Beneath her Pretence

chapter 2

Morning came with cloudy weather; it felt like it wanted to rain. Coral Heights was already alive. I stared out the tinted Uber window, its streets buzzing with early morning hustle, murmurs of traders hurrying to set up stalls. The rhythm of the city was almost soothing but my mind was a storm.

My fingers clenched around my phone as I reread the text from my friend

> “Just be careful at Tessy's, it's a life-changing company.”

"I sighed" This place will definitely be my doom or my leading pathway.

The universe had been unfair to me; I remembered the kiss — That stupid accidental kiss with Kester.

"Why does it feel like this will hang me forever"

I made it to Tessy Couture just before the sky opened up. Clutching a leather folder that my mom had used before—filled with sketches that had been my companions through years of learning, failing, and trying—

The building looked even more beautiful against the soft gray morning, like it was untouched by the chaos happening all around it. Inside, though, the energy was anything but calm. People rushed past me—whispers, Everybody seemed busy — except for the few who slowed down just to look at me.

> “That’s her, right?”

“The girl who kissed Kester Moore”

tight expressions, sharp instructions. Whatever was going on, everyone already knew what to do.

Eyes were on me. Curious eyes. Too curious.

“Is Zoey done with the mock-ups?”

“She’s suddenly so quiet today.” after what she did.

"What she did?" "What does she mean?"

I moved past with my face flushed with embarrassment.

After some time, a senior apprentice walked up to me.

“You’re really brave walking in here after what happened.”

I frowned. “What happened?”

She lightly tapped her phone screen. “Your kiss with Kester. It’s all over the internet.”

My heart tripped. “Excuse me?” with my eyes wide open.

The blood in my veins froze after going through her phone

It was a clip caught from a bad camera angle — edited, rewatched, slowed down, shared across fashion blogs and gossip pages. The internet had already begun spinning its own story.

I panicked in disbelief, "What have I done?"

“You’re late.”

I heard her voice before I saw her.

Mrs. Tessy—impeccable, poised, and frighteningly calm—stood in the hallway just outside her office, arms crossed, eyes clipped with disapproval. Her presence alone was enough to make the hallway feel colder.

“I’m sorry, ma,” I managed. Even speaking felt like a failure she’d already calculated.

“There was a delay with—” I began, grasping for something that might save me from the humiliation.

“No excuses.” Her tone was flat, sharp but controlled. “We don’t do delays here. We do results. Get to work.”

Every face in the room turned toward me as I entered the hall. Not with sympathy—just interest, brief and mild. Apprentices here didn’t pause to comfort. They noted, assessed, and resumed. I felt exposed, like a wrinkled dress under bright critique lighting.

As I gathered my tools, her voice echoed again—closer this time.

"Zoey."

I froze. She walked toward me with deliberate steps, eyes colder up close, framed perfectly by angular glasses that almost seemed part of her armor.

“Do you work behind closed doors?” she asked—not smiling, not curious. Just judging.

“I—no, ma,” I replied, throat tight.

“Because if you don't, you wouldn’t have come in after the time stamp.” She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. Her tone was the kind that could dismiss a person in a single sentence.

“I’ll do better,” I whispered.

“See that you do.” She paused, eyes traveling over my apron, my unsteady fingers, my posture. “You’re in charge of steaming the pleated crepe set on rail D. It goes out by noon.”

Then she walked past me, leaving behind only the weight of her expectations and the imprint of my failure.

My stomach dropped. My hands shook. Every movement felt watched, judged, and rehearsed. I was beginning to feel crushed beneath the weight of trying to belong.

Upon further reflection, Mrs. Tessy refrained from addressing the incident in question.

"Is she not cognizant?"I pondered. Her discourse was exclusively centered around work and my well-being.

I was beginning to feel as though I had five myself into a dungeon.

The worst part wasn't just the video.

It was the headline attached to it:

> “Kester Moore Caught Kissing an Unknown Woman and questioned his Engagement"

I felt betrayed.

“his he engaged?”

I was no longer merely embarrassed; I found myself ensnared in a scandal I had never consented to. Kester Moore was a prominent public figure, and inexplicably, this was only the commencement of my tribulations.

Still grappling with my predicament and surrounded by the incessant gossip circulating in the office, I was approached by two envious colleagues.

"So, you've come here to claim him entirely for yourself," remarked the first woman, her tone suggesting that Kester was acutely aware of her existence.

The second chimed in, "No one steals from me and goes unpunished," her words resonating like an empty threat.

I remained silent, merely gazing at them, unwilling to utter a single word.

I stood up and walked through the main sewing floor, trying to act normal, like I had things under control. But every pair of eyes that followed me, every whisper behind covered mouths... it made me feel like a walking scandal.

The head of Internship Assignments, Mrs. Kimmie, finally waved me into an office that smelled like papers, I sat quietly on the grey sofa just by the side of her glass table as she scanned a file with my name on it.

Here is a document that contains "Tessy couture" rules and regulations.

She finally looked up. “You do realize the situation you're already in?” she asked as though she wanted an explanation from me.

I nodded, slowly. “I didn’t ask for any of it, it's not what you think”

“I know that,” she said. “But this is a fashion house, Zoey, not a PR rehab camp. If you are not talented, you wouldn’t be here — but you’ve become a distraction in just two days of resuming,

And distractions?” she paused, “We don’t keep them around for long.”

Go through the rules, you will understand what I'm saying, "she added"

Mrs. Kimmie was one of Mrs. Tessy's advisors at the company. When she called me, I was already convinced that Mrs. Tessy had heard the rumors circulating, perhaps attempting to maintain her composure. "Mrs. Tessy is exceedingly disappointed and wishes to sever ties with you," she finally articulated. "However, one misstep should not define an individual," Mrs. Kimmie concluded"

Before I could respond, the glass door swung open. I turned — I was feeling insecure all through

She was even more striking in person—tall, poised, with a beauty that made you feel small and unpolished just by being near her. It was Luciana, Kester's fiancée. Without wasting time, she asked, “Where is that slut?” in a rude and fierce tone, Her eyes were fixed on Mrs. Kimmie, ignoring me completely.

Mrs. Kimmie nodded kindly. “Luciana, this is Zoey Rivers.” I wished the floor would just open up and swallow me.

Suddenly, Luciana's gaze shifted to me.

Her eyes were fierce, sharp, and calculating—as if she was already flipping through a mental file labeled ‘People Who Need To Stay In Their Lane.’

She smirked and said, “So you are the one?”

I stood up instinctively. “I didn’t mean for any of—”

She raised her hand, signaling me to stop.

“Save it. You don’t owe me an explanation,” she said, though her eyes seemed to tell a different story.

“The world doesn't care if it was an accident. It just cares that it happened,” she added, folding her hands.

Her words felt like a silent needle piercing through me.

“Luciana,” Mrs. Kimmie interrupted firmly, “please keep it down—this is a professional setting.”

Luciana stepped closer, scrutinizing me from head to toe, as if I were something fragile.

“Stay in your place, Zoey,” she whispered softly. “Or you won’t last long here.” That sounded like a heavy threat

And just like that, she was gone.

I buried my face in my hands, feeling my world crumble right in front of me.

“You okay?” Mrs. Kimmie asked with concern.

"I'm sorry, ma,” was all I could manage to say.

As I was about to leave, she handed me a measuring tape and a black scissors and pointed to a row of mannequins. "We have a lot on deck, don't mix emotions and work, they don't work in hands“ she advised again;

I was beginning to think she was the only one not judging my situation.

"We’re working on a beaded collection, Start taking out the beads on the part I chalked out on those dresses, carefully. These pieces cost more than your yearly rent,” she instructed calmly.

“I’ll treat them like royalty.” faking a smile

“Do that in time,” she said, already walking away.

It is normal to hear sounds of machines in a workspace like this, but the hum of the machines became a rhythm. Every hiss of steam, every thread pulled tight, reminded me why I loved this world and the path I chose. The fabrics seemed alive, whispering stories of who they’d soon become.

I began to come out of my shell and resumed working.

By the day, my arms ached, but satisfaction pushed the pain aside, I was just enjoying every bit of the details of the dress I was making.

I didn’t notice Mrs. Tessy standing in the doorway staring at almost everyone as they worked until everywhere became calm and quiet.

Her presence always frightens me. I just looked up and looked away immediately.

————

That Night, I didn’t go home right after work. I walked — anywhere but there. Past shops. Past quiet streets. Away from expectations. Away from him, away from everyone.

I needed space and a different air that didn’t smell like confusion and shame.

When I finally got home, my roommate was asleep on the floor, clutching her phone. I gathered her things and helped her into bed. For a second, I thought about talking to her about everything — but the story felt too heavy to share.

I didn’t shower. Didn’t eat. Just lie still, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment that ruined my peace.

“You let him kiss you,” the voice in my mind echoed.

“And now you're pretending it didn't matter.”

But it did.

It still did.

<< I can't be in this hellhole alone —where is Kester Moore?