The Iridescent Snare
1280 Words
**Chapter 3 – The Iridescent Snare**
***FLASHBACK***
The morning inside *Roland Wyatt’s Design Studio* began as it always did — quiet, efficient, and imbued with the faint, unmistakable scent of high fashion. The air carried the mingled fragrances of freshly brewed coffee, starch from pressed linens, and the subtle sweetness of fabric dyes lingering from the cutting room.
The glass-paneled walls allowed in a pale stream of daylight, which glinted off polished marble floors and danced across rows of mannequins. Each mannequin wore the creative pride of an aspiring designer — dresses stitched with ambition, desperation, and hope. This was no ordinary display. These were the shortlisted works of designers competing for a place in *Roland Fashion World’s* most elite team.
Roland Wyatt stood at the entrance, perfectly tailored in a dark charcoal suit that spoke of both wealth and precision. His posture was relaxed but commanding, his presence impossible to ignore. Every subtle movement — the deliberate way his hand rested in his pocket, the measured pace of his steps — carried the assurance of a man who ruled not just his company, but his environment.
His secretary, Miranda, a petite woman with a reputation for efficiency and a knack for anticipating Roland’s needs before he spoke, approached him briskly. She balanced a slim folder in one hand and her ever-present tablet in the other.
“Good morning, sir,” she said, her tone clipped and professional. “Here are the profiles of the shortlisted interviewees, along with the images and details of their submitted designs.”
Roland accepted the folder without looking at her, flipping through the first few pages with the same level of emotional investment one might give to reading the day’s weather report. His polished shoes tapped softly against the marble as he began moving along the line of displayed dresses.
Each dress received a sharp, evaluating glance — no more, no less. The fabric choices, stitch precision, and silhouette designs all registered in his mind within seconds. He could tell instantly whether a dress had merit or whether it was born from mediocrity.
Most were… acceptable. Some were uninspired imitations of existing trends. None yet had stirred the part of him that recognized true artistry.
Until his gaze caught something in the far-left row.
It wasn’t ostentatious. It wasn’t begging for attention. And yet… it commanded it.
Roland’s steps slowed, his sharp gaze narrowing on the garment.
The dress was crafted from an iridescent fabric so delicate and luminous that it seemed to breathe with light. The colors shifted with each subtle movement — a violet that deepened to royal purple before melting into sapphire, then warming into a shade of magenta that evoked the final blush of a setting sun. The effect was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic.
He stepped closer, noting the precision in every seam. The skirt flowed in soft, fluid folds — the kind that moved like water, catching the light in a dance of reflections. The bodice was structured yet understated, holding a quiet dignity. No unnecessary embellishments, no desperate sparkle or gimmickry.
This was design without arrogance. Confidence, but not vanity.
It was rare. And it was perfect.
“Who made this?” Roland’s voice was calm, but there was a subtle current beneath it — a ripple of genuine curiosity.
Miranda glanced at her tablet, fingers tapping quickly. “One Miss Blair Rodrigo, sir.”
Roland’s brow furrowed slightly at the name. Something tugged at his memory — a flash of dark hair, sharp eyes, and…
It hit him.
The chaotic rainstorm. The splash of muddy water onto his thousand-dollar suit. Her umbrella snapping against the wind. And then — the sting across his cheek as her hand connected, leaving not just a mark but a searing insult to his pride.
His jaw tensed. Almost unconsciously, his hand brushed his cheek, as though the memory alone still burned.
“Return her design to her,” he said, his voice low but edged with steel. “And remove her from the interview list.”
Miranda hesitated, blinking. “Sir?”
Roland’s gaze flicked to hers — cold, sharp, and unyielding. “I said I’m not interested in her work. Must I repeat myself?”
For a moment, the room felt heavier, the tension wrapping around Miranda like a physical weight. Normally, this would be the point where she nodded, retreated, and carried out his instructions without question.
But she didn’t.
Instead, her lips parted, her voice quieter but steady. “With all due respect, sir… her design stands out. Even compared to some of our senior team members. If we let her go, a competitor will take her — and that could hurt us.”
The words hung in the air like a challenge.
Roland’s eyes narrowed, irritation flaring at the rare defiance from his usually compliant assistant. It wasn’t just what she said — it was the fact that she dared to say it. But the thing was… she wasn’t wrong.
He turned back to the dress, his mind weighing the truth he didn’t want to acknowledge. Letting this level of talent slip into another brand’s portfolio would be reckless. Worse, it would be a win for his competitors.
And yet… rewarding *her*? The same woman who had humiliated him?
The thought scraped against his pride like sandpaper.
He stood there in silence, fingertips grazing the iridescent folds of fabric. The material was smooth, flawless — infuriatingly so.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen. *Mother*.
He didn’t need to answer to know the conversation’s subject. She had been relentless in her campaign to marry him off to a “suitable young lady.” In her mind, he was running out of time to secure the perfect wife who would uphold the Wyatt legacy.
The pressure from her — and from certain board members who thought a married CEO looked more “stable” — was suffocating.
And then, just like that, an idea began to take shape.
He silenced the call, a slow, calculated smirk curving his lips.
Turning back to Miranda, he spoke with a sudden, almost casual tone. “Forget my previous instruction. Email Miss Rodrigo. Invite her for a final interview. And make sure she’s directed to my office.”
Miranda stared. “S-sir?”
“You were right,” he said smoothly. “She’s talented. We can’t afford to lose her.” Then, with an edge of sarcasm, he added, “And perhaps I’ll invite her for a friendly game of chess while she’s here.”
The way he said it made her avert her gaze, sensing the sharpness behind the joke.
Roland walked away, his pace unhurried but his thoughts racing. This wasn’t just about hiring a dressmaker anymore.
Inside his office, he closed the door, loosened his tie, and sank into the leather chair behind his desk. From his pocket, he retrieved his phone and dialed a number he knew well.
“Wyatt,” answered a low, gravelly voice.
“I have a job for you,” Roland said without preamble. “Find everything — and I mean *everything* — on a woman named Blair Rodrigo. I’ll send you the basic details I have. I want family history, financial situation, weaknesses — all of it. Leave nothing out.”
“Understood,” came the reply.
Ending the call, Roland leaned back, steepling his fingers. His mind was sharp, his plan crystallizing with dangerous clarity.
Her talent would be his hook.
Her ambitions would be the bait.
And her vulnerabilities… those would be the chains.
One stone. Two birds.
And Blair Rodrigo would never see it coming.
***FLASHBACK ENDS***
- Writer
