The Tycoon’s Only Mercy

New Designers

As Elara finished the last of the delicacies, her phone vibrated on the table. It was Stuart.

"How was the meal?" his voice came through, deep and resonant, with that underlying layer of silk and steel.

"It was perfect, Stuart. Thank you," Elara replied, leaning back against her dorm chair.

"Good. Mario mentioned something interesting," Stuart continued, his tone shifting into something more observant. "He said your room looked like a disaster zone. Specifically, that you were throwing away every piece of clothing you own. Care to explain?"

Elara looked at the bulging black trash bags by the door. "I’m having a closet change, Stuart. Those old clothes... they don't fit the woman I am anymore. I was planning to head to the shopping district later this afternoon."

There was a brief pause on the line, the sound of a pen tapping against a desk. "Don't bother with the shops. I’ll have my personal stylist contact you immediately. Give her your measurements and your preferences. She will curate a seasonal wardrobe for you."

Elara’s heart skipped. Stuart’s personal stylist worked with royalty and A-list celebrities. "Stuart, that’s too much. I can handle a simple shopping trip—"

"Are you refusing me because you’re still holding onto the hope that Xavier will buy you a cheap trinket? That bastard can’t even afford the air he breath" Stuart’s voice turned dangerously sharp, the coldness returning in an instant. "So,You’d rather wear rags from a common mall than accept something from your fiancé?"

The mention of Xavier was like a splash of ice water. Elara sighed, knowing there was no winning this argument. "Fine. I accept. I’ll wait for the call."

The call ended as abruptly as it began. True to his word, the stylist rang within minutes. Elara provided her measurements and described her preference—minimalist, elegant, and powerful. The stylist informed her that the first three hundred pieces, including shoes and accessories, would be ready for delivery in exactly three hours.

Elara looked around her cramped dorm room. She shared a singular, narrow wardrobe with Bianca and Jessica. There was absolutely no way three hours' worth of Stuart’s "extravagance" would fit here.

I can’t stay here tonight, she realized.

She needed her walk-in closet at the Moore Mansion—the one Alice had been slowly encroaching upon. She gave the stylist the mansion's address and began to pack her essentials.

As she walked out of the dorm building, a familiar Bugatti slowed to a crawl beside her. The window rolled down to reveal Alice, looking frustrated but trying to maintain her "sweet" facade for the students walking nearby.

"Sister! Are you going home?" Alice called out, leaning across the passenger seat. "Get in! We can go together. I was just thinking we should have a heart-to-heart about your behavior lately."

Elara didn't even break her stride. She looked at Alice with a bored, distant expression. "I’ve already booked a ride, Alice. I prefer to travel without the headache."

"Elara! Don't be difficult. People are watching!" Alice hissed, her voice dropping its sweetness.

"Then let them watch me leave," Elara replied as her ride-share pulled up. She stepped into the car without a second glance at her fuming "sister."

Elara arrived at the Moore mansion twenty minutes before the deadline. She didn’t waste a second, heading straight to her suite to freshen up. She stepped out of a quick shower, dressed in a simple silk robe, and descended to the living room. She sat on the velvet sofa with her legs crossed, a cup of Earl Grey in her hand, looking every bit like a queen waiting for her court.

The silence of the house was shattered by the synchronized roar of three heavy engines.

A fleet of sleek, silver delivery trucks emblazoned with a minimalist "GM" logo pulled into the driveway. From the lead vehicle stepped Genevieve Morgan, a woman whose name was whispered with reverence in the fashion capitals of the world. She didn't just dress celebrities; she dictated who was relevant.

Following her was a disciplined phalanx of twelve staff members, all dressed in black, carrying high-tech garment racks and velvet-lined trunks.

Clarissa, Mateo, and Alice hurried into the foyer, their eyes bulging at the sight.

"Genevieve Morgan?" Clarissa gasped, her voice trembling with a mix of awe and terror. "What... what is the meaning of this? Did you come to see Alice?"

Genevieve didn't even turn her head. She walked straight to Elara, bowing slightly. "Miss Moore, Mr. Yates has requested that I overhaul your wardrobe immediately. We have the first installment: three hundred pieces of seasonal haute couture, eighty pairs of custom-made heels, and a curated selection of Birkins and rare diamonds. Where shall we begin?"

"My walk-in closet," Elara said, setting her teacup down with a soft clink. "Follow me."

The spectacle was dizzying. Staffers marched past the frozen trio, carrying garment bags from Chanel, Dior, and Schiaparelli. Trunks were popped open to reveal glinting gold, silver, and rare colored diamonds that seemed to catch the light and set the room on fire.

Alice felt like she was being suffocated. She watched as a pair of limited-edition crocodile-skin boots—the very ones she had begged Clarissa for months to buy—were carried past her toward Elara’s room.

"That’s... those are mine!" Alice shrieked, her voice cracking. "That’s my closet! Elara, stop them! You don't even like fashion! You’re just doing this to spite me!"

Elara paused at the top of the stairs, looking down at Alice with a gaze so cold it could have frozen the champagne in the cellar. "Actually, Alice, the walk-in closet was built for the heiress of the Moore family. You’ve just been 'borrowing' the space while I was busy. Genevieve?"

"Yes, Miss Moore?"

"My sister has quite a few things occupying my shelves. Please have your staff clear them out. Anything that isn't mine can be placed... in the hallway. Or the trash. I really don't care which."

"Understood," Genevieve replied smoothly.

The next hour was a symphony of destruction for Alice. She stood in the hallway, screaming as her "precious" designer bags and dresses were unceremoniously piled onto the floor outside the door. One by one, they were replaced by items so luxurious that Alice’s collection looked like high-street rags in comparison.

Alice tried to lung forward, but Mateo caught her arm, his face pale as he watched the sheer volume of wealth entering Elara’s room. He knew what this meant—Stuart wasn't just engaged to Elara; he was marking his territory with millions of dollars in assets.

"Let me go!" Alice wailed, tears of pure envy streaming down her face. "She's throwing my things away! Mother, do something!"

Clarissa grabbed Alice’s other shoulder, pulling her back into the shadows of the corridor. Her own heart was racing. She saw the way the stylists treated Elara—with a level of respect they had never shown Clarissa.

"Shh! Be quiet, Alice!" Clarissa hissed, her voice a low, frantic whisper. "Do you want Genevieve to tell Stuart you’re making a scene? If he hears you’re interfering, he’ll cut us off before we can touch the dowry!"

"I don't care! I want those diamonds!"

"Listen to me!" Clarissa squeezed Alice’s arm until the girl winced. "Let her have her clothes. Let her play Queen for a night. The more she accepts from Stuart, the more she belongs to him—and the more we can take when we finally get rid of her. For now, we smile. We wait. Do you understand?"

Alice sobbed, her eyes fixed on a diamond-encrusted timepiece being carried into Elara’s room. "I hate her. I hate her so much."

"I know, darling," Clarissa murmured, her eyes cold as she watched Elara through the doorway. "But the higher a Phoenix flies, the more spectacular the crash when its wings are clipped."

Inside the closet, Elara stood amidst the scent of new leather and expensive silk. She knew her "family" was lurking outside, whispering her demise. She looked at her reflection—no longer a clown, no longer a victim.

"Miss Moore?" Genevieve asked, holding up a gown of midnight blue. "Shall we prepare this for your dinner tonight? Mr Yates had requested I personally style you for a date"

"Yes," Elara said, her voice firm. "Tonight, I want everyone to know exactly who is in charge of this house."

The mansion’s grand staircase felt like a runway under Elara’s feet. She descended slowly, the silk of the midnight-blue gown flowing around her legs like dark water. It was a masterpiece of tailoring—modest yet dangerously elegant, with a back that dipped just low enough to show the graceful line of her spine.

Around her neck, the blue diamond from the gala caught the light, pulsing with a cold, electric fire. Her hair was swept up into a sophisticated twist, leaving her neck bare, and her feet were encased in black Louboutins with their signature red soles flashing like a warning.

In the foyer, the trio stood like gargoyles.

Alice’s face was a map of raw, agonizing envy. She had spent the last hour trying to fix her own makeup, but standing next to the transformed Elara, she felt like a common candle flickering beside a star.

"You're actually going out?" Alice’s voice was high and brittle. "In that? Don't you think it's a bit much for a simple dinner?"

Elara stopped on the final step, looking down at Alice. "When you're dining with the Nation's Idol, Alice, there is no such thing as 'too much.' But I wouldn't expect you to understand the etiquette of his inner circle."

Mateo stepped forward, his eyes traveling greedily over the jewelry. "Elara, as your uncle, I must say—"

"You must say 'goodnight,' Mateo," Elara interrupted, her voice like a velvet blade.

At that moment, the heavy front doors were opened by the house staff. A chauffeur in a crisp black uniform stood there, his cap tucked under his arm. Behind him, a pristine Rolls-Royce Phantom sat idling in the driveway, its Spirit of Ecstasy ornament gleaming under the porch lights.

"Miss Moore," the chauffeur bowed. "Mr. Yates is waiting for you at the restaurant. He sends his regrets that he couldn't pick you up personally; he is currently closing a merger, but he has cleared his entire evening for you."

Elara nodded, casting one final, lingering look at Clarissa, who was standing back, her face a mask of fake pride that couldn't hide the twitch in her eye.

"Enjoy your dinner, Mother," Elara said softly. "I know I will."

Genevieve Morgan and her twelve staffers followed Elara out, their work complete. As the fleet of vehicles roared away, leaving the mansion in a sudden, ringing silence, the atmosphere inside the house snapped.

The moment the taillights vanished, Alice let out a guttural scream of frustration.

"I can't take it! I can't!" she shrieked, turning and sprinting up the stairs. "I'm going to rip those dresses to shreds! I'm going to take back my closet!"

Clarissa and Mateo were right behind her, fueled by a mixture of curiosity and a desperate need to reclaim some sense of control. They reached Elara’s suite, Alice grabbing the gilded handle and twisting it with all her might.

It didn't budge.

"It’s locked!" Alice yelled, throwing her shoulder against the wood. "Open it! Mateo, break the door!"

Mateo, grunting with effort, kicked near the lock, but the door didn't even rattle. It felt like kicking a wall of solid reinforced steel.

"What is this?" Mateo panted, looking at the door frame. "This isn't the old wood. When did she have this replaced?"

"The stylists," Clarissa whispered, her face pale. "When they were 'arranging' the closet... they weren't just hanging clothes. They were installing a security system."

Alice began to claw at the door, her nails screeching against the polished finish. "Break it! I want to see what’s inside! I want my bags back!"

They spent thirty minutes trying everything—credit cards in the latch, a heavy decorative vase used as a battering ram, even trying to unscrew the hinges. But the room was a fortress. The Yates security team had quietly turned Elara’s suite into a vault while the family had been downstairs gawking at the Birkins.

Finally, exhausted and humiliated, Alice sank to the floor, sobbing into her hands.

"She’s locked us out," Alice moaned. "In our own house, she’s locked us out."

Clarissa stood over her, looking at the impenetrable door with a growing sense of dread. For the first time, she realized that Elara wasn't just playing dress-up. She was building a wall—and Stuart Yates was the architect providing the stones.