Chapter 112: The Moment the Stylist Exited

The moment the stylist exited, Giselle Marchand stepped forward aggressively. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor. She swept her arm across Sienna Bennett’s vanity. A violent crash echoed through the room. Cosmetics, brushes, and accessories scattered everywhere. The custom outfit laid out for the show tumbled into the dust. Celeste Duval watched coldly from the doorway. Her presence alone was a statement. A queen descending to handle a nuisance personally.

“I don’t care who you know here,” Giselle spat. “You’re a nobody. A rookie. We are not your backup dancers. Know your place. Pack your things. Leave. Now.”

A chorus of agreement rose from the other models. Their glares were sharp, unified. A wall of hostility. Sienna didn’t flinch. She leaned back in her chair, utterly calm. “You think breaking a few things is supposed to frighten me?” Silence. Then, disbelief. How was she so composed? Outnumbered and cornered. Giselle’s face flushed a deep, furious red. With a guttural sound of rage, she grabbed the edge of the vanity and shoved. The entire unit toppled over. Glass shattered. The noise was deafening.

It wasn’t enough. Giselle stalked toward the clothing rack. She snatched a delicate beaded bracelet from its hanger. She threw it to the floor. Her stiletto heel came down on it with brutal force. A sickening crunch echoed in the sudden quiet.

“This is what will happen to you,” she hissed at Sienna, her voice low and venomous. “If you don’t get out. I’ll break you myself.”

Sienna actually laughed. A dry, humorless sound. “That’s all the strength you have? Pathetic. If you’re hungry, there’s food. Eat. Then try again. Put some real effort into it.” She began removing her own accessories. A sleek black watch. A matching obsidian ring. She dropped them casually onto the floor at Giselle’s feet. The gesture was wildly defiant. The models stared, baffled. Was she insane? Was she daring them? From her spot near the changing area, Vanessa Bennett watched, a frown etching her features. This was not going as planned. Sienna’s fearlessness was unnerving.

Another model snapped. “You’re asking for it, Bennett!” She lunged forward, her heel aiming for the expensive watch. Crack. The crystal face splintered. A six-figure piece, destroyed. Sienna didn’t even look. She examined her black-painted nails, bored. “Don’t stop on my account. Keep going. Destroy it all. I insist.” She finally lifted her gaze, icy and direct. “After all, none of this is mine. Every single item belongs to the event organizers.” The air left the room.

All color drained from their faces. Stunned silence. They had been so focused on humiliating her, they never considered the labels on the clothes, the tags on the jewelry. These were show pieces. Loaned property.

“You witch!” Giselle gasped, scrambling back from the wreckage as if it were radioactive. “You set us up!”

“Did I?” Sienna’s voice was a blade of frozen steel. “I forced you to trash my station? I made you stomp on the designer outfits? I commanded your little mob to come threaten me? Is that your story?”

Her words left them speechless, trapped. Before anyone could form a reply, she checked her phone. “You have about two minutes. If you want to finish the job. The head organizer is on his way up. With a full press corps.” Celeste Duval’s cool composure finally cracked. “What? Reporters are coming here? Now?”