Chapter 157: Fake vs Original
Then his jaw tightened. The comments. The images. The accusations. They spoke for themselves.
Amara was already sitting up straighter now, the softness of rest evaporating from her posture as it had never been there to begin with.
"I need to go to the company," she said, her voice steady, but too steady. Julian didn’t argue. He didn’t hesitate.
"Alright," he replied immediately, already turning toward the door. "Go get ready. I’ll have the car brought around, and I’ll get them to pack your breakfast. You can eat on the way."
Supportive. Efficient. Exactly what she needed. But not enough to slow what was already rising inside her. Before she could stand, her phone rang again. Janet. Amara answered instantly. She didn’t wait. Didn’t greet. Didn’t ask.
"Get everyone into the conference room," she said, already swinging her legs off the bed. Her voice carried authority so sharp it left no room for panic on the other end. "Now."
A pause. Then. "I’m on my way." She ended the call. No hesitation. No second thought.
—
By the time they arrived, the building already felt different. Tighter. Heavier. Like it had been holding its breath for her return.
Amara stepped out of the car before it had fully settled, her pace unbroken as she walked straight through the entrance. Staff turned as she passed, relief flashing across their faces, quickly mixed with something else.
Expectation. Hope. Fear.
Beside her, Julian matched her stride effortlessly, his expression composed, unreadable. Where Amara burned, he steadied.
Together, they didn’t just walk in. They took control of the space without saying a word. The conference room doors opened.
And silence fell. Every seat was filled. Every eye turned. Waiting. Watching. Measuring. Amara stepped inside. She didn’t look like someone who had been resting.
There was no softness left in her features, no trace of the woman who had been lying in bed just an hour ago. Her eyes were sharp, too sharp, cutting through the room as if searching for something... or someone. Adrenaline. Anger. And beneath it. Something deeper. Something colder. Betrayal.
Julian moved in beside her, his presence quiet but commanding, his face set into a mask of cold professionalism. The door closed behind them with a soft, final click.
No one spoke. Because whatever was about to happen next. Would decide everything. The room felt smaller than it was. Not physically. But in the way the air seemed to thin with every passing second, as if the walls themselves were closing in on the truth no one wanted to face.
No one shifted. No one whispered. All attention was pulled, trapped, by the glow of the projector screen.
There, larger than life, a popular fashion influencer smiled into the camera, effortless and convincing. In her hands, she held two blazers, identical at first glance. Same cut. Same color. Same presence.
But her voice... her voice decided their fate. "Look at the stitching on the ’Ara’ original," she said, lifting Amara’s design slightly higher, turning it just enough for the camera to catch the details.
A pause. "It’s stiff." The word landed harder than it should have. Then she raised the second blazer, the imitation. "But this one? It feels like silk... and it costs a quarter of the price."
A soft laugh. Light. Dismissive. Deadly. "Ara has been overcharging us with inferior fabric. I’m done." The clip replayed.
Again. And again. As if the system itself didn’t know how to stop the damage.
"Theirs are rather fake! I can’t believe this!" Janet’s voice shattered the silence.
Her pen struck the table with a sharp crack, the sound echoing louder than it should have in the suffocating room.
"They are literally swapping the labels in people’s minds!" she continued, her breath uneven, her hands trembling as she pushed back from the table slightly. "They’re calling our quality ’fake’ and the trash ’original’!"
Her words hung in the air, raw, desperate, furious. But they didn’t change what everyone was seeing. At the head of the table, Amara didn’t move. She didn’t raise her voice.
Didn’t interrupt. Didn’t defend. She just watched. Still. Silent. Her shadow stretched long behind her, cast by the harsh projector light, tall, unmoving, almost... imposing. To anyone else, it might have looked like control.
But those who knew her well would have noticed. She wasn’t just watching the video. She was studying it. Dissecting it. Breaking it apart piece by piece.
"This isn’t a coincidence, Janet." Her voice cut through the tension quietly. Too quietly. And that was what made it worse. Every head turned toward her.
"This isn’t just a copycat." She stepped forward, just once, her gaze never leaving the screen as it looped yet again.
"Someone has our specific patterns." A beat. "Our supply list." Another. "And our upcoming release schedule."
Now she looked at them. Not at the room. At the people. Each one. One by one.
"Someone is behind this." The words were precise. Measured. Intentional. "Specifically targeting us."
A flicker passed through her eyes, cold, calculating. "Not just to make us lose money..." Her voice dropped, just slightly. "...but to make sure we lose our reputation."
That was the moment it broke. The room erupted. Chairs scraped. Voices rose. Questions collided into panic. "Then what do we do?"
One of the designers spoke, her voice fragile, barely holding together as she clutched the edge of the table.
"The new collection is sitting in the warehouse," she continued, words tumbling over themselves now. "Thousands of units, boxed, labeled, ready to ship, and the cancellation emails..." Her voice cracked.
"They’re coming in every five seconds." As if on cue, a phone buzzed. Then another. Then another. A chain reaction of dread.
The sound filled the room, not loud, but constant. Relentless. Amara didn’t react immediately. She didn’t look at the phones. Didn’t acknowledge the panic.
Instead, her gaze drifted, slowly, deliberately, back to the screen. To the influencer. To the blazer. To the lie being sold as truth. And for the first time since she walked in. Her expression changed. Not into fear. Not into anger. But into something far more dangerous. Understanding. Because this wasn’t chaos.
This was a message. Carefully crafted. Perfectly timed. And meant for her. Her fingers curled slightly at her side. Then stilled. When she finally spoke again, her voice was no longer just calm
It was certain. "Shut down all outgoing shipments." The room froze. Every sound cut off mid-breath. Because that. That was not the answer anyone expected.
Not when they were already bleeding. Not when stopping meant losing even more. But Amara didn’t explain. Not yet.
Her eyes remained fixed ahead, her mind already moving several steps beyond the panic filling the room. Because somewhere. Behind the screens, behind the lies, behind the perfectly executed attack. Someone was waiting to see how she would respond.
And she had just made her first move. Now... They would have to decide theirs.