Chapter 6:Fire without Mercy

VIVIAN POV

Zero dollars. Zero access.

The screen of the cheap prepaid phone glowed against my trembling palm like a cruel joke. I stood in the shadow of the ninth-floor hallway, the silence swallowing me whole. My accounts were frozen. My home was locked. They weren't just taking my career; they were erasing my right to exist in this city.

A sharp, authoritative clap echoed from the main atrium, shattering the dead quiet.

"Attention, everyone! Clear the main floor!"

It was the voice of Mr. Kelvin.

I moved on instinct, stepping out from the alcove toward the glass mezzanine railing that overlooked the open floor of the design department below. Down on the main floor, dozens of seamstresses, associate designers, pattern makers, and interns had gathered into an anxious, murmuring crowd. These were the people I had worked alongside for five years. The women who had shared lukewarm coffee with me at dawn, the men who had helped me carry heavy bolts of fabric up the service stairs when the freight elevator broke down.

In the center of the crowd stood Director Raymond, flanked by Mr. Kelvin, Zara, and two armed security guards.

"I am going to make this quick," Raymond announced, his booming voice echoing off the high glass ceiling of the atrium. "As you all know, the House of Raymond demands absolute integrity, unyielding loyalty, and flawless artistry. Unfortunately, an incident has occurred today that threatens the very core of our values."

My throat closed up. I gripped the cold brass railing of the balcony, my knuckles turning white.

"Vivian Vance," Raymond said, shouting my name into the crowded floor like an indictment. "Has been caught red-handed attempting to steal and pass off the work of our newly appointed Lead Designer, Zara Chen."

A collective, sharp gasp rippled through the crowd below. Heads snapped up toward the upper balconies, searching for me. I saw Maria, the senior presser, cover her mouth in shock. I saw young Timmy, an intern I had mentored for six months, look up with wide, horrified eyes.

"No..." I rasped under my breath, my hands shaking against the rail. "No, please don't do this..."

"Not only did Miss Vance attempt to claim Miss Chen’s brilliance as her own," Raymond continued, his face a mask of righteous corporate fury, "but when confronted with absolute proof of her fraud, she resorted to wild slander, verbal attacks, and physical threats against executive leadership."

Zara stood gracefully beside him, her head bowed in a pose of quiet, heartbreaking dignity, playing the victim so flawlessly that even I almost admired the performance. She wiped a stray, invisible tear from her eye, leaning slightly into Mr. Kelvin as if the sheer weight of my "betrayal" was too much for her fragile soul to bear.

"We gave Miss Vance every opportunity to confess and step down gracefully," Raymond’s voice cut through the cavernous space like a blade. "Instead, she showed us her true colors: professional incompetence, malicious jealousy, and a profound lack of ethics. Therefore, effective immediately, Vivian Vance is fired from the House of Raymond."

He paused, letting the word ring through the air, heavy and absolute.

"She is permanently banned from these premises," Raymond shouted, his eyes sweeping across the sea of shocked faces below. "And if any employee in this building is caught assisting her, speaking to her, or giving her aid of any kind, you will be terminated on the spot and sued alongside her. The House of Raymond will not harbor thieves."

I couldn't stand there anymore. My legs moved before my brain could process the command. I tore away from the balcony, sprinting toward the grand central staircase, down the steps into the main atrium.

"Director Raymond!" I screamed, my voice echoing across the open room, raw, cracked, and desperate.

The entire crowd spun around. Dozens of eyes fixed on me as I stumbled off the bottom step, my soaked flats slipping slightly on the polished marble. I looked disheveled, wild, my eyes bloodshot, my coat dripping wet onto the pristine floor—a stark, pathetic contrast to Zara’s tailored elegance and Raymond’s sharp tuxedo.

"You didn't look at the fabric!" I begged, taking three frantic steps toward Raymond before the two security guards intercepted me, slamming their heavy hands onto my shoulders to hold me back. "Look at the fabric, Raymond! Look at the blind hem on the inside of the flagship gown! Check the seam allowance! Zara doesn't even know how to set a sleeve! Ask her to draft a dart on a mannequin right now! Ask her!"

The crowd went dead silent. You could hear the hum of the air conditioners. A few associate designers glanced nervously at each other, knowing as well as I did that Zara’s technical skills were notoriously weak.

Raymond didn't even look toward the flagship dress. He stared at me with pure, unadulterated disgust, as if a gutter rat had just scurried across his expensive leather shoes.

"Your incompetence speaks for itself, Vivian," Raymond said, his tone icy and measured. "You were an associate for five years because you lacked the vision to create. And now you resort to pathetic theatrics to cover up your mediocrity."

"She stole it!" I sobbed, the tears finally burning past my pride, washing hot down my cheeks. "Maria, tell him! You saw me dying that ivory silk on Tuesday night! You saw me in Studio 4B!"

I looked desperately at Maria, the elderly presser standing in the front row. Maria’s eyes welled with tears, her mouth trembling, but she quickly looked down at her shoes, clutching her apron tight, terrified for her job, her family, her livelihood.

Not a single person stepped forward. Not a single voice spoke up. The silence was absolute, a wall of cold, terrifying indifference that crushed the last remaining piece of my heart into dust.

"Get her out of my sight," Raymond commanded the guards.

The two heavy men dragged me backward toward the revolving glass doors. I thrashed against them, my heels dragging, my heart tearing out of my chest as I watched Zara step toward Raymond, taking the podium, receiving the applause that was meant for me, stepping into the spotlight built on my blood and bone.

"You won't get away with this!" I shrieked, my voice cracking into a desperate ragged echo as the glass doors pushed open, shoving me out into the freezing city air. "Zara! Leo! You won't get away with this!"

The security guards threw me onto the hard, wet concrete of the front plaza. My knees slammed into the stone, a sharp, white-hot pain shooting up my leg, tearing my stockings and drawing blood. My hand hit the wet ground, my fingers splaying into a freezing puddle.

Thud.

Behind me, my personal belongings—the few cheap items from my desk that they bothered to clean out—were dumped into a cardboard box and tossed onto the pavement beside me. A handful of stray design pencils rolled across the wet stone, their tips snapping off against the curb.

The heavy glass doors locked with a resounding, metallic click.

I sat on the freezing plaza stone in the pouring rain, soaked, bloody, bleeding, surrounded by broken pencils and a cardboard box. The towering skyscraper of the House of Raymond reflected the dark storm clouds above, a fortress of cold glass and steel that had devoured five years of my life and spat out my shattered body.

My phone vibrated violently in my coat pocket.

I pulled it out with stiff, bleeding fingers. It was an automated push notification from the city’s corporate registry board:

NOTICE OF FORMAL DEBARMENT: Vivian Vance has been blacklisted from the National Fashion Guild under Section 4-B (Fraud and Theft). Status: Active & Irrevocable.

Before I could even absorb the terrifying reality of the notification, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb right in front of me, its tinted window slowly rolling down.

Inside sat Mr. Kelvin, his eyes cold, his face illuminated by the dim glow of his tablet screen.

"You have two hours to clear your personal items from your apartment before the court bailiffs seize the unit, Miss Vance," Kelvin said, his voice smooth and utterly devoid of pity. "And if you are seen within five hundred feet of this building again... the police will not be so gentle."

The window rolled back up, and the black car pulled away, leaving me entirely alone in the freezing rain.