The Diamonds design floor was a controlled storm of texture, light, and movement. Rolls of fabric lined the walls like royal scrolls—metallic satins, featherweight organzas, Italian jacquards in moody, seductive hues. Mannequins stood at attention, half-dressed in unfinished concepts, their forms frozen mid-creation.
At the center of it all was Tiana Kings.
She wore black—tailored, sculptural, unflinching. A pencil skirt, a silk blouse with structured shoulders, and heels that clicked like punctuation marks as she moved through the room.
Emily Lane followed three steps behind, iPad in hand, fingers poised to type.
"Sample one—'Noir Whisper,'" said the design coordinator, unrolling a bolt of jet-black silk charmeuse from Milan. It caught the light like liquid shadow.
Tiana stepped forward, brushing the fabric with the back of her hand.
"It's limp," she said flatly.
The coordinator blinked. "It's charmeuse—it's meant to drape softly."
"I said limp," Tiana repeated. "This is for confident women not weaklings."
Emily's fingers flew across the screen. Sample one: rejected. Replace with structured satin blend. Needs weight.
The coordinator nodded, rolling it back hurriedly.
"Next."
Sample two was better—a crimson velvet with a firelit shimmer under studio lights.
Tiana studied it in silence, then gave a short nod. "Use for the lead look. Waist-sculpting design. Cap sleeves. Back slit."
Emily typed: Sample two: approved for lead look. Velvet dress. Cap sleeves. Sculpted waist. Strategic slit, back-center.
"And underline this," Tiana added without turning. "The collection is called GIRLS because it's for women who remember what it's like to be dismissed. Who've been told to smile more. Who've been called 'girl' in boardrooms, elevators, and bedrooms."
Emily's eyes lifted briefly. She didn't need to ask where the inspiration had come from.
"Every piece," Tiana continued, "should walk like a statement and wear like armor."
The next sample was a pale blush organza embroidered with tiny silver moons. Delicate. Dreamy.
Tiana's eyes narrowed.
"This isn't Girls. This is ballet."
Emily: Sample three: reject. Too ethereal. Not grounded. No softness without strength.
They moved to the next table, where a half-draped mannequin wore a corset top in champagne leather and sheer panels.
Tiana stopped.
Her head tilted. She circled the figure slowly.
Then: "This one's close."
She reached out, adjusting the shoulder strap with careful precision. Her fingers lingered.
"She wears this when she's not trying to impress him anymore," she said softly. "She wears this when she realizes she's the one who leaves now."
Emily stilled.
Tiana blinked once, then stepped back, the spell broken. "Add metallic detailing to the bustline. A hint of edge. I want it to say, 'Yes, I'm dangerous. And no, you don't get to touch.'"
Emily nodded, voice quiet. "Noted."
A brief silence fell between them, rare and fragile.
Emily finally broke it. "T... can I ask you something?"
Tiana didn't look up. "You're going to anyway."
Emily smiled slightly. "Why this collection? You've done sensual. You've done powerful. But this—this feels personal."
Tiana paused.
Then turned, gaze piercing.
"Because I'm tired of women being trained to earn power like it's a gift," she said. "We were born with it. We just weren't told."
Emily nodded slowly, writing down the quote before it disappeared.
Tiana walked to the wall of sketches, studying one that showed a wide-legged pantsuit with a sheer bodice and matte-lacquered seams. A sharp contrast between softness and severity. Feminine and fierce.
Her voice, when she spoke again, was quieter.
"When I was 22, I interned for a brand run by three men. I pitched a campaign on body-inclusive fashion and was told, 'It's not aspirational enough. Men don't want to see thighs on billboards.'"
Emily frowned. "That's disgusting."
Tiana's lip curled faintly. "I promised myself that day that I would build a house so big they'd never be able to lock me out of the door again."
She turned, her energy snapping back like a rubber band.
"That's what GIRLS is. Not pretty clothes. Not soft silhouettes. It's a declaration. A rebranding of the word they used to keep us small."
The coordinator returned with another sample—this one a silvery graphite mesh interwoven with reflective thread.
Tiana's eyes lit slightly.
"This," she said, fingers brushing it. "This feels like evolution."
Emily was already typing: Sample five: front-runner. Possible closing look. Sculpted jacket over bodysuit. Implied nudity, no apology.
They worked through the rest of the table, Tiana adjusting designs, rejecting weak lines, redefining silhouettes with precision that bordered on obsessive.
By the time they reached the final sketch, Emily's notes had grown into a live blueprint of the collection. GIRLS was taking shape, piece by deliberate piece.
Tiana stood at the center of it all, arms crossed, gaze fierce.
"There will be backlash," she said. "They'll say it's too provocative. Too hard. Too confident."
Emily shrugged. "Good. Means we're doing it right."
For the first time that day, Tiana smiled.
It didn't last long—but it was real.
"Schedule fittings with the models by Thursday," she said briskly, walking toward the elevator. "And have the PR team prep our reveal strategy. Minimal teaser images. Just shadow, shape, and soundbites. Mystery sells."
Emily followed, typing as she walked. "And Dylan?"
Tiana paused just long enough to be noticed.
"What about him?"
"He's taking you to the private fitting next week," Emily said lightly. "Should I keep the car longer? Or... not?"
Tiana's lips parted—then closed.
She didn't answer.
The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped inside.
"Just make sure he knows the address," she said, voice flat. "That's all that matters."
But as the doors closed, Emily caught the faintest flicker in her eyes.
Not weakness.
But awareness.
And maybe—just maybe—a crack in the ice.