Rival by Design

The knot of my tie was the only thing I allowed to be complicated. A perfect, symmetrical Windsor, pulled tight against the starched collar of my shirt. Everything else was simple, severe. The suit was my own design—a single-breasted jacket in black English wool, cut so sharply it could draw blood. My reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror of my Tribeca apartment was a study in control. Not a hair out of place, not a hint of emotion on my face. An armor of my own making.

It was the night of the Fashion Guild gala, an event I professionally required myself to attend and personally dreaded with a cold, hard knot in my stomach. Because he would be there. He was always there, holding court like some modern-day Medici prince, draped in his own ostentatious silks and oozing a charm so slick it was practically a biohazard.

Fabio Caruso.

Just thinking his name felt like swallowing glass.

I adjusted my cufflinks, the silver cool against my skin. They were vintage, a small concession to history in my otherwise brutally modern world. A world Fabio had tried to burn down before I’d even finished building it.

It had been ten years since we were students at Parsons, two of the supposed rising stars in our graduating class. I was the quiet one, the architect. My designs were about structure, form, the integrity of the line. Fabio was the peacock, all color and noise, his process a chaotic explosion of passion that I found both undisciplined and secretly fascinating. We were rivals from day one, oil and water, logic and impulse.

The final portfolio review was our launchpad. I had poured everything into my final collection, centered around a concept I called the "Asymmetric Drape"—a jacket that was half severe tailoring, half fluid cascade of fabric. It was innovative, the culmination of a year's obsessive work. I presented first. I saw the look on the judges' faces, the flicker of genuine excitement. I thought, this is it.

Then came Fabio. He walked in, all flashing teeth and wild hair, and unrolled his own sketches. And there it was. My drape. Not an exact copy, but the soul of it was there, twisted into something more flamboyant, more Caruso. He’d seen my preliminary sketches pinned to my board a week prior, a moment I’d dismissed. He called his version the "Sprezzatura Fold," gave the judges a bullshit story about being inspired by a collapsing Roman statue, and they ate it up with a silver spoon.

He got the internship at Gucci. He got the seed money. Within two years, "Caruso" was the brand on every editor's lips, built on the back of my stolen idea. I had to claw my way up, brick by painful brick, founding "A. Sterling" with nothing but a small loan and a fury so profound it kept me awake for the better part of a year.

Tonight, I would see him. He would undoubtedly be surrounded by the very critics and buyers I was still trying to win over. He would greet me with that lazy, infuriating smile, his eyes sparkling with a mockery only I could decipher. And I would have to smile back, all polite professionalism, while imagining the satisfying crunch of his perfectly straight nose breaking under my fist.

I took one last look in the mirror, my jaw tight. The man staring back was a fortress. Polished, impenetrable, and ready for war.

The air in the Temple of Dendur was thick with expensive perfume and the low hum of ambition. Waiters drifted through the crowd with trays of champagne, their movements silent and practiced. I was nursing a single glass, making it last, my eyes scanning the room. I’d cornered Eleanor Vance, the head buyer for Neiman Marcus, near the reflecting pool. She was a titan, a woman whose orders could make or break a brand for a decade.

"The integrity of the material is paramount," I was saying, keeping my voice low and steady over the din. "We're moving towards a post-luxury model where the value is in the intelligence of the design, not the label."

She was listening, her sharp eyes appraising me over the rim of her glass. I felt the familiar thrill of a successful pitch, the sense of order clicking into place. And then, the temperature changed. A scent cut through the expensive floral cloud—sandalwood and something citrusy, bright and alive. It was his scent.

"Eleanor, you look like a goddess," a voice purred, smooth as velvet.

Fabio. He materialized beside her, a vision in an emerald green silk suit that should have been ridiculous but instead looked like it had been woven directly onto his body. It was unstructured, flowing around him as he moved, the complete antithesis of my own rigid tailoring. He didn't even glance at me, just took Eleanor's hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Fabio, darling," she breathed, her entire posture softening. The formidable industry giant was gone, replaced by a woman completely captivated. "Your last collection was divine. That crimson coat..."

"It would look better on you," he said, his smile widening. He finally turned his gaze on me, and it was like being hit with a spotlight. The smile didn't reach his eyes. "Sterling. Still dressing for a funeral, I see."

The insult was so casual, so perfectly delivered, that Eleanor laughed. My jaw tightened. "Some of us believe in letting the work speak for itself, Caruso," I replied, my voice dangerously even. "We don't need to wear a circus tent to get noticed."

Fabio's eyes glinted. He took a step closer, invading my space. He was all warmth and motion, a stark contrast to my stillness. "Ah, but fashion is theater, no? Your work... it is beautiful, like a perfect, empty museum. My work is for people who live. People with blood in their veins." He gestured vaguely at my suit. "This is for men who are afraid to feel."

My hand clenched around my champagne flute. I wanted to smash it on the stone floor. I wanted to grab the front of his ridiculously expensive suit and inform him that I felt plenty—mostly a white-hot, blinding rage directed entirely at him.

Instead, I gave him a thin, cold smile. "There's a difference between feeling and melodrama. My clients understand that."

"Do they?" Fabio murmured, his gaze flicking from me back to a now-rapt Eleanor. "Or are they just waiting for someone to give them permission to be bold?" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant for her but loud enough for me to hear. "I have a new fabric, Eleanor. It’s made from recycled ocean plastics, but it feels like heaven. I'll send a swatch to your office tomorrow."

He had her. Completely. He hadn't talked about brand philosophy or post-luxury models. He’d seduced her with a touch, a smile, and the promise of something beautiful. He gave my shoulder a patronizing pat, his fingers lingering just a fraction too long, a gesture of dominance disguised as familiarity. "Good to see you, Sterling. Try to enjoy yourself."

Then he was gone, swallowed by a crowd of admirers that parted for him like the Red Sea. Eleanor gave me a polite, distracted nod before drifting off in his wake. I stood alone, the ice in my champagne now completely melted, my reflection staring back at me from the dark water of the reflecting pool. He made it look so easy. He made me feel like a ghost, a black-and-white photograph in a world he painted in vivid, screaming color. And I hated him for it. I hated him with a precision and focus that felt like the only real, passionate thing I owned.

A low chime echoed through the hall, and the lights dimmed, casting the ancient temple walls in dramatic shadow. A single spotlight hit the small stage erected before the reflecting pool. All conversation died. On stage, flanked by the co-chairs of the Guild, stood the editor-in-chief of Vogue, a woman whose severe bob and sunglasses were as iconic as the magazine she ran. Her presence signaled that this was not just another industry back-patting session. This was important.

"Good evening," her voice, crisp and amplified, cut through the silence. "For decades, this industry has been driven by a singular vision. The vision of the individual. The lone genius."

She paused, letting the words hang in the air. I felt a familiar stirring of pride. I was a lone genius. My brand was my vision, untainted and absolute.

"But the future," she continued, "is not singular. The future is collaborative. The future is sustainable. It requires us to break down the walls we have built around ourselves and our brands. It demands a new way of thinking."

A murmur went through the crowd. I felt a prickle of unease.

"Tonight, Vogue is proud to announce a new initiative, a challenge to our most brilliant minds. We are calling it the Vogue Vanguard project." She smiled, a rare and powerful thing. "We have selected eight of the world's most innovative designers and paired them, forcing them to collaborate on a single, sustainable capsule collection. They will have three months. The winning collection will receive a full feature spread, a commercial partnership with Net-a-Porter, and a one-million-dollar grant to fund their sustainable production lines."

The air crackled. This was bigger than an award. This was career-defining. A million dollars was one thing, but a Vogue-backed collaboration with Net-a-Porter was a golden key to the kingdom. Despite myself, a flicker of professional avarice ignited inside me. I was a leader in sustainable sourcing, even if I didn't shout about it like Caruso. I could win this.

"Our first pairing," the editor announced, her eyes sweeping the room, "brings together two designers who represent a fascinating duality in modern menswear. The architectural and the baroque. The mind and the heart."

My stomach clenched. I knew, with a sudden, sickening certainty, where this was going. It was a setup. It was a narrative. It was theater.

"The first designer in this pairing... is Aaron Sterling of A. Sterling."

A spotlight found me. I felt its heat on my face like an accusation. I forced my lips into a neutral line, inclining my head in a small, controlled nod. The polite applause felt like stones being thrown against my skin. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. Anyone but him, I prayed to a god I didn't believe in. Give me anyone else. I could work with the staid traditionalists from London, the avant-garde Belgians, anyone.

The editor let the silence stretch, a master of dramatic tension. I could feel hundreds of pairs of eyes on me, dissecting my reaction. I held myself perfectly still, a statue of composure.

"And Mr. Sterling will be collaborating with..."

My entire body went rigid. The blood in my veins turned to ice water. Please, no.

"...Fabio Caruso."

The name hit me like a physical blow. For a second, the entire, vast room—the ancient stone, the shimmering pool, the sea of expectant faces—seemed to tilt on its axis. The polite applause swelled, louder this time, mixed with genuine gasps of excitement. The sound was a roar in my ears, drowning everything out. A second spotlight flared to life across the room, illuminating Fabio. He was already on his feet, his emerald suit glowing. He turned, his eyes finding mine across the expanse, and that lazy, triumphant smile spread across his face. It was the same smile I saw in my nightmares.

I felt a wave of nausea so profound I thought I might be sick right there on the polished floor. My vision swam. All the air had been sucked from the room, from my lungs. I was trapped. Pinned by the light, by the applause, by the weight of a thousand expectations. They had taken my enemy, the man who represented the theft of my past and the antithesis of my future, and welded him to me. It wasn't a collaboration. It was a death sentence.

Someone was urging me forward. A hand on my back. The editor was gesturing for us to come together, to meet in the center of the room by the stage. For the cameras. Of course, for the cameras. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest, but my legs moved, carrying me forward on autopilot. It was like wading through tar. The applause was a physical force, pressing in on me.

Across the room, Fabio moved with the fluid grace of a predator. He closed the distance between us in a few easy strides, his smile never faltering. He looked energized, thrilled by the prospect. He was feeding on this, on the drama, on my visible discomfort. Each step brought him closer, and the world seemed to shrink until it was only the space between us, charged and humming with a terrible energy.

We met in the center of a vortex of flashing lights and expectant faces. The camera flashes were blinding, turning the world into a series of stark, overexposed stills. In one flash, I saw the triumphant glint in Fabio's dark eyes. In the next, the sharp cut of his jaw. He stopped in front of me, far too close, and extended his hand.

It hung there in the air between us, an offering and a demand. My own hand felt like lead. Lifting it was the hardest thing I’d ever done. The press of his palm against mine was a shock. His skin was warm and dry, his grip firm, enveloping my cold, rigid fingers. A jolt, sharp and unpleasant, shot up my arm. It felt less like a handshake and more like a circuit being completed, a current of pure animosity passing between us. The cameras clicked and whirred, capturing the lie for posterity. The forced union of Sterling and Caruso.

Fabio held my hand a moment too long, his thumb pressing lightly against my knuckles in a gesture that was almost intimate, and entirely possessive. He leaned in, using the noise of the room as cover. His face was so close I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. The scent of sandalwood and citrus filled my head, suffocating me. His lips brushed against the shell of my ear, and his voice was a low, velvet whisper meant only for me.

"May the best man win, Sterling."

I felt the words more than I heard them, a warm puff of air against my skin that made every nerve ending stand on end. A chill traced its way down my spine.

"We both know who that is."

He pulled back, that infuriatingly confident smile plastered on his face for the benefit of the room. He finally released my hand, but I could still feel the phantom heat of his grip, the brand of his touch. He had laid down the gauntlet. This wasn't a collaboration. It was war, and we were now trapped on the same side of the battlefield.

I forced the corners of my mouth to lift into something that might pass for a smile. I met his gaze, letting him see the ice in mine. The flashbulbs kept firing, freezing us in that moment—two partners, two collaborators, two sworn enemies bound together, smiling like we weren't about to tear each other to shreds. I had never felt more hate for a man in my life. And beneath the hate, simmering so deep I could barely acknowledge it, was the terrifying, undeniable shock of his touch, a current that still hummed in my blood.