Eclipse of the False Sun

Eclipse of the False Sun
The host strode back onto the stage, voice booming with practiced energy.
“As we move towards the finale of the first round,” the host continued, “it’s time to welcome a new rising star from the Gracia fashion house. Give it up for Skylar Green!”
The spotlight shifted left.
The crowd clapped again, intrigued, excited.
But no one appeared.
A hush fell over the crowd. The applause slowed into awkward silence. The host cleared his throat, eyes darting to the wings.
“She must be backstage preparing—once again, presenting Gracia’s freshest face—Skylar Green!”
Still nothing.
The silence deepened like a vacuum sucking the air out of the hall.
Guests began shifting in their seats. A few heads turned to the back of the room. Someone muttered, “Did she back out?”
“Maybe she is lacking confidence after all is her first time on the stage.”
William’s fingers drummed on his armrest, lips tightening. He pulled out his phone, tried dialing. No answer. His voice barely above a whisper.
“Come on, Skylar… don’t disappear on me now.”
Evelyn leaned back with grace too practiced to be real. Her ruby-painted lips curled.
“She ran,” she whispered to Zack, not even hiding the smirk this time. “Just like a coward.”
Zack chuckled nervously but kept glancing at the stage.
The host gave a strained smile. “Seems we’re experiencing a slight delay, folks. While our next designer prepares, let’s take a brief pause—grab some water, stretch your legs, but don’t go far…”
Lights dimmed slightly.
The audience erupted in hushed murmurs and swirling speculation.
In the judge’s panel, Marc tapped a pen slowly against his chin. His sharp eyes hadn’t left the stage once.
“Let’s not count her out yet,” he said quietly to the judge beside him, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his lips.
And then…
Just as the crew moved to roll in the next transition, a flicker buzzed across the giant LED screen behind the stage. Static. A flash. A flicker of blue light. Someone backstage shouted about a glitch.
A stagehand rushed to the side curtain, headset crackling.
William rose halfway from his seat, heart thudding hard. He knew that look in Skylar’s eyes. This wasn’t surrender—it was strategy.
The lights dimmed slightly. A murmur passed through the audience. Then a single spotlight lit the stage.
A lone figure stepped onto the stage.
Hair pulled back into a sleek knot, heels clicking with precision, eyes steady like a storm held at bay.
Skylar Green had arrived.
The hall didn’t erupt—it held its breath.
Then came the ripples.
“She’s here?”
“Wait—didn’t she walk out earlier?”
“Why’s she walking like that—so calm?”
“Is this the final presentation?”
“Is Gracia going to pull something big?”
Whispers ballooned into waves. Phones lifted. Live feeds restarted.
#SkylarReturns
#GraciaFinale
#SurpriseEntry
#DarkHorseDesigner
The audience buzzed with anticipation. Nobody knew what she was about to reveal—but all eyes locked on her.
William stood frozen, knuckles white against the armrest. His breath hitched as her screen came alive behind her—and his heart sank.
It was the same design.
Exactly the same.
Sketches. Color palettes. Flowing mockups. Stitch by stitch. The same ethereal collection Nelson Group had already displayed.
Gasps rattled across the crowd like falling dominos.
One of the judges actually pushed up his glasses in disbelief. A murmur from the press corner:
“She just committed career suicide—live.”
“What the hell is she doing?” he hissed to himself. “This… this is madness.”
He took two steps toward the stage—almost ran—then stopped. His heart pounded as he reached for his phone, fingers trembling.
But he paused.
No. This wasn’t some breakdown, but Skylar. And she didn’t step into fire without knowing how to dance through it.
On stage, Skylar’s calm gaze swept across the crowd. Her lips curled faintly—not into a smile, but something steadier. Sharper.
The room roared—not in applause—but in pure, unfiltered chaos.
“Is this a joke?”
“She copied!”
“Was this a stunt?”
“This is the Nelson group's work!”
Cameras zoomed in. Judges exchanged glances. Hosts blinked, stunned.
Evelyn was in the middle row, crossed legs, folded arms, basking in her win. But as the screen lit up— she went still, her eyes narrowed.
That wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Skylar actually dared…” she murmured in disbelief. “She really brought my designs.”
Then she tilted toward Zack with a gloating smirk.
“She just dug her own grave.”
But even as the words left her mouth, her eyes wouldn’t leave Skylar.
There was something off.
Not in the designs—no, those were identical.
But in the way Skylar stood. The fearlessness, poise, and unwavering grace in the middle of a firestorm. That haunting quiet confidence promising dominance.
Evelyn’s smile faltered. Her fingers twitched at the hem of her gown.
“Why… does she still look like she’s already won?”
Her heart gave a strange skip. And somewhere deep inside, a whisper of fear crawled in.
A pin-drop silence fell over the hall as Skylar's final model stepped off the stage. The lights flickered back to the judging panel.
One of the judges adjusted his glasses and leaned forward, voice sharp and skeptical.
“Miss Green… is this some kind of elaborate joke? A dinner party prank dressed in couture?”
Skylar met his eyes, her voice calm but ringing with defiance.
“Not at all, sir. These are my designs. My concepts. I’ve spent the last month breathing life into every thread on that ramp.”
Another judge tapped her pen against the table, eyes narrowing.
“Then why—why do they look exactly like what we just saw from Nelson Group?”
Skylar didn’t blink. She turned her head, gaze zeroing in on the front row.
“Maybe you should ask Miss Evelyn Nelson that question. After all, she is representing Nelson group.”
A ripple of stunned murmurs shot through the audience.
“Wait—what’s she implying?” “Isn’t Lumina designing for Nelson Group?” “Is this… is this plagiarism?”
Evelyn shot up from her seat, her expression tight, voice brittle.
“Skylar, have you lost your mind? Why would I ever need to copy you? I had Lumina!”
She threw out her arm dramatically toward the screen.
“And I presented it first. That makes it mine.”
Skylar’s lips curled into a cold smile.
“First doesn’t always mean right. And what you showed up there wasn’t yours. It was stolen.”
Gasps echoed. One of the judges held up a hand.
“Miss Green, accusations like these are serious. Do you have any proof Miss Nelson copied your work?”
A hush settled like fog across the hall.
“I do,” Skylar said steadily. “Start with the basics—check the backstage CCTV. I kept my entire collection there this morning. Anyone who tampered with it would be caught on tape.”
A judge snapped his fingers, and a crew member bolted toward the control room.
Evelyn scoffed from her place. “You’re chasing ghosts. Who’d be stupid enough to leave behind digital fingerprints?”
Skylar didn’t even turn. Her voice dropped, quiet but deadly.
“I said I had proof. I didn’t say they left it behind.”
Moments later, the crew member returned, whispering urgently in the host’s ear. The host’s face paled slightly.
“Judges,” he said, clearing his throat. “It appears… the footage has been deleted.”
A gasp. Then another. William’s eyes flared with fury. He shot to his feet, pulling out his phone.
“Jack,” he barked, pacing toward the exit. “Get me someone—anyone—from Scott’s tech team or white-hat hacker, technician, wizard or hacker Virus—I don’t care. I want that deleted footage revived within minutes.”
Jack, already glued to the live stream, answered instantly. “I’m on it. If it exists, we’ll dig it up.”
He called Virus’s spokesperson, Nora, without wasting a second. “Whatever it costs, I want the Provogue Fashion Event’s backstage footage—in minutes.”
Meanwhile, Nora sat frozen in her seat, knuckles tight.
Damn it, she thought. The hacker’s already on stage. And she can’t hack from a spotlight.
Back in the hall, a judge turned back to Skylar.
“Miss Green, without that footage—or any additional proof—you will be disqualified.”
Evelyn leaned toward Zack, her lips barely moving, eyes glued to the stage.
“Let’s see how she proves anything now,” she murmured with a smug smile. “I got rid of everything—even those damn initials she used to catch me last time.”
Zack smirked, but a twitch in his brow betrayed a flicker of unease. Skylar stood too steady, too sure—like a queen before her checkmate.
Skylar, still centered under the stage light, slowly tilted her head, expression unreadable.
“Why should I be the only one proving anything?” she asked coolly, turning toward the panel. “Tell me, has Miss Nelson offered a single shred of proof these are her designs?”
“She doesn’t need to,” someone muttered from the crowd. “She presented first.”
“Of course I can prove it,” Evelyn declared confidently and strutted to the stage, eyes gleaming.
She gestured toward the screen.
“Honorable judges, if you look closely, these designs follow Lumina’s signature series styling—each look a continuation of the last. It’s what the world knows and celebrates. That’s the kind of brilliance I’ve brought back under Nelson Group.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
But Skylar’s lips curled into a slow, deliberate smile.
She took one step toward Evelyn, her heels clicking like a clock counting down.
“So you're admitting,” she said, her voice carrying across the stage, “that these are Lumina’s designs?”
Evelyn’s brows pinched, confused but defiant. “Of course they are.”
A beat.
Skylar looked her dead in the eye.
“That's strange,” she said softly. “Because I don’t remember ever designing them for you.”
Confusion snapped into alarm on Evelyn’s face. “What... what are you talking about?”
Skylar straightened her spine. The storm in her eyes was no longer quiet.
“Because I am Lumina.”