C13 Rivalry Rekindled

With a deliberate, respectful motion, he gave Katie a slight bow silent acknowledgment wrapped in quiet deference. Without another word, he turned and glided toward the clothing racks, sunlight pouring through the full-height glass walls and scattering golden reflections across the polished surfaces in his wake, leaving Cleopatra suspended in a delicate space between watching and waiting.

Then, as if the tension finally snapped, Katie and Cleopatra could no longer contain it.

Laughter burst from them at the same moment, bright and unrestrained, echoing against the walls like a sudden, joyful melody.

“Katie, he was completely lost!” Cleopatra gasped between laughter, pressing a hand to her mouth as her eyes shimmered with amused tears.

Katie bent forward, clutching her stomach. “I really wanted to scare the living daylights out of him!” she confessed, still shaking with mirth.

When their laughter finally softened, Katie pulled Cleopatra into a warm, lingering hug. The whisper she left behind carried quiet faith and gentle encouragement, settling into Cleopatra’s heart like a small, persistent spark of courage. Then Katie stepped away with a teasing smile and vanished down the hallway.

Alone again, Cleopatra let her gaze drift across the room, the designer clothes hanging in silent elegance, the rows of polished shoes gleaming like jewels beneath the sunlit glass.

She moved toward the sofa, but just as her fingers nearly touched the cushions, a shadow fell across her path.

Joss stepped into view, his expression unreadable.

“Hi, Cleopatra. I’m the manager here. It’s nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand with careful politeness.

Cleopatra shook it, keeping her composure. “Oh, hi. Likewise,” she replied, her voice smooth, controlled, yet carrying a subtle note of amusement.

Joss ran a hand nervously through his hair. “I… I’m sorry I missed it all. You—you really do look like a porcelain doll. So delicate, flawless, I just assumed you must be a model.”

Immediately, his hands shot to his mouth, covering it. “I—I hope I didn’t offend you. I didn’t mean to just blurt all that out.” His cheeks burned pink, and his gaze darted elsewhere, betraying the embarrassment he tried to mask.

Cleopatra studied him quietly, her eyes tracing the boyish curve of his jaw, the hesitant way he held himself. He was younger than her, yes but there was something strikingly sincere about him, a naïve honesty that made her chest tug with quiet amusement.

“Joss you fool,” he muttered under his breath, almost shyly, and she caught the small shake in his shoulders.

“Haha, it’s fine,” she replied, a small, controlled laugh escaping her. The way he flustered himself so completely was both ridiculous and oddly endearing.

He straightened slightly, attempting to regain composure. “Since you’re the Director’s bestie, I assume you’re older than me. I’m twenty-three, so may I address you formally?” His calm tone belied the faint tremor in his eyes, betraying his nervousness.

Cleopatra let out a soft scoff, narrowing her eyes playfully. “No need for that. Speak freely, we're not that far apart. I’m only twenty-five, after all.” Her teasing tone carried a quiet authority, a warning not to take himself too seriously, even as staff bustled past, their hurried movements creating a lively backdrop to the small, intimate exchange.

“Joss!” Pheebs’s voice cut sharply through the room.

The makeup artist, part of Joss’s team, approached him with urgency written across her features.

“Yes? What is it?” Joss asked, his brow knitting slightly, a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“It’s almost time for Miss Guinevere’s shoot, and she hasn’t even started her makeup!” Pheebs snapped, every word laced with frustration. “I’ve tried reasoning with her, but it’s useless. Time is slipping away, and the photographer will be here any moment!”

“Jeez, she’s always been difficult to work with,” Joss muttered, a note of exasperation creeping into his tone.

Joss shot a sharp gesture toward a staff member lurking behind the clothes rack.

“Get her clothes ready,” he barked, dragging a hand through his hair.

A breath tore from his chest, heavy with irritation.

“Fuck.”

Without hesitation, both of them hurried toward the room where Guinevere was waiting, Cleopatra trailing close behind, each step quickened by the rising tension.

“Oh my God, why isn’t our princess ready yet? Where are we falling short?” Joss called, his voice smooth and deceptively sweet, honeyed in tone but threaded with controlled impatience.

Guinevere uncrossed her legs with measured, almost regal grace, rising to her full height. Her gaze locked onto Joss, sharp and unyielding, a flicker of irritation tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“Seriously? You’re asking me that question?” she snapped, stepping closer, the room almost vibrating with her authority. “Why not ask your incompetent staff instead?!”

Cleopatra stepped forward, her gaze landing on Guinevere, who was glaring at Pheebs with a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Guin, all that frowning will give you wrinkles far too early,” Cleopatra teased, her tone light, though a subtle undercurrent of amusement danced beneath it.

Cleopatra’s eyes swept over Guinevere’s, catching the shock and disbelief that flashed across her features. Her sudden presence had clearly unsettled her, leaving her momentarily off balance.

‘What is she doing here? How is she even here’ Guinevere thought, a faint spark of irritation mingling with curiosity. ‘Annoying.’

Guinevere moved toward her, stepping

with deliberate calm, though the surprise in her eyes betrayed her composure.

“Why are you here, Cleo?” she asked, her voice carefully controlled, though the anxious edge in her words betrayed the tension beneath.

Cleopatra let her lips curve into a small, knowing smile, delaying her response just enough to savor the delicate dance unfolding between them a mix of curiosity, challenge, and quiet rivalry.

Cleopatra walked toward her deliberately, tapping her lightly on the shoulder. “Oh, I work here,” she said calmly, her voice steady, measuring an attempt to mask the storm beneath.

“What do you mean by working here?” Guinevere’s voice wavered, words spilling out despite the effort to maintain her poise. Her eyes, sharp and calculating moments ago, now flickered with uncertainty.

“Oh, Guin,” Cleopatra replied, the faintest thread of confidence weaving through her calm tone, “turns out I’m one of INK Model’s staff.”

In a heartbeat, Guinevere’s hands clamped around hers. “Are you back to modeling?” she asked, forcing a smile that barely held together a thin, fragile thing that crumbled almost immediately under the weight of old memories. Her grip tightened, worry bleeding into her words. “Have you forgotten what happened, Cleo? You shouldn’t be modeling.”

The words struck Cleopatra like a sledgehammer, knocking the air from her lungs. A surge of old pain flared within her, instantly transforming into a blazing, unyielding defiance. Her hand jerked free from Guinevere’s grasp, snapping away as if severing the weight of memory itself, her eyes alight with fury.

Her composure shattered, replaced by a searing, uncontainable rage. “What the hell are you insinuating? Why shouldn’t I model?” she snapped, yanking her hands free, eyes blazing with a storm of indignation and hurt. Every line of her body screamed that she would not be restrained not by fear, not by memory, not by anyone.

“If I choose to return to modeling, that is entirely my decision,” Cleopatra said, her voice steady and unwavering, each word carrying the weight of quiet authority. “You have no right to tell me what to do.”

Guinevere froze, her cheeks flushing with a calculated vulnerability as she stumbled over her words. “Uh… ah, I didn’t mean it like that,” she murmured, forcing a laugh that trembled just enough to sound genuine, concealing the taut coil of tension beneath. Her hands reached out, brushing Cleopatra’s shoulder in a seemingly friendly, reassuring gesture, an effortless move meant to disarm and claim attention.

“I just… I care about you, you know,” she added softly, her voice laced with subtle persuasion, designed to make Cleopatra question her own resolve.

Cleopatra’s eyes flicked to hers, sharp and discerning. ‘Care or fear of what I might do?’ she thought, letting a faint, unreadable smile curl on her lips. She did not soften, did not flinch, only held her gaze, letting the silence stretch for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Guinevere’s nervousness eased slightly, though the tension in her posture remained. “How’s work so far?” she asked, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You know working behind the scenes suits you better, don’t you think?”

Cleopatra’s lips curved into the faintest smile, calm, almost polite but the fire simmering in her eyes promised that nothing would remain quiet for long.