It was the kind of place you could walk past a thousand times without noticing.
Ayesha Malik bent over her latest piece, a sari border she’d been embroidering for days in her family’s small shop.
Her grandmother had taught her the intricate stitches when she was just a child, her small hands struggling to follow the rhythm.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, yanking her from her thoughts.
“Ayesha, where are you?” Vivienne’s voice was clipped, even over the phone.
“The pitch meeting starts in fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.”
“I’m on my way,” Ayesha replied, slipping the half-finished border into her tote bag.
Little did she know that today would be the beginning of a battle she never expected.
A battle involving humiliation, betrayal and theft… and a final outcome that she couldn’t believe.
The Pitch
Ayesha stepped into the sleek, glass-paneled office of Vivienne Moore Couture, her heels clicking on the polished marble floors.
The firm’s headquarters in downtown Manhattan was a stark contrast to the coziness of her family’s shop.
Everything here was minimalist and pristine, a place where the colors of the city seemed to wash out into shades of white, grey, and black.
Her colleagues were already gathered in the meeting room, murmuring as they waited for the senior designers to arrive.
Ayesha slid into a chair at the back, cradling her portfolio. She could feel the subtle glances cast her way—curious, dismissive, tinged with that unspoken question that lingered in the air: What’s the small-town girl doing here?
A door swung open, and Vivienne Moore swept in, her presence commanding the room’s attention. Her blonde hair was perfectly styled, her power suit sharp and precise, just like the woman herself.
She barely glanced at Ayesha before starting the meeting.
“All right, everyone. As you know, the Spring Gala Collection is coming up, and we’re looking for fresh ideas. We want something that says luxury, elegance, but with a modern twist. Think about what will make people stop and take notice,” Vivienne announced, her smile poised like a weapon.
The room buzzed as designers presented their concepts—rich velvets, structured silhouettes, designs that blurred the line between art and fashion.
Ayesha waited, her hands gripping the edges of her portfolio.
Finally, her turn came.
She rose from her chair, laying out her sketches on the table. The room fell silent as she began her presentation, her voice steady despite the nerves that twisted in her gut.
Her designs were inspired by a blend of traditional South Asian embroidery and contemporary cuts—structured jackets with delicate gota patti work, silk evening gowns with sweeping, embroidered hemlines that echoed the intricate patterns of jaali windows from Rajasthan.
“These designs are about fusion,” Ayesha explained, “combining heritage with modernity, creating something new and fresh while paying respect to the art form’s roots.”
There was a pause, a beat too long, before Vivienne responded. “Interesting,” she said, her tone barely masking her disinterest.
“But I think it’s a bit… niche, don’t you? We’re trying to reach a broader audience. Luxury clients expect a certain look, and this feels a bit too… ethnic.”
The words hit Ayesha like a slap.
She swallowed hard, trying to keep her composure. “With respect, Vivienne, I believe that luxury is about telling a story, and these designs tell a story that many people haven’t heard yet. It’s about giving a voice to—”
“Thank you, Ayesha,” Vivienne interrupted, her smile turning brittle. “We’ll take your ideas under consideration.”
As Ayesha returned to her seat, she caught the smirks from some of her colleagues, the way they exchanged knowing glances.
It was a subtle humiliation, a quiet reminder of her place.
Ayesha clenched her fists under the table, refusing to let the heat rising to her face show.
But as the meeting continued, she noticed something else—Vivienne’s eyes lingered on her sketches a moment too long, a calculating look passing over her features.
Betrayal in Silk
Two weeks later, Ayesha’s heart thudded with anticipation as she walked into the office.
Today was the day the senior designers would unveil the chosen concepts for the Spring Gala Collection.
She’d spent every spare moment refining her designs, adding the finishing touches to her samples, dreaming about the chance to see her work on the runway.
But when Vivienne revealed the designs to the room, Ayesha felt the ground shift beneath her feet.
The collection was unveiled, a stunning display of gowns and suits—but many of them bore a striking resemblance to Ayesha’s original concepts. The intricate embroidery, the fusion of modern cuts with traditional patterns—elements of her vision were all there, yet altered just enough to make them look like someone else’s work.
Vivienne’s name was the one emblazoned on the designs, her voice the one speaking over the applause.
Ayesha felt a cold sweat break out along her spine.
She stared at the designs, struggling to keep her expression neutral as Vivienne explained their “inspiration”—how she had been inspired by “global influences” to create something “exotic yet refined.” Vivienne’s voice flowed smoothly, with the practiced ease of someone who knew exactly how to charm an audience.
Ayesha’s mind buzzed, a chaotic mix of anger and disbelief.
It wasn’t just that Vivienne had taken her designs; she had taken Ayesha’s voice, twisted it into something palatable for the firm’s elitist tastes, stripping away its soul and repackaging it for their high-end clientele.
After the meeting, Ayesha confronted Vivienne in the hallway, her voice barely more than a whisper, but fierce with hurt. “You stole my designs.”
Vivienne didn’t even flinch.
She tilted her head, giving Ayesha a look of cold condescension. “I improved them, Ayesha. That’s what we do in this industry—take inspiration and refine it for the market. You should consider it a compliment.”
Ayesha stared at her, feeling the weight of all the unspoken rules and hidden hierarchies that had governed her time at the firm.
Vivienne’s words burned, but Ayesha forced herself to nod, pretending to accept the slight, while the storm inside her grew fiercer. She knew that she couldn’t fight Vivienne directly, but she also knew that she wasn’t going to let this go unanswered.
As Vivienne turned her back and walked away, Ayesha’s gaze hardened, her mind already working through the possibilities.
She thought of her family’s shop, of the stories her grandmother had woven into her stitches, of the pride that pulsed in each thread.
If Vivienne thought she could erase that so easily, she was in for a rude awakening.
Ayesha’s revenge wouldn’t be loud or brash—it would be a quiet, painstaking undoing, each thread pulled with care until the whole stolen tapestry came unraveled.
Stitch by Stitch
Ayesha barely slept that night, her mind replaying Vivienne’s words over and over like a needle stuck on a record.
As the city outside her apartment slipped into sleep, she sat at her small dining table, surrounded by fabric swatches and sketches, each line and thread a reminder of the betrayal she had suffered.
She thought about confronting Vivienne again, about going to the firm’s CEO, but she knew how those conversations would end. They would paint her as emotional, unprofessional, unable to “handle the pressures of the industry.”
No, Ayesha knew she needed a different approach—something that wouldn’t just reclaim her designs, but expose Vivienne’s hypocrisy to everyone who had overlooked it for so long.
She opened her laptop and began typing, the plan taking shape with every keystroke.
Her first step was to reach out to Culture Unspun, a popular fashion blog that celebrated authenticity and cultural heritage. She had followed their work for years, admiring how they called out cultural appropriation and elevated the stories of artisans whose work often went uncredited in mainstream fashion.
Ayesha crafted an anonymous email, describing in detail how Vivienne had taken her designs and diluted their essence for the high-end market.
She attached photos of her original sketches alongside Vivienne’s reworked versions, emphasizing the small but significant alterations that Vivienne had made to pass them off as her own.
She hesitated before hitting send, her finger hovering over the trackpad. There was no turning back after this.
But as she thought of her grandmother’s hands guiding her through those first clumsy stitches, she knew what she had to do.
Ayesha clicked “Send” and exhaled, as if releasing all the pent-up frustration she had carried for months. Now, all she could do was wait.
Unraveling the Thread
The next morning, Ayesha walked into the office as if nothing had changed, but her heart raced with anticipation.
She kept her head down, working on mundane tasks, while a different kind of energy buzzed through her veins.
Every time she caught sight of Vivienne flitting through the hallways, a self-satisfied smile playing on her lips, Ayesha felt a grim satisfaction of her own.
The game was in motion.
Two days later, Culture Unspun published an exposé titled Luxury Fashion’s Dirty Secret: How Designers Borrow Without Acknowledgment.
The article was explosive. It detailed how large fashion houses often took inspiration from lesser-known artists, rebranding their ideas without credit.
But the piece’s highlight was a series of anonymous images—side-by-side comparisons of Ayesha’s original designs with Vivienne’s altered versions.
The article’s tone was sharp and unapologetic: “These designs, attributed to a senior designer at a prestigious firm, bear a suspicious resemblance to concepts originating from a junior designer’s private sketches. In an industry that prides itself on exclusivity and innovation, who gets to own a cultural story, and who is silenced?”
It didn’t take long for social media to catch fire.
Fashion influencers and cultural commentators jumped on the story, calling out the double standards that allowed such theft to flourish in the name of creativity.
The hashtag #StolenThreads began trending, gathering thousands of posts within hours.
Ayesha watched the chaos unfold from her desk, her expression carefully neutral as her colleagues whispered in hushed tones.
Vivienne’s office door remained shut all morning, and Ayesha could only imagine the frantic phone calls and emails flying back and forth.
She could almost hear Vivienne’s voice, attempting to smooth over the damage with her usual charm, but this time it wasn’t working.
By the end of the day, Ayesha received a curt message from Vivienne: “Come to my office. Now.”
The Confrontation
Vivienne’s office was a study in minimalism—white walls, glass surfaces, and a strategically placed orchid on her desk.
But today, the calm façade felt like a thin veneer over a volcano.
Vivienne sat behind her desk, her expression cold and tightly controlled, but Ayesha could see the tension in the way her perfectly manicured nails dug into the armrest of her chair.
“Sit down, Ayesha,” Vivienne said, her voice clipped. Ayesha remained standing, a small act of defiance, and Vivienne’s frown deepened.
“I know you had something to do with that article,” Vivienne hissed. “You’re lucky I haven’t told management about this yet. This could cost you your job, you realize that?”
Ayesha met her gaze evenly, feeling a calm she hadn’t expected. “You mean like how you almost cost me my career when you took my designs and passed them off as your own?”
Vivienne’s eyes flashed, but she forced a smile. “You’re delusional if you think anyone will believe some anonymous claims over the reputation I’ve built in this industry. You have no proof.”
Ayesha tilted her head slightly, her own smile faint. “It seems like a lot of people disagree with you. And it’s not just the article. Influential voices are calling you out—clients, bloggers, even a few of the junior designers here. They’re asking why your so-called ‘inspired’ work looks so much like mine.”
Vivienne’s mask slipped for just a moment, revealing a flash of fear. “What do you want, Ayesha? An apology? Fine, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you feel that way. But this isn’t a game you can win. So if you’re smart, you’ll drop this now, before it ruins both of us.”
Ayesha’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. “I’m not looking for an apology, Vivienne. I just want you to understand that some stories can’t be stolen. And as for who wins—let’s see how the runway decides that.”
She turned on her heel and walked out of Vivienne’s office, leaving the woman to stew in her own anger.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Ayesha allowed herself a small, triumphant exhale.
This was far from over, but she could feel the tide turning.
All she needed was one more push, and the rest would unravel on its own.
A Knot Unties Itself
By the time the Spring Gala arrived, the controversy surrounding Vivienne’s collection had reached a fever pitch.
Fashion insiders and critics speculated about whether the designs would even make it to the runway, given the backlash and the growing calls for transparency.
The whispers grew louder, feeding the media frenzy, and the firm’s senior leadership scrambled to manage the fallout.
But Ayesha had her own plans.
She reached out to a few of the up-and-coming influencers she had met through Culture Unspun, inviting them to the Gala as her personal guests.
She sent them previews of her original sketches, with permission to share them on their social media feeds during the event.
Ayesha made sure that the story of her designs would be visible to the right people when the time came.
On the night of the Gala, Ayesha arrived in a custom gown of her own making—a sleek, modern silhouette adorned with shimmering embroidery, each stitch telling a story of her heritage and her craft.
The gown was her armor, a way to remind herself that she belonged here, no matter what anyone else thought.
As the runway lights blazed to life and Vivienne’s collection came strutting down the catwalk, Ayesha watched from the sidelines, her heart pounding in time with the music.
For a moment, she felt a pang of regret—her designs, no matter how twisted, were still a piece of her, and seeing them paraded as someone else’s felt like a betrayal all over again.
But then, just as she had hoped, a flurry of phone screens lit up around her.
Influencers posted her sketches alongside shots of the runway, pointing out the unmistakable similarities. Comments flooded in: “How could they let this happen?” “#StolenThreads is real!” “The original deserves the credit.”
By the time the last model strutted offstage, it was clear that the narrative had slipped beyond Vivienne’s control.
What was supposed to be her crowning achievement had become a public relations nightmare, one that no amount of spin could fix.
And as the murmurs of discontent rippled through the audience, the firm’s CEO approached Ayesha with an urgent proposition.
“Miss Malik,” he said, his expression strained. “We… We need your help to salvage this. If you present your own designs—your original ones—perhaps we can save the evening.”
Ayesha allowed herself a moment to savor the irony, then nodded, setting the stage for her own collection to take the spotlight.
The Tables Turn
Ayesha stood backstage, surrounded by a whirlwind of stylists and assistants who worked feverishly to prepare her models for the runway.
The lights and sounds of the gala outside buzzed like a distant storm, but she remained calm, focused on the final adjustments.
Her heart beat in time with the hum of the crowd—there was no room for mistakes now.
She caught a glimpse of Vivienne pacing near the entrance, her expression taut and desperate. The older woman’s polished veneer had crumbled under the pressure, her earlier confidence now replaced with a barely contained panic.
Ayesha felt a flash of something—pity, perhaps—but quickly steeled herself. She couldn’t afford to let sentimentality distract her from what needed to be done.
The models assembled in Ayesha’s original designs took their positions, each piece more stunning than the last.
A floor-length gown with intricate silver filigree that shimmered like moonlight; a sleek pantsuit adorned with delicate beadwork, blending the rigidity of modern lines with the softness of traditional motifs; a cape that swept behind like a tapestry, its embroidered patterns telling stories of distant deserts and forgotten palaces.
Each piece was a defiant declaration, a reclaiming of the voice that had almost been stolen from her.
As the first model stepped onto the runway, the crowd’s murmurs grew louder, shifting from whispers of scandal to gasps of admiration.
The irony was not lost on anyone: the same designs that had been dismissed as “too ethnic” were now being celebrated as innovative and avant-garde.
Vivienne hovered near the edge of the stage, her hands clenching and unclenching as she watched her own moment unravel before her eyes. She tried to smile for the cameras, but her face was a mask of barely suppressed fury.
The firm’s CEO, standing beside her, kept glancing nervously between the audience and the runway, as if he could somehow salvage what remained of Vivienne’s reputation.
But it was too late.
As Ayesha’s models took their final walk, she felt the energy in the room shift. The applause swelled, loud and genuine, building into a standing ovation.
Ayesha stepped out onto the runway to join her models, her head held high.
She caught Vivienne’s eye for a brief moment, a wordless acknowledgment passing between them—one of defeat for Vivienne, and quiet, triumphant vindication for Ayesha.
The Curtain Falls
The days after the gala brought a whirlwind of press coverage, but the narrative was clear: Ayesha Malik had emerged as the unexpected star, the designer whose authenticity had saved the night.
Articles hailed her as a fresh voice in the industry, a bridge between tradition and modernity. But alongside the praise, there was another story—one of appropriation, of a senior designer brought low by her own arrogance and deceit.
Vivienne’s name became synonymous with controversy, a cautionary tale about the dangers of stealing from those you underestimate.
The fashion firm, desperate to protect its brand, put out a carefully worded statement distancing themselves from her, announcing that she would be taking a “leave of absence” to reflect on the values of integrity and respect.
Ayesha was promoted to lead a new line for the firm, one that focused on blending diverse cultural influences with contemporary styles. But she negotiated her own terms—more autonomy, more credit for her work, and a commitment to hire talent from underrepresented backgrounds.
For the first time in her career, she felt like she wasn’t just a name on the sidelines but a voice shaping the future of fashion.
On her first day in her new role, Ayesha returned to her office to find Vivienne waiting for her, looking pale and drawn. It was a different Vivienne than the one she had known—a woman who had been stripped of her illusions, and perhaps, a little of her pride.
“I just came to congratulate you,” Vivienne said, her voice stiff with the effort of forced civility. “You played the game well.”
Ayesha regarded her, her expression unreadable. “It wasn’t a game, Vivienne. It was about respect—something you never understood.”
Vivienne looked away, as if the words had struck her more deeply than she cared to admit.
The Final Thread
Months passed, and Ayesha’s life settled into a new rhythm—one filled with late nights at the studio, mentoring young designers, and overseeing the launch of her first solo collection.
The scandal surrounding Vivienne faded into the background, replaced by newer gossip and trends. But for Ayesha, the memory remained sharp, a reminder of how close she had come to losing her voice in a world that too often sought to silence people like her.
One rainy afternoon, Ayesha found herself back at Malik’s Fabrics, helping her mother reorganize the shelves. The shop smelled of fresh-cut cloth and nostalgia, the air thick with stories from a different time.
As she carefully folded a bolt of fabric, she noticed an old, framed photo sitting on the counter—one of her grandmother, needle in hand, her eyes bright with the joy of creation.
Ayesha traced the edge of the frame with her fingers, a smile tugging at her lips. “I did it, Nani,” she whispered softly, as if the woman in the photo could hear her through the years. “And I did it the right way.”
Her mother looked up, catching the tail end of her words. “Your Nani would be so proud, beta,” she said, her voice filled with quiet pride. “And so am I.”
Ayesha turned back to her work, the satisfaction settling in her chest like a warm, steady glow.
She knew that the fashion world was fickle, that trends shifted as easily as the wind.
But no matter what came next, she would carry with her the knowledge that she had won not through deception, but through the strength of her own story.