One morning, when the last of the Aurora buzz had finally faded into a soft hum in the background, Aanya called Iraaya into her office.
Sunlight poured through the glass walls, catching the edges of trophies and fabric swatches. Aanya stood by the window, arms folded.
"You've rested enough," she said, smiling faintly.
"I haven't really," Iraaya replied, a grin playing on her lips.
"But I'm ready."
"Good." Aanya turned.
"I want you to lead something new."
Iraaya straightened, her pulse quickening.
"We've been flooded with interest from Paris. Buyers, brands, influencers. But not all of them want couture. They want wearable pieces, accessible, global. A ready- to-wear line rooted in Indian craft, but contemporary. Something fresh."
She paused, eyes locked on Iraaya.
"I want you to design it." The room seemed to tilt
"Me?"
"Why me?" Iraaya asked, voice low.
"Because no one else here can do what you do," Aanya said simply.
"You understand how to make people feel something in cloth. Not just wear it."
She moved to her desk and slid a folder across.
"Think about the name. The concept. We'll call the first capsule 'Prism, but beyond that - it's yours."
Iraaya opened the folder. Blank pages. A challenge. A world to create.
Her fingers trembled slightly.
"I won't let you down," she whispered.
Aanya smiled again. "I know."
Building Prism For the next weeks, Iraaya disappeared into her work.
She arrived at the studio before anyone else, long before the sun was up. She stayed until security turned off the lights.
Even Vicky barely saw her, they exchanged hurried messages, fragments of a life beyond design.
The concept behind Prism consumed her.
Clothes for the global woman who carries her roots with her.
She didn't want to simply blend East and West in the predictable way, not just "saris as gowns" or "lehenga with sneakers." No. She wanted more.
She imagined:
• Soft trench coats with hand-done Kantha embroidery running like veins beneath the seams.
• Crisp dhoti pants that folded and moved like origami, paired with sculptural blouses.
• Blazer dresses with subtle mirrorwork and tiny charms stitched into the lining, secret talismans of home.
• Unisex jackets with hidden Sanskrit verses inside the cuffs.
"Stories in the seams," she scribbled in her notebook.
"Craft not as decoration, but as memory."
Day by day, the line came to life.
She hunted for weavers in the outskirts of Kairos, sourced deadstock silk and vintage cotton. She spent nights stitching her own samples to test fall and flow.
Every morning, she pinned a new sketch to the design board. Slowly the wall filled with colour and texture, an entire world blooming.
The Threat Grows
Across the studio floor, Kritika watched in silence.
Once Elysian's star designer, she had been barely mentioned in the Paris aftermath. No features. No awards. No headlines.
And now this girl, this shelter girl, was being given an entire line to lead?
Kritika's smile tightened. She congratulated Iraaya in meetings, praised her concepts, but each word tasted like ash.
"She'll trip," Kritika whispered to a trusted assistant.
"Watch."
But as the days passed, Iraaya didn't trip.
She soared. Buyers whispered about Prism with growing anticipation.
The board murmured approval.
And worst of all, Aanya defended her at every turn.
"She's doing what none of us dared," Aanya told the team one day. "She's building a bridge."
Kritika seethed.
The Breach
It happened late one Friday. Iraaya had stayed long past midnight in the design lab, tweaking the final prototypes. She left exhausted, forgetting to log out of her terminal.
When Kritika found out through a junior staffer, opportunity struck like lightning.
She called an old contact, Dev, a hacker with a talent for digital sleight of hand.
"I need access," she said, voice calm. "One-time pull."
"Risky," Dev replied.
"Not if you're careful. The files are all timestamped. Just copy and vanish."
For the right price, Dev obliged.
Within hours, PRISM_MASTER_DESIGNS.zip was in Kritika's possession.
When she opened it at home, her breath caught.
The line was stunning.
Better than she'd feared.
It would change everything, and worse, it would change her place in the firm forever.
Unless...
She forwarded the file, anonymously, to an ambitious creative director she knew at Casa di Fiore, a European house desperate for relevance.
"Gift" she typed. "No strings."
And pressed send.
The Explosion
Ten days later, the unthinkable happened. Vicky called in a panic:
"Did you sell Prism?"
"What?" Iraaya blinked.
"Check Instagram. Now."
#PRISMA was trending.
Casa di Fiore had just unveiled a capsule collection called PRISMA at Milan Fashion Week.
The photos hit Iraaya like a blade.
Her jacket.
Her Kantha trench.
Her origami pants.
Her mirrorwork linings, identical.
Her mind reeled. Had she emailed the wrong files? Had someone hacked her?
Heart pounding, she ran to Aanya's office.
But Aanya was already on the phone, pale with fury.
"No," she was saying. "We had no deal. No collaboration." The moment she hung up, her gaze met Iraaya's.
"Did you...?" she whispered.
"No!" Iraaya's voice broke.
"I swear, I would never."
The Witch Hunt
Within hours, media tore through the story.
BoF:"India's rising star embroiled in design scandal."
Vogue: "PRISMA, accident or art theft?"
Kairos Daily: "Jhirkala's daughter faces downfall."
Social media turned vicious:
#CopycatCouture
#Fraudyaaya
#PrismScandal
Hate DMs flooded her inbox. Emails poured in.
Some buyers canceled orders overnight.
Aanya's tone chilled. "I have to manage optics," she said. "Stay low for now."
Even her team avoided her in the hallways.
One designer muttered as she passed:
"Too fast, too lucky. Bound to happen."
The Board Meeting
Three days later, an emergency board meeting was called.
Iraaya sat alone at the far end of the gleaming table.
Around her, executives whispered.
"Reputation at risk."
"She's brought us global shame."
"Cut ties."
Even Aanya seemed torn, her fingers tight around her pen. When the CEO spoke, his words fell like a blade:
"Effective immediately, Prism is suspended. And Ms. Iraaya is placed on leave pending investigation."
The room spun. Iraaya stood, her voice hoarse.
"I didn't do this."
Silence.
No one replied.
Alone
She packed her things that night in a daze. Sketches. Swatches. Awards she no longer wanted to see.
Back in her apartment, she sealed her Prism notebooks in a box.
And wept.
Vicky arrived an hour later, holding soup and tissues.
"Fight," she whispered.
"You can't let this break you."
But Iraaya shook her head.
"What if they're right?" she choked.
"What if I was stupid to ever come here?"
The Final Blow
The next morning, the cruelest blow fell.
Casa di Fiore was suing Elysian, claiming ownership of Prism.
Now the scandal wasn't just public, it was legal.
Corporate lawyers blamed her.
The press branded her a fraud.
Former allies vanished.
She shut off her phone. Closed the blinds.
In her journal, she wrote one line:
"I should have stayed in Jhirkala. At least there... they knew me."