greeted them with cold rain and flashing cameras.
International press swarmed the venue during fittings.
Buyers whispered about Threads of Becoming and its creator.
Iraaya walked the ancient cobbled streets between rehearsals, notebook in hand, eyes wide.
Here, centuries of fashion history pressed against her.
Now she was part of it.
Fittings were brutal.
European models struggled with the intricacies of Indian drapes.
Seamstresses grumbled about last-minute adjustments. One translator sneered: "Next time, bring real couture." But when the final dress was fitted, the temple-inspired piece shimmering in the lights, the room fell silent.
"She will stop the show," a buyer whispered.
The Night Before
The eve of the show arrived.
A gala dinner hosted by Aurora's global organizers gathered the week's elite.
Iraaya, in a simple black saree and Kantha jacket, drew stares.
Designers approached her, some with curiosity, some with veiled disdain.
At one point, a legendary French couturier leaned close.
"You remind me of us, before we became machines."
It was the highest praise she'd ever known. Back in her room that night, she texted Vicky:
"Tomorrow, we fly or we fall."
Vicky replied instantly:
"Girl, you've already flown. Now show them how high."
The Show Day
The morning of the show dawned cold and bright over Paris.
Iraaya barely slept.
She spent the hours before sunrise pacing her hotel room, mentally stitching and re-stitching every look. The team was already at the venue, an opulent, converted cathedral near the Seine, chosen for its soaring arches and stained-glass windows.
At 7 AM, Aanya texted:
"All looks passed final inspection. You ready?"
Ready?
No.
But willing.
Always willing.
The Venue
By noon, the entire fashion world had descended on the space.
Anna Wintour was confirmed in the front row.
Vogue Italia, Elle France, Harper's Bazaar, WWD - all present.
Film stars, royalty, art collectors, tech billionaires.
The press dubbed it the most anticipated debut in Paris Fashion Week history.
Backstage
Controlled chaos. Models rehearsed the delicate drapes and movements.
Dressers ran like ghosts between racks.
The air smelled of hot lights, steamed silk, nerves.
In the corner, Iraaya stood with Amma's words in her heart: Don't stitch for applause.
She whispered to her team:
"This is not about me. It's about us, about every artisan who touched these threads."
They nodded, eyes shining.
The Opening
The lights dimmed.
The audience stilled.
A single beam illuminated the runway entrance.
Music began: a slow, powerful fusion of classical Indian strings and electronic bass.
And then-
The first model stepped out.
A white silk sherwani-jacket for women, lined with hand- stitched poetry in Hindi script.
Paired with flowing pants and temple jewelry.
The room gasped.
The Collection Unfolds
Look after look flowed like a story:
• A translucent saree-gown edged in copper sequins, draped over a structured corset.
• A double-sided cape: raw indigo on one side, vivid red Kantha on the other, a garment that could reverse mid-walk.
• A dress shaped like a temple spire, its panels embroidered with miniature carvings.
• Menswear: dhoti trousers with sculpted jackets, echoing Mughal silhouettes but utterly modern.
• An emerald green bridal lehenga with a 12-foot train, carrying 200 hours of zardosi work.
Each piece was met with audible gasps. Phones rose like a digital forest.
Every camera captured the impossible grace of the collection.
By Look 8, the crowd began to applaud mid-show; a rarity.
By Look 12, people were standing to film.
The Final Walk
For the finale, the temple-inspired dress.
Model Adriana Kovac, known for icy composure, walked with tears in her eyes.
As she reached the runway's end, the music softened, a recording of an Indian artisan's loom fading into silence.
Then the lights cut.
A single word projected behind the runway:
"Becoming."
The audience exploded into applause.
A standing ovation, full, sustained, electric.
Backstage Aftermath
Iraaya collapsed into a chair, shaking.
Aanya pulled her up. "You have to walk."
"I can't."
"You must." And so, still dazed, Iraaya walked the runway's end, alone, in a simple white kurta and black pants.
The applause swelled again.
Cameras flashed.Designers nodded. Editors smiled. A few shouted:
"Bravo!"
"Extraordinary!"
The Aftermath
The press storm began instantly.
By midnight:
• Vogue called it "a once-in-a-decade debut."
• WWD named her "the voice of modern Indian fashion."
• Anna Wintour herself reportedly told Aanya: "She's not the future. She's the now."
In The Days That Followed
The collection sold out instantly. Orders flooded in from London, Dubai, Tokyo.
Celebrities began requesting custom pieces.
LVMH extended an invitation for collaboration.
An Italian couture house offered a seven-figure partnership.
Back in Paris
A few days later, at a private industry dinner, Iraaya overheard a chilling exchange.
Kritika, speaking to a minor designer:
"She's talented, sure. But let's see how long the threads hold."
The words coiled like smoke.
Jealousy had begun to fester
But for now, Iraaya brushed it aside.
The Return to Kairos
When the plane landed in Kairos, a crowd had gathered at the airport.
Cameras. Fans. Reporters.
Banners reading: WELCOME HOME, QUEEN IRAAYA.
It felt surreal.
As she stepped into the terminal, Aanya whispered:
"Remember this moment. You've made history."
The letter
That night, back at the studio, alone, Iraaya unfolded a letter from Amma:
"You have flown. Now remember your roots."
And beneath, in Amma's neat hand:
"Manaly would be proud."
Tears came, the first she'd allowed herself since Paris. In the empty studio, beneath the hum of city lights, she whispered:
"I'm becoming."