The press conference was staged with the precision of a runway show. Regina Velasco stood at the center of the marble-floored lobby of her flagship boutique, a vision of composure in a scarlet sheath dress that clung to her like armor. Behind her, a wall of mannequins wore her newest line—sharp, angular pieces that seemed to sneer at softness.
The room was packed with reporters, cameras flashing like lightning in a storm. She smiled, not the warm smile of hospitality, but the cool, sharpened grin of a predator who already tasted blood.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, her voice smooth as silk yet laced with venom, “it grieves me deeply to see our industry dragged into scandal. Fashion, after all, should be about beauty, integrity, and respect—not… exploitation.”
A ripple of murmurs passed through the crowd. She let it linger before continuing.
“We all admire Elena Marquez’s talent,” Regina said with calculated grace, placing a hand over her chest in feigned sincerity. “But recent revelations”—she paused for effect, the word revelations dripping like poison—“suggest a betrayal of professional ethics. To involve a subordinate in such… entanglements, while presenting oneself as a paragon of refinement… well, I leave it to you, the discerning public, to judge.”
The cameras clicked furiously. Regina leaned in slightly, her eyes glittering.
You Pick, You React
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“I built Velasco House on the principle that women should be empowered, never compromised. No assistant, no staff member of mine, would ever feel… coerced or compromised by inappropriate relations.” She tilted her head just enough to let the insinuation hang in the air like smoke.
The reporters seized it. Questions flew. “Do you believe Marquez Couture has lost its credibility?” “Do you intend to fill the void left by Elena’s scandal?”
Regina gave a small, tragic smile. “It isn’t about filling a void. It’s about maintaining dignity in an art form that deserves it. Fashion must not bow to gossip, nor should it be tarnished by reckless behavior. Clients deserve stability, trust, and prestige—and that is what Velasco House will always deliver.”
The room erupted in applause—not spontaneous, but orchestrated. Regina’s PR team had seeded allies in the crowd, ensuring her words would echo across headlines by evening. And indeed, within hours, news outlets were buzzing with her statement. “Velasco Upholds Dignity Amid Marquez Scandal” blared one headline. “Regina Velasco, Fashion’s True Matriarch” said another.
Back in Elena’s suite, watching the coverage on a muted television screen, Daniel’s fists curled at his sides. “She’s gutting you alive,” he growled.
Elena sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, her expression carved from stone. The red dress, the practiced sorrow, the insinuations—Regina knew exactly where to strike, and she had struck deep.
“She’s not just attacking me,” Elena murmured, her voice low but steady. “She’s rewriting the story before I can tell it myself.”
Daniel dropped to his knees in front of her, gripping her hands. “Then we’ll tell it louder. Together. No spin, no lies—just the truth.”
But as Elena looked into his eyes, doubt clouded her resolve. She had fought rival designers before. She had faced gossip and envy. But this was different. This was a war for her very name.
And right now, Regina Velasco was winning.
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