𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨́𝐧 𝐈𝐯𝐲

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐏𝐨𝐯
Ivy stepped out of her sleek, custom-wrapped Aston Martin, her Louboutin heels clicked purposefully against the concrete. She adjusted her Chanel flap bag, slinging it higher onto her shoulder. With a hint of weariness in her posture, she made her way towards her warehouse. Tomorrow was the day when the final touches would be added to her highly anticipated clothing collection, which was set to grace the cover of Vogue and be showcased by top models in the industry.

Being a fashion designer was exhausting, yet Ivy was grateful for the opportunity to live out her childhood dreams. If you had told a young, eight-year-old Ivy Monroè that she would one day design clothing for Vogue Magazine, she would have gazed at you in sheer disbelief, as if you had sprouted a trio of heads.

Exhaling deeply, Ivy knew that crossing the walls of the warehouse meant diving into relentless work for an indefinite stretch. Clutching her coffee cup that she depended on to keep her awake, for dear life, she reached out to push open the double doors. She stepped into the bustling warehouse, alive with the flurry of models being fitted, assistants scurrying with PR packages, all in preparation for the launch of her new line.

As Ivy raised her hand to her ear, she switched on her hearing aid, making the sounds of the lively warehouse clearer to her. She could now hear everything more distinctly, especially since her better ear was a bit muffled. Her vision was clear, but slightly shaded by the dark lenses of her coordinating sunglasses.

"Ms. Ivy! I'm so glad you're here. The last piece of the new designed fabric ripped, and we're still waiting for the fittings and the trucks to deliver the new ones. We don't have enough time to wait for them to arrive," exclaimed Chris, Ivy's assistant, sounding quite panicked as he jogged toward Ivy.

Ivy's brows knit together, her fingers deftly tucking the sleek, raw-sewn bundles of jet-black hair behind her ear as it began to nag at her, much like the troubling update she was processing. "You can't be serious? Is it the whole strip or just the layer on the model? Show me," Ivy commanded, prompting Chris to lead the way to the fitting suite tucked within the warehouse.

"Luckily, it's only the section on one of the models, but unfortunately, we don't have any extra fabric to replace it," Chris explained, as they strolled down the lengthy hallway, Ivy's sharp heels echoing against the cool, marble floors.

Ivy chose to remain silent, her blood boiling as her eyes twitched behind her sunglasses. As she finally entered the room, a sudden hush fell upon it, as if acknowledging her commanding presence. It was clear to everyone that Ivy was there for one purpose only - to get things done quickly and efficiently. With a stoic expression on her face, the fitters instinctively stepped aside, allowing Ivy to assume control and take charge of the situation.

Sliding her sunglasses off with a swift motion, Ivy approached the model, Bella,. She grabbed the black shears, snipping away the loose thread with a gentle hand. "Grab the needle and thread, and the scrapped white fabric from the autumn collection," Ivy said, her directive sending a ripple of confusion through the assistants and workers, exchanging glances, puzzled by her request.