Serena’s POV

Life had been floating along beautifully. Ryan was neck-deep in wedding preparations, handling most details while I focused on my Dreamland Studio ventures with Maya. All I had to do was make occasional decisions when the wedding planner called, then return to my blissful bubble with Vivian.

It was just another ordinary morning. I’d finished breakfast and was getting Vivian ready for our daily walk in Central Park when my phone started vibrating against the marble counter.

"Maya," I answered, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder while buckling Vivian into her stroller. "What’s up?"

The silence on the other end lasted a second too long. "Serena, we have a situation."

My hand froze on the buckle. Maya didn’t do drama or panic - her voice carrying that edge meant real trouble.

"Someone’s accusing you of plagiarism online. It’s spreading fast."

The words hit me like ice water. "Plagiarism? Who’s making these claims?"

"Some European designer I’ve never heard of. They’ve posted comparison photos showing designs nearly identical to your spring collection. The problem is—" Maya hesitated, "—their publication dates are slightly earlier than ours."

My stomach dropped. "That’s impossible. Those designs came directly from my sketchbook."

"I know that. I’ve already called the crisis management team. They’re monitoring the situation, but it’s gaining traction quickly."

I abandoned the stroller and paced across my kitchen, mind racing. "Let me contact this designer myself. There must be some misunderstanding."

"Already tried," Maya sighed heavily. "Their team is refusing direct communication. This feels calculated, Serena. Like they were waiting for the perfect moment to strike."

Maya’s typing echoed through the phone. "Look, I’ve got the PR team working overtime, but you should see what’s happening online. It’s getting ugly."

After hanging up, I kissed Vivian’s forehead and asked the nanny to take over our park plans. Then I locked myself in Ryan’s home office, hands trembling slightly as I opened his laptop.

My name was everywhere, paired with that toxic word: PLAGIARISM.

"This is ridiculous," I whispered, clicking through the accusations.

The designer—someone named Lance Draven—had created side-by-side comparisons highlighting similarities between our collections. I had to admit, seeing them together was jarring. The color schemes, certain structural elements, even some of the embellishment patterns showed undeniable parallels.

But I knew with absolute certainty I’d never seen his work before creating mine.

The timestamp on his posts predated my collection reveal by three days. Three. Fucking. Days.

I dove deeper into his profile, examining his previous work. There were definite stylistic similarities to my aesthetic, but his execution lacked the technical refinement I’d spent years perfecting. He wasn’t well-known, but his social media following wasn’t tiny either.

The perfect profile for a sympathy-grabbing David versus Goliath narrative.

His post dripped with calculated victimhood: "Famous designer Lazuli plagiarized my work, transforming it into Dreamland Studio’s ’original’ collection while I remain the voiceless victim of corporate theft."

The comments section was a cesspool:

"Unknown designers create masterpieces that get ignored until some celebrity steals them for profit. DISGUSTING."

"Do famous designers think they can get away with anything? Stand your ground, Lance!"

"Serena’s success was always suspicious. Sleeping your way to the top and stealing designs—classic."

"Lazuli’s work is overrated anyway. Now we know why."

I slammed the laptop shut, my chest tight with anger. "Fucking vultures," I hissed, reopening it to send him a direct message.

[Hello Lance, this is Serena. There’s clearly a misunderstanding regarding plagiarism accusations. I’d appreciate discussing this privately to resolve the issue.]

[I categorically deny copying your work. I’m open to any legitimate verification process to prove this.]

I hit send, my message radiating the confidence of someone with nothing to hide. Because I didn’t. Every curve, every stitch, every embellishment in that collection came from my own creative process.

The message showed as "read" almost immediately, but no response followed.

"Seriously?" I muttered, sending another message:

[Since you’ve read my message, let’s talk directly. Your current approach is damaging my professional reputation without justification.]

Again, "read" but no reply.

I called Maya back. "He’s ignoring my messages but reading them instantly."

"Not surprised," she replied, her voice tight. "Our legal team is preparing a cease and desist, but honestly, that might just pour gasoline on this fire."

While we strategized, my phone kept buzzing with notifications. The hashtag #SerenaStoleDesigns was trending, with comparison images spreading across every platform. Fashion bloggers, industry insiders, and keyboard warriors were all weighing in—mostly against me.

By afternoon, I’d developed a pounding headache. The walls felt like they were closing in as I scrolled through endless accusations. Even worse were the personal attacks—speculation about my relationship with Ryan, questioning my entire career, dragging up my past.

When Ryan came home and found me still in his office, surrounded by empty coffee cups and legal documents, his expression darkened dangerously.

"What’s going on?" he asked, loosening his tie.

I didn’t even look up. "Someone’s accusing me of plagiarism. It’s everywhere."

He was silent for a moment, then I heard him set his briefcase down with deliberate control.

"Name," he said quietly.

I finally glanced up. The cold calculation in his eyes made me shiver. "Ryan, don’t—"

"Give me the name, Serena."

"Lance Draven. But please, let me handle this my way. The last thing I need is for people to think I’m hiding behind you."

Ryan was already on his phone, typing rapidly. "No one attacks my wife’s reputation and gets away with it."

"That’s exactly the problem!" I stood up abruptly. "I’m not just your wife! I’m a designer who built her career before I even met you. If you swoop in with the Blackwood legal army, everyone will say exactly what they’re already saying—that I’m using you to bully critics."

He paused, studying my face. "So what’s your plan?"

I sank back into the chair. "I don’t know yet. But I need to fight this on my own terms."

Ryan looked like he wanted to argue but instead came around the desk and massaged my shoulders. "This is suspicious timing with the wedding announcement."

"My thoughts exactly," I murmured, leaning into his touch.

"Have you looked at the design timestamps in your digital files? The metadata should prove when you created them."

I straightened, turning to face him. "That’s... actually brilliant."

A small, dangerous smile curved his lips. "I occasionally have good ideas."

I quickly opened my design software, pulling up the original files. "The creation dates are all there in the metadata. Weeks before his supposed originals."

"So he manipulated his timestamps," Ryan concluded. "Amateur move."

"But proving that will be tricky," I frowned, checking the time. "I need to talk to Maya again. And probably Ethan too—LUXE should be prepared if this blows back on them."

Ryan nodded, stepping back. "Do what you need to do. Just remember—" his eyes locked with mine, "—you don’t have to fight alone."

As he left, my phone pinged with a notification. Lance Draven had finally responded to my message:

[Sorry, I don’t negotiate with thieves. See you in the court of public opinion, Mrs. Lazuli.]