The applause of the press conference had barely faded when the first headline hit.
It wasn’t Elena’s words that blazed across the screens of phones and tablets, but Regina’s face—immaculate, serene, triumphant. A livestream banner unfurled across every major fashion network:
“Velasco Speaks Out: The Truth Behind Elena de la Cruz’s Lies.”
Within hours, Regina had summoned her own press conference—no sterile ballroom, but a glittering stage in the heart of her flagship store. Velvet curtains, crystal chandeliers, rows of cameras. She stood center stage, a vision in ivory silk, every inch calculated perfection. Where Elena had chosen austerity, Regina chose theater.
“My dear friends,” Regina began, her tone velvet-wrapped steel, “I am saddened to see our beloved industry dragged into the mud by bitterness and betrayal.” She smiled faintly, as though indulging a misbehaving child. “Elena de la Cruz, whom I once mentored, has decided to spin wild tales. It breaks my heart—but I cannot let these fabrications go unanswered.”
She gestured, and the screens behind her lit up. Contracts flashed across them—carefully selected, redacted, framed to appear legitimate. Testimonials rolled in from polished executives, loyal allies, even a designer Elena once dismissed for plagiarism—each denouncing her as unstable, opportunistic, desperate.
“She would have you believe she is a crusader,” Regina purred, eyes narrowing, “but the truth is simpler: Elena has always sought to step into a spotlight she did not earn. And now, she lashes out because she knows she cannot compete.”
The crowd of journalists ate it up—some with skepticism, but many with nods, pens flying. Cameras lingered on Regina’s poised smile, her cultivated grace.
And then came the knife.
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A recording played. Elena’s voice, sharp, mid-argument. Edited, spliced—made to sound ruthless, calculating, almost cruel.
“She speaks of saving fashion,” Regina said softly, “but here is the true Elena de la Cruz: a woman who will say and do anything to destroy her rivals. Even those she once called friends.”
Gasps filled the room. The clip looped, over and over. Elena’s words, stripped of context, weaponized.
By the time the feed ended, social media had already ignited.
#LiarElena trended.
#StandWithRegina surged.
Memes spread faster than truth ever could—her face frozen mid-breath, her words twisted into slogans.
In her apartment, Elena sat motionless, the glow of her phone painting her face in cold blue light. The headlines stabbed deeper than any blade. Daniel reached for her hand, but she pulled it back, trembling.
“They’ll believe her,” Elena whispered, her voice hoarse. “She’s turning everything I said against me.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened, fury in his eyes. “Then we hit back. Harder. We make them see.”
But even as he spoke, Elena felt the weight pressing in—the tidal wave of Regina’s counterstrike crashing down.
She had lit the fire. Regina had answered with an inferno.
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