♧~The Devil Wears Confidence~♧

"Where the hell is my black folder, Pavan?"

The voice sliced through the silence of the glass-walled office like a knife through silk.

It was 8:57 AM. The office lights had barely warmed up. Most employees were still tiptoeing around with coffee cups, praying to avoid attention. But for Sidharth Rana, CEO of NOIR RANA, the day had already started — at 5 AM sharp, as usual — with a power run, a green smoothie, and a strategy call with Paris.

Sidharth wasn’t just the boss. He was a force of nature. His fashion empire, built from scratch, dominated runways across Europe and Asia. And he didn’t tolerate delays — or stupidity.

Pavan stumbled in with a folder that was navy blue, not black.

“Sir, this is—”

“Does that look black to you, Pavan?” Sidharth didn’t raise his voice. He never needed to. His stare was enough to make grown men forget their names.

“No, sir. I-I’ll get the black one right now!” Pavan squeaked, already halfway out the door.

Sidharth turned toward the glass window, adjusting the cuff of his obsidian-black suit — tailored in Milan, sharp enough to cut throats. His eyes scanned the skyline, but his mind was miles ahead — analyzing fabric trends, competitor campaigns, and the mistakes everyone else would make.

By 9:10 AM, the office was in full motion, but in hushed tones. The head of marketing whispered updates to his assistant. HR tiptoed past Sidharth’s cabin. Even the VP of Finance double-checked his tie before entering the boardroom.

“Sidharth, sir, the Milan samples just arrived,” said a trembling intern.

He didn’t even look up. “If they’re late by a minute, send them back. This isn’t a hobby. It’s war.”

At 10 AM, a junior designer made the grave mistake of presenting a pastel collection without checking Sidharth’s recent memo.

“Pastels? In autumn? Are you colorblind or just suicidal?” Sidharth snapped, slamming the mood board on the table. “Fix it. Or find a new career.”

Even the printer seemed to tremble when Sidharth walked by. His presence had that effect.

Back in his office, Pavan knocked softly. “Sir, the Vogue team called. They want an interview slot this Friday.”

Sidharth didn’t look up from his sketchpad. “Tell them Friday’s for vision, not vanity. They get twenty minutes. Sharp. Not a second more.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Pavan?”

“Y-yes, sir?”

“If I see one more typo in your emails, I’ll personally send you back to school. Understood?”

Pavan nodded like a bobblehead on caffeine and backed out.

The truth was, Sidharth wasn’t cruel. He was efficient. Brutally so. He didn’t waste time on sugarcoating or second chances. And that’s why his name echoed in every fashion capital. He was the designer with a business mind, the CEO with a killer instinct, the man who built an empire and ruled it with precision.

To the world, he was a genius.

To his office?

He was a goddamn storm.

________xx__________

               ♡~The Rose in Silk~♡

The morning sun filtered gently through gauze curtains as Sana Mehra adjusted her pearl earrings, checking her reflection in the mirror one last time.

Creamy pastel saree, subtle pink lipstick, soft curls framing her delicate face — she looked like a page out of a vintage Vogue cover. But beyond the grace and softness was a mind sharper than scissors and more imaginative.

“Sana ma’am, your 8:30 call with the Dubai investor is ready,” called out her assistant, Anjali, peeking into the room.

“Thank you, Anjali! Just give me one minute.”

Even her voice was honeyed — soft, polite, sincere. The kind that made people feel seen, heard, and cared for.

Sana owned Mehra Muse, a fast-rising fashion label that had gained a cult following for its elegant designs, sustainable fabrics, and dreamy silhouettes.

She entered her office — a studio bathed in natural light, walls pinned with sketches, embroidery samples, and handwritten thank-you notes from clients. There was a calm, feminine energy to everything she touched.

On the call, her tone was professional, but gentle. She navigated the business pitch smoothly, balancing creativity with commercial sense.

“Yes, I believe if we go with handwoven khadi for this line, we can meet our sustainability goals without compromising elegance. I'll send a sample this afternoon.”

Once she ended the call, she smiled and texted:

“Good morning, Viraj! Hope you slept well.”

Viraj.

Her boyfriend. Her first love. Her blind spot.

He responded quickly.

“Morning babe. Just woke up. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Don’t work too hard — you know you stress too much!”

What Sana didn’t know — or refused to see — was that Viraj’s love had more hunger than heart.

He was attracted to her lifestyle.

To the money, the status, the body wrapped in silk.

And Sana… was too kind, too trusting, too hopeful.

“He’s just struggling,” she told Anjali once, when asked why Viraj never worked. “He needs time. I believe in him.”

Her team adored her — not just for her designs, but her warmth. She remembered birthdays, brought homemade sweets, and stayed late to help interns fix last-minute outfit glitches.

“Sana ma’am,” said Anjali again, “The Delhi showcase is tomorrow. Should I confirm your stylist?”

Sana tilted her head, thinking. “Cancel the stylist. I’ll do my own look. Authenticity matters, right?”

As the day went on, she met models with gentle encouragement, scouted fabrics with wide-eyed excitement, and still found time to send Viraj money for his "investments." Money that never saw returns.

By 9 PM, her heels were off, hair in a bun, sipping chamomile tea in her rose-gold kitchen.

Her phone buzzed. A selfie from Viraj — shirtless, with a caption:

“Thinking of you, babe. Wish you were here.”

She blushed, replying with a string of heart emojis.

Because despite her intelligence, despite her strength —

Sana Mehra was still just a girl in love.

A girl who saw the world through rose-colored glass.

And maybe… that was her greatest flaw.

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So do you all like the first chapter let me know in comments and make sure you all vote , your votes and comments motivates me to write.