Threads of power

Chapter 1 (Part 1&2)

Title: "The Red Saree & The Storm"
POV: Ava (FL)
Setting: Milan, Italy

Part 1: Arrival

It was almost poetic, the way the Milan sky greeted her—gray, dramatic, and full of attitude.

Ava Morgan adjusted her sunglasses and stepped out of the taxi, heels clicking against the cobbled pavement of Via Monte Napoleone, one of the most exclusive fashion streets in Italy. Her breath hitched a little—not because of the cold February air—but because this was it.

Day one.

Milan.

The city of fashion. The city that never blinked, even when the lights of the runway blinded the world. And here she was: an Indian girl with a duffel bag, a tailored red saree, and a heart still learning how to beat without shattering.

Her reflection caught in the marble glass of a storefront—messy hair twisted in a bun, gold nose pin catching the light, dark red lipstick refusing to fade. She didn't look like she belonged. Not here. Not yet.

And yet... she smiled.

Because when you don't belong, you get to make your own rules.

Flashback — Two Weeks Ago, New Delhi
"You're throwing everything away for this?" her stepbrother had snapped, waving her flight ticket like it was a death sentence. "Italy? Do you even speak Italian?"

Ava had stared at him, silent, spooning dal into a bowl like it was the only thing anchoring her.

"No," she'd said, calm. "But I speak ambition. That usually translates."

Her stepmother had clicked her tongue and muttered something in Hindi about "naak katwa di isne"—she's bringing shame. Ava had ignored it. Just like she ignored the letters her ex kept sending. Just like she ignored the lump in her throat every time her father's number lit up her screen and went unanswered.

Milan wasn't just a career move.

It was her escape.

Back to Present — Milan
She checked her phone. 14:43 PM. The private investor pitch event started at 3. She wasn't on the guest list. That was the first problem.

The second was that she didn't give a single f*ck.

She walked into the hotel lobby like it was her runway. Men in Armani suits and women in Chanel turned to glance—some stared at her crimson saree like she'd walked into the wrong continent.

But when a girl wears her trauma stitched into every pleat, trust her—your stares don't cut deep enough.

"Can I help you?" the blonde receptionist asked in clipped English, looking Ava up and down.

"Yes," Ava said, flipping her ponytail. "You can pretend I belong here."

Before the receptionist could speak, Ava's phone rang. Unknown number.

She answered.

"You're not on the list."
A deep male voice. Cold. Italian-accented English.
"That's a boring observation," Ava replied, walking toward the elevators. "Say something new."

A pause.

Then the line went dead.

The Elevator Scene
She smoothed her blouse, adjusted the drape of her pallu, and stepped into the elevator.

A man followed her in.

And not just any man.

Damien King.

He was taller than she expected. Charcoal suit. Black shirt, unbuttoned at the top. Stubble sharp enough to be sculpted. Eyes like melted obsidian—and they were fixed on her like she was an unsolved equation.

"Miss Morgan," he said coolly, like her name was a threat.

"So you know who I am," Ava replied. "Saves me the introduction."

He didn't speak for a beat. The elevator dinged past Floor 18.

"You're bold."

"And you're blocking the 'close door' button."

He leaned against the mirrored wall. "You're crashing my pitch event."

"I prefer the term crashing expectations."

"Cute."

"No, expensive."

He smirked. She didn't. She didn't come here to flirt with devils. She came here to outshine them.

The Pitch Room
By the time she entered, the atmosphere was thick with tension, cologne, and the type of elitist silence that makes poor people feel like intruders.

A young designer was presenting a line of minimalist monochrome suits.

Ava stifled a yawn.

When her turn came—despite not being called—she walked up to the mic like it owed her money.

"My name is Ava Morgan. I design with thread and fury. I don't sell fashion. I sell rebellion stitched into silk. I sell freedom, tailored for women tired of shrinking themselves to fit someone else's expectations."

Dead silence.

And from the corner of her eye, she saw him.

Damien King.

Not smiling. Not blinking.

Just watching.

"What's your background?" someone asked.
"Indian," Ava replied. "That means fire, fabric, and being underestimated."
"Your business model?"
"Three tailors, two interns, one broken heart."
"And what do you want from us?"
"Nothing. I just came to remind you that style doesn't come with a price tag. But guts do."

One woman clapped. Hesitantly.

Then another.

Then silence again.

Damien stood up. Walked past her.

"Interesting," he murmured. "Reckless, but... interesting."

Ava turned, gaze locked on him.

"Is that how you flirt?" she asked.

He paused at the door, smiled darkly.

"No," he said. "That's how I warn people."

Hallway: The First Face-Off
He waited for her outside the conference room.

"Your confidence is cute," he said, slipping into Italian now. "But this city doesn't run on speeches. It runs on legacy."

Ava crossed her arms.

"Well, King. I didn't come here to inherit. I came to conquer."

To Be Continued in part 2

Part 2: Disruption in Silk
"Red. Always red."

That was the first thought in Damien's mind as he lit a cigarette and stepped onto the rooftop of the Ravello Grand, overlooking the cold beauty of Milan's fashion district. His black overcoat flared slightly in the breeze, tailored to perfection, just like every part of his goddamn life.

Except now? One wrinkle.

Ava Morgan.

He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke vanish into the crisp Italian sky. His fingers itched to call security and blacklist her from every future event.

But instead?

He Googled her.

And found... nothing.

Just a basic LinkedIn. A small startup website. A few pictures on some Indian wedding blog where she'd modeled traditional wear like a goddess forged in red and gold.

But professionally?

She was a ghost.

And Damien hated ghosts.

Especially ones that looked like sin wrapped in six yards of fire.

Flashback — Two Years Ago
There were screams.

A glass shattered somewhere near the kitchen. Damien stood frozen in the doorway of his family's old villa in Lake Como.

"GET OUT!" his father bellowed, eyes bloodshot, veins pulsing. "YOU ARE A DISGRACE!"

"I didn't touch her!" Damien had screamed back. "She's lying—"

"You're the devil's son," his father hissed. "Like your mother."

The slap came fast.

But the scar? That stayed longer.

And that night, Damien King packed a bag, walked into the freezing dark, and never looked back.

Present – Milan, Rooftop
Damien blinked, pushing the memory away. His jaw clenched.

Ava Morgan reminded him too much of everything he didn't understand. Chaos. Emotion. Fire. People like her were dangerous to men like him.

But...

He couldn't stop thinking about the way she said "freedom stitched into silk."

It was personal. Too personal.

He'd seen girls chase fame. Chasing him. Seen designers pitch with fake smiles and borrowed gowns. But Ava? She didn't give a single f*ck if the room hated her.

She wanted the room to know it.

And that intrigued him. Which pissed him off.

Meanwhile — Somewhere in Milan
Ava kicked off her heels the moment she stepped into her shared apartment, grumbling in Hindi.

"Bhaiiii, mere paero ki band baj chuki hain!"
(My legs are so dead!)

Her bestie, Priya, looked up from the couch, cackling.

"Did Milan ruin your desi bones again?" she asked.

Ava flopped down beside her, massaging her feet dramatically.

"Bro. These gori aunties were looking at me like I brought a curry stain to their Prada showroom."

Priya laughed harder. "You probably did."

"I also may or may not have threatened an Italian billionaire in a pitch event I wasn't invited to."

Dead silence.

Then—
"Avaaaaaaaa what the actual fu—"

Back at Damien's Office – Late Night
He stared at Ava's website again.

Three photos. One broken link. A tagline that read:

"We don't follow trends. We rip them apart."

His phone buzzed.

Enzo, his head of PR.

"Boss, that girl? She's legit. Small business from India, some underground hype, no legal red flags. She's clean... but bold."
"How bold?"
"Bold enough to make enemies. Fast."
"Any backers?"
"None. She's self-funded."
"And that's the problem."

Damien didn't like rogue players.

But something about Ava made his blood stir. Not just in anger.

In curiosity. In attraction. In something he didn't have words for yet.

At the Café – The Next Morning
Ava stirred her espresso while flipping through her sketchbook. The barista flirted with her in Italian, which she answered with a blank stare and a muttered:

"Menu mein flirt karna likha nahi tha."
(It wasn't written in the menu to flirt.)

From across the café, Damien watched her. In silence. Hidden behind a newspaper, sunglasses on.

She wore denim and a scarf today, no makeup, hair tied messily—and yet, somehow, even more dangerous.

His phone buzzed again.

Marco, his cousin and business partner.

"Are you stalking a girl in a café like some budget mafia don?"
"Shut up."
"So you like her or what?"
"I want to crush her."
"Sure. Is that what we're calling it now?"

Damien hung up.

And walked toward her.

The Confrontation
She didn't look up until his shadow fell over her table.

"Oh, look," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "If it isn't Mr. 'I Warn People'."

"You're quite the performer," Damien said smoothly. "But theatrics won't win you investors."

"Neither will fragile egos."

He sat across from her.

"You're dangerous," he said.

"I know," she said. "And you're late. My coffee's already cold."

✨ To Be Continued in Part 3: