The Rival's Muse

1. Natalie

NATALIE

Ishouldn’t feel bad. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

You’re doing your job. You’re saving the brand. You’re not the villain here…probably.

There’s this knot in my stomach, though. Not quite guilt, but something close. It’s that uneasy feeling that comes when you know you’re about to do something you shouldn’t. Because deep down, I know this isn’t fair.

The other sponsors at the Alton Hills Fashion Federation Gala have paid for their spots, expecting equal visibility and the usual setup. I can’t let that happen. As Vue's new marketing director, I need to make a statement.

Vue was once impossible to ignore, known for luxury with a modern edge. That was a long time ago. These days, we’re bordering on irrelevant. But that changes with me, and this gala. By the time guests leave, Vue will be the only name anyone remembers.

I step out of the elevator on level thirty of the Westmere Hotel.

The hallway is thickly carpeted and perfectly lit.

I keep my head high and walk like I know where I’m going.

I don’t. It’s my first time here. The Westmere is not the kind of hotel you stumble into by accident or book on a whim.

A single night costs more than what most people spend on an entire vacation.

I scan the discreet plaques beside each door, counting down until I find meeting room three.

My hand hovers near the handle and I hesitate.

I take a breath and smooth down my blouse, checking for wrinkles.

I went with a crisp white blouse today with a black bow at the collar, paired with a tailored black mini skirt.

It’s the kind of outfit that walks the line between fashion and business without tipping too far in either direction.

The bow was strategic. It’s feminine enough that people might underestimate me.

I push open the door, keeping my posture easy and confident.

The room is everything the Westmere prides itself on.

Understated, elite, expensive in a way that doesn’t need to announce itself.

A dozen chairs circle a spotless glass table.

White orchids are spaced along the center.

Trays of coffee, canapés, and champagne sit to one side, each item positioned with deliberate care.

A handful of people are scattered around the table, tapping at their phones. A few glance up at me. I smile and take a seat near the center.

I’ve rehearsed this pitch a hundred times. Every word, every pause, every possible pushback. I know how to work the room, how to make this takeover feel like collaboration. Still, my heart is hammering in my chest. I can’t mess this up.

I’ve been in my role for almost six months, and Cosmo Renard, Vue’s CEO, still watches me like I’m a liability. Never mind our best quarter in years. Never mind the press coverage we’re finally getting again. He looks at me like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s job.

Maybe he’s right. I’ve worked in this industry since I was seventeen, but I still feel like I’m faking it half the time.

Marketing director sounds impressive until you’re the one responsible for an entire brand’s reputation.

One wrong campaign, one tone-deaf post, one failed event, and suddenly you’re the person who killed a legacy.

The pressure never stops, and neither does the voice in my head asking if I actually know what I’m doing.

But I don’t let that voice talk for long, because I don’t have room for doubt. I succeed, or I’m gone.

I settle into my seat and watch as the room fills around me.

Some faces I recognize: the PR director, someone from legal, a few of the sponsors, and a rep from Elders Children’s Hospital who already looks exhausted.

Brand reps from Aston Martin, the Westmere, a jewelry house I can’t pronounce, and a Korean beauty giant.

Then Isabelle Marchand arrives. Once a couture icon, now chair of the Alton Hills Fashion Federation, Isabelle still has the kind of presence that makes a room sit up straighter.

Her silver hair is pulled into a low bun, with diamond clips catching the light at her ears.

She takes the seat at the head of the table.

“Looks like we’re waiting on one more,” she says.

I glance at my watch. Two o’clock. We should’ve started by now. The room’s full of executives, sponsors and decision-makers. The kind of people who don’t wait.

My pen taps my folder once before I catch myself. No point looking impatient, even if I am. But the longer we sit here, the more time there is to second-guess everything.

Around the table, people start to shift. Someone checks their watch. Another clears their throat. The room is losing patience.

In the hallway, there’s finally movement. It’s slow, like whoever it is clearly isn’t in a rush, or remotely concerned that we’re all waiting.

Then the door opens and every head turns.

It’s Henry Carter.

For a moment, I forget what I’m supposed to be doing. My brain just blanks because he’s—wow.

Tall, at least six-four, dark hair, and eyes so blue they derail your thoughts mid-sentence. He’s the kind of handsome that works against him. He’s too striking to blend in and too distracting to sell anything but himself.

He doesn’t wait to be invited, just claims the chair across from me. Navy suit, open jacket, tie crisp and perfect. One arm rests lazily over the chair’s back, like he owns the place.

My mind struggles to catch up at first but when it does, one thought pounds through: What on earth is he doing here?

Henry is the marketing director at Carter, a luxury fashion house and Vue’s rival.

“Thank you all for coming,” Isabelle says. “We’ll begin with a short presentation on who we are. Then we’ll move into introductions.”

I can barely concentrate on the presentation. Something about the Alton Hills Fashion Federation’s mission, delivered in the kind of polished corporate speak designed to make investors reach for their checkbooks.

I keep sneaking glances at Henry, silently hoping someone will tell me he’s here for something innocuous like arranging flowers, lending his yacht for the afterparty, or posing for a brooding editorial about trust-fund heirs in cashmere sweaters.

Vue is the fashion sponsor. Always has been. This isn’t Carter’s territory.

The presentation wraps up and the lights snap back on.

“Let’s go around and introduce ourselves,” Isabelle says. “Name, role, tenure, and a fun fact.”

We start with the person to her left. Sandy hair, black-rimmed glasses, the very picture of studious energy.

“Jared, Gala Director, seven years. Fun fact: my grandfather invented the plastic hanger. Our family’s responsible for three billion pieces of landfill.” A ripple of laughter moves through the room.

“Portia Lennox, Creative Director at BL Beauty, ten years,” says the woman beside him. “My grandmother launched a lipstick brand during the war using crushed beetles and melted candle wax. We still have the original bullet in the office.”

The introductions continue. Trust funds, family legacies, a lineage bred for this world.

Then all eyes shift to me.

“I’m Natalie Wright, marketing director at Vue. Six months in the role.”

I pause, hunting for a fun fact. Of course this is the one thing I didn’t prepare.

“I’m the first in my family to work in fashion,” I say with a casual shrug, trying to keep it light. A flicker of silence follows. Just long enough to sting. In a room full of legacies, I’ve just admitted I don’t have one.

“They’re in shipping,” I add quickly. There’s a few nods. Shipping is respectable. Just vague enough to sound prestigious. And it’s not a lie, exactly…just not the whole truth.

The woman beside me jumps in. “Miranda Cole, Events Director at Hartwell Group, six years with the company…”

The introductions circle the table. More inherited empires, more family dynasties. Then we reach Henry.

“Henry Carter, marketing director at Carter. Just under a year, but I’ve been with the company since college,” he says. I brace for the obligatory nod to his mother, Silvia Carter. Carter’s CEO. The role he’s destined to inherit. But instead, he lets a beat of silence hang, drawing the room in.

“Fun fact: I keep a file of every campaign that’s ever outperformed ours.” He lets the words hang.“It’s remarkably thin.”

People laugh. Someone says, “Naturally.”

His gaze snaps to mine, arrogant and unflinching. My teeth clench. I guess that comment was for me.

Before I can let it fester, I turn to Isabelle. “Sorry. Quick question. Why is he here?”

“Carter is a sponsor,” Isabelle says, as if that should answer everything.

“Vue is the fashion sponsor,” I counter.

“Cosmo approved it this morning.” She glances at Jared, who nods in confirmation.

What? Cosmo agreed to this without telling me?

I keep my expression neutral, but inside, I’m reeling. Why would he willingly share our spotlight? And why leave his own marketing director in the dark?

I force my breath to even out. This changes nothing. I can still execute my plan. I’m prepared. Henry surely isn’t.

After the introductions, Isabelle rushes through budget breakdowns, venue logistics, and sponsorship details. She clicks through slides as if her mind is already somewhere else, barely glancing at the material, until she stops abruptly, her energy shifting completely.

“Now for the real question,” she says, practically glowing. “Who’s going to host?”

I’m about to answer when Henry cuts in.

“I had a thought,” he says casually. “What if I hosted?”

Over my dead body. This isn’t becoming a Carter showcase with Vue footing half the bill.

“I think we need someone unexpected,” I say. “A fresh face. We’ve all seen the usual—”

“The crowd’s mature,” Henry interrupts. “They prefer familiar.”

“Even mature crowds want to feel current.”

His smile doesn’t waver. “Let’s vote then. My advantage? The crowd trusts me. I’ve supported the hospital for years, hosted their last auction, and doubled their take.” He lets that sink in. “And I’ll do it pro bono. No fees, no risk.”