WHO: Miray Aslan @mirayaslan
LOCATION: An upscale restaurant
Sitting at the table, Mia scrolled through emails while she waited for her guest to arrive. A bottle of a very expensive wine sat in the middle of the table, opened with two glasses untouched and waiting. Mia had of course gone to lengths to figure out which kind of wine the Crimson leader favored. Though she had always admired the leader before, she had been competent and strong in a world filled with incompetent men, Mia was unsure how she felt about the woman now. The weight of Mina's true father weighed heavy on her. Gabriel was her brother though no shared blood ran between them. She'd always care for him. And the years of him not knowing he had a daughter seemed so unjust to her. Though, tonight was not about her personal opinions of Miray, no matter where they now laid. Tonight was about her job. The papers of the trust sat in a leather bound folder to her right. Mia looked up as a hostess approached, Miray right behind. A professional smile found its home on her lips as she tucked her phone into her purse. "Miray. Thank you for joining me."
A heavy weight settled in Francesca’s chest as she sat through hair and makeup, the anticipation of the lingerie show pressing down on her. It felt like a rock, unmoving and suffocating. She considered just vanishing afterward, slipping away unnoticed. She didn’t have the strength to face the two people who’d let her down tonight—each in their own way, but equally painful. But she wouldn't leave Giada. It was her sister's big night, and disappearing would only add to the chaos. The makeup artist stepped back, offering a final flourish, and Francesca’s reflection in the mirror took her by surprise—stunning, almost unrecognizable. But the brief moment of peace shattered when her phone buzzed, the familiar text tone cutting through her like a knife. She glanced at the screen, her heart stopping as she read the message.
Francesca,
it seems that even the purest of souls have the darkest of sins. Will you betray one sister to protect another? You are tasked with stealing the fantasy bra, estimated to be worth millions, before its debut on the runway. Succeed and your secrets will be safe. Fail, and several will suffer from your actions.
-Giovanni Moretti
Francesca blinked, her stomach sinking as she read the message over and over, each time hoping it might change. But it didn’t. A wave of dread washed over her, and her panicked eyes darted to the makeup artist, who was watching her intently. “Are you alright?” the artist asked, concern lacing her voice. Francesca forced a smile, nodding stiffly, but inside, everything was unraveling. How did Giovanni know? She’d been so careful—so meticulous in covering her tracks. Her stomach twisted at the thought of what this would do to her sister. Both of them. Her vision blurred as she blinked rapidly, fighting the tears. Before she even realized it, her feet moved on their own, carrying her toward wardrobe. She had to get the bra. A few million was nothing compared to what her secret would unleash. If this got out... tonight would be ruined. She would be ruined.
Thankfully, no one seemed to notice Francesca as she moved through the bustling chaos of the dressing room. Surrounded by women in lingerie, she had a way of blending into the background, a talent she'd honed over the years. It was a superpower of sorts, and she usually used it for good. The stylist was busy running around, distracted with other tasks, so Francesca seized the opportunity. She quickly scanned one of the racks of clothes, her heart pounding as she searched for the item she needed. Just as she thought she might have a moment of peace, an aggressive tap on her shoulder snapped her back to reality. She turned around to see the angry stylist from earlier, her arms crossed, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"Who are you? What are you doing?" the stylist demanded, her voice sharp.
Francesca’s pulse spiked, but she didn’t hesitate. Her mouth twisted into a sheepish grin, but her mind was already working on a solution. She pulled out a card she didn’t use much—one she kept hidden for emergencies like this.
"You don’t know who I am?" she asked, her voice suddenly colder than she'd intended. "I’m Francesca D’Amiano. Giada D’Amiano’s sister. You know—the hostess of this event?" She crossed her arms, attempting to appear tougher than she felt, though she could tell panic was probably seeping through her expression. "I was told to come here to check on things," she added, her voice dropping to a warning tone, "and I’m sure Giada would love to know how one of her stylists is treating her sister." The word sister lingered in the air, each syllable heavy with accusation. The stylist’s face faltered, the color draining from her cheeks as the realization of her mistake hit her.
"I—I’m so sorry," the stylist stammered, flustered and apologetic. "I didn’t— I mean, I didn’t know. What can I do for you, Ms. D’Amiano?" Francesca's tough façade immediately faltered. The guilt washed over her as she saw the stylist flounder, clearly just trying to do her job.
"It’s okay," she said softly, her voice unexpectedly gentle. "I’m sorry. That was mean." She paused, swallowing the knot of discomfort in her throat. "Giada just wanted me to get the fantasy bra. She wanted to look at it one more time."
The stylist tilted her head, confusion clouding her face as she processed Francesca's sudden shift in demeanor. "We've already put it on the model. I double-checked everything, and there were no issues with the bra. Should I radio Ms. Giada to let her know?" Francesca’s eyes wandered over to Miray Aslan, who was wearing the fantasy bra. A cold chill gripped her chest, and a dizzying wave of panic hit so hard that she crumpled to the floor, barely catching herself on the stylist’s arm.
"Miss D'Amiano, are you alright?" The stylist’s voice wavered, part confusion, part concern. Francesca didn’t answer. Her vision blurred, and she let the stylist guide her to a nearby chair, though she barely felt her body moving. She didn't even notice the tears silently tracing down her cheeks as her mind raced. She felt empty. Numb. Her secret—the one she'd guarded for so long—was about to come crashing down. It would destroy everything. Her sisters would be heartbroken, confused, and full of questions. And the answers to those questions would dredge up memories she wanted to leave buried forever. Why was she like this? Why was she always at the center of every disaster? She was the common denominator in all her failures. I must be cursed, she thought. I’m the problem. Her thoughts spiraled, dragging her deeper into the pit of self-loathing.
A wave of movement in front of her snapped her out of it. "Miss D'Amiano?" a stagehand asked gently, their voice filled with concern. "We’re ready for you to line up, but..." They trailed off, taking in the state of her face. Francesca glanced up at a nearby mirror, and the sight of herself almost made her gasp. She looked like someone had taken every ounce of fight she had left and crushed it. Her makeup was smudged and running, her eyes bloodshot and red. She barely recognized herself.
"Let’s get makeup over here," the stagehand said quickly, clearly uncomfortable with the sight of her distress. "I'm sure they can fix you up." Francesca didn’t speak as they called for a makeup artist to return. She just sat there, feeling the tears stop as the makeup artist worked to fix the outward mess. But no matter how much they touched up her face, nothing could fix what was breaking inside. Her mind drifted, far away from the chaos, to a place where nothing could hurt her. She imagined a world where she didn’t have to face the growing terror inside her. But reality crashed back as the weight of what was coming hit her again. Hurt was coming. And she didn’t know if she could survive it.
WHO: Miray Aslan @mirayaslan
LOCATION: One of the balconies
Remi was busy, not that Reyna blamed him. The sight of one of his own switching sides to the enemy in such a bold and dramatic way was certainly the highlight of the night so far. But Reyna would be stupid if she thought that was the only surprise the night had to offer. The tension that had been present before now only was amplified. Something was going to happen. So while her date was busy, Reyna took advantage of one of the empty balconies to smoke. This waiting was hell. Reyna's methods had always been to be ahead of the heat, to go in, play her mark and get out before anyone got wise. She hated this waiting. So as she exhaled, she heard heels behind her and Reyna half thought sending whoever it was away. "I don't have any to bum, this was the last of the pack." She lied smoothly over her shoulder.
A gift sent from Devran Sahin to Miray Aslan. Enclosed is a letter:
Dear Miray Aslan,
I hope this message finds you well. Please accept this small gift from The Society as a gesture of our sincere wishes for your swift recovery. While I regret not being able to speak with you in person, your health is, of course, the top priority.
I thoroughly enjoyed my conversation with Kaan, and I'm confident he will pass along my best wishes—along with some exciting prospects for a potential collaboration between us.
While these flowers and chocolates may not be able to undo the recent events, I do hope they bring a smile to your face and brighten your day, just a little. After all, someone as remarkable as you deserves all the joy that life has to offer.
Wishing you a smooth and speedy recovery, Miray. I look forward to seeing your beautiful smile in person soon.
Warmest regards,
Devran Sahin
The Society
