Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The streets of London were glazed with an early frost, sunlight breaking across the polished bonnet of Carla Connor’s black car. She sat upright in the backseat, her legs crossed, a finger tapping against the leather of her Prada handbag. Her driver pulled up to the curb outside Revière’s headquarters: a tower of ambition. The moment he unlocked the doors, Carla stepped out. The crisp spring air kissed her skin, and she took a deep breath before entering the building.

She wore a fitted black eco-fur coat that fluttered slightly with the breeze, revealing the dress beneath:deep purple with open shoulders, cinched at the waist with a bold purple belt. Her dark brown hair was straight, grazing her collarbones. Big gold hoop earrings glinted in the sun, and her D&G heels struck the pavement with the kind of authority that made pedestrians look twice.

Black leather gloves. Oversized Prada sunglasses. Unapologetic poise.

The revolving doors of the building opened for her without a word.

Inside, everything changed.

People were darting out of her way, practically tripping over themselves to clear a path. A young woman who had just stepped into the lift took one look at Carla, blanched, and quickly backed out, mumbling a barely audible, “Sorry, Carla.”

Carla didn’t blink. Carla didn’t care.

She glided across the marble floor. Every room in the building seemed to bend to her will. No one dared to challenge her, no one risked letting her down. She demanded clarity, precision, and an unshakeable sense of responsibility. At the magazine, people watched her with the wary eyes of prey sensing a predator close by. Yet, beneath their fear, there was a deep respect. They all knew that her word carried weight, that her judgment could make or break a career. In the world of fashion, her opinion wasn’t just important - it was gospel.

As she stepped out onto the executive floor, Sarah Platt came rushing forward. “Carla,” she greeted, holding her folders and magazines like a shield. “Good morning.”

Carla didn’t stop walking.

“Why is it so difficult to confirm my appointments?” Her voice came out husky. She didn’t so much as glance at Sara, but the tight set of her jaw showed a simmering irritation.

Sarah blinked. “I did confirm-”

Carla didn’t let her finish. “The details of your incompetence do not interest me.”

She peeled off her sunglasses slowly, slid them into her handbag, and finally came to a halt by the large reception space outside her office - the heart of Revière. She took her gloves off one finger at a time, her tone clipped and steady.

“Tell Simone I’m not approving the girl she sent in for the Brazil layout. I wanted clean, athletic, and smiling, not dirty, tired and paunchy... ” This was the fourth model Carla had dismissed without a second thought. Too thin, too plain, too lifeless; vulgar, forgettable, uninspired. At times, it seemed the editor-in-chief possessed a wider vocabulary of scathing critiques than the rest of the fashion world combined. Nothing escaped her ruthless eye: the wrong shade of blonde, a mole slightly off-centre, a smile that didn’t seem natural enough. And until every image met her impossible standard of perfection, no one dared exhale even for a brief second.

Sarah scribbled quickly into her notebook. “Yes. Got it.”

“Get Lottie from L’Atelier Noir. I want the complete AW line sent here for preview - every fabric, every stitch. Tell her I don’t care where she’s sourcing them from.”

“Done.” Sarah kept her responses short, knowing better than to make a single unnecessary sound when her boss was in this kind of mood.

“Third, call Marcus at Michael Kors. He thinks he has fourteen days. He has four for his project. And I want a revised mock-up of the editorial layout on my desk by this afternoon.” From the outside, it resembled an army more than a fashion magazine. Every department marched to the relentless beat set by Carla Connor, buckling under the weight of her demands. She left no room for resistance, only obedience. “Also, I need to see what Ryan has called in for Gwyneth’s second cover try...”.

“Of course.”

“And fourth, find me someone who can translate the Tokyo preview issue with full annotated notes, by tomorrow morning. Also fluent in sarcasm. Am I reaching for the stars?” The question might’ve passed for a joke if it hadn’t come from Carla, whose dead-serious tone left no room for anything but a ‘yes.’

Sarah hesitated, a nervous laugh forming. “No, no. Absolutely doable.”

Carla gave her a sideways glance. “Good.”

With that, she shrugged off her coat and threw it effortlessly across Sarah’s desk. She turned to continue walking, then stopped. A flicker of movement caught her eye. A woman sat at the desk designated for the second assistant, her eyes fixed in a wide, almost trance-like stare. She was hypnotised.

Unfamiliar.

Unfashionable.

(But ethereally beautiful).

Clearly mesmerised by Carla’s presence.

Carla’s head tilted just slightly, her green eyes narrowing with laser focus. She turned to Sarah with a slow, measured step.

“…Who’s that?”

“Who’s that?”

“Nobody,” Sarah replied quickly, stepping slightly in front of Lisa to shield her from Carla’s line of sight. With a strained half-smile, she added, “Human Resources sent her up for the assistant job, and I interviewed her for you, but-”

She didn’t get to finish. Carla raised one hand, fingers splayed in a sharp, silencing gesture.

“I’ll do it,” she said, to Sarah’s great surprise. “The last two you sent me were total disappointments. Send her in.”

The brunette’s steady, unflinching gaze made it crystal clear: Sarah had better get back to her tasks or HR would soon be hiring two new assistants instead of one.

Carla Connor had learned long ago that if something needed to be done right, she’d have to do it herself. It was the principle that had shaped her career, starting years ago with the business she’d inherited from her first husband. Technically, the company had been left to her, but it was under Carla’s command that “Underworld” became the elite lingerie powerhouse of Manchester. Her designs dominated the European market: crafted with brutal precision, coveted by haute couture houses, and whispered about in showrooms of Paris and Milan.

She had transformed a factory into a fashion empire.

And after all those years of work, the only person she could trust completely was her brother. Aidan. They understood each other halfheartedly and had always been there for each other in the hardest of times. He’d been her business partner, her anchor, her co-conspirator, her heart. She’d been his. Until she wasn’t. Until she was no longer enough to help Aidan through the pain. Until the pain swallowed him whole.

He took his own life. It shattered her. She sold Underworld, vanished for almost a year, and returned to London to build something new. To get back to the start. To forget her grief.

Grief still lingered, of course, it always would. But she’d learned how to live around it, how to wear it like a hidden lining beneath her couture.

Reverie is her resurrection. Glossy, ruthless, addictive. Like Carla Connor herself.

She's known for her cold assessments, impossible standards, and tongue-in-cheek cruelty that keeps her staff both terrified and obsessed. Carla doesn’t explain herself. She doesn’t apologise. She simply expects everyone to either keep up… or get out of the way.

Carla radiated superiority but she wore it so effortlessly, so naturally, that it became almost captivating.

Lisa couldn’t look away.

For a brief second, she forgot why she was even there. Her nerves, her spiralling thoughts, her tightly coiled anxiety - all vanished in an instant. It felt like she was losing consciousness, like the world around her had narrowed into a tunnel vision focused solely on the woman before her.

Lisa had never had a thing for bitches. She didn’t like arrogant, aloof types. But here, just for a moment, she allowed herself to acknowledge the truth: the woman in front of her was breathtaking. Carla Connor was drop-dead gorgeous, and only a blind person would deny it.

The blonde woman was jolted from her thoughts by Sarah's voice announcing that Carla wanted to see Lisa in her office. At that moment, the tension hit her with renewed force, and she walked to the main office on wobbly legs.

The door clicked shut behind Lisa, and suddenly the temperature in the office seemed to drop several degrees. A chill swept over her so sharply that she half expected her teeth to chatter loud enough to echo off the walls.

Carla Connor sat behind a sleek, minimalist glass desk, flipping through a layout spread with deliberate, almost surgical precision. Her eyes locked onto Lisa’s. Lisa’s breath caught, and she instinctively stood straighter, every muscle tensing. One more second under that unflinching stare, and she was certain she’d turn to stone where she stood.

"Who are you?" Carla asked, her voice quiet.

Lisa blinked and stepped forward, extending her CV like a peace offering. Carla didn’t reach for it. She simply stared, one eyebrow arched in cool impatience.

"My name’s Lisa Swain. I, uh, recently-"

"What are you doing here?" Carla cut her off. She had no time for rehearsed speeches or empty credentials. She saw through people in seconds. And judging by her last two assistants, the editor-in-chief was long past believing that a polished CV meant someone was actually cut out to survive in her world.

Lisa swallowed. “I think I could do a good job as your assistant, and-”

A flicker of something crossed Carla’s face. A warning.

Lisa panicked. Words tumbled out before she could stop them. “I moved to London to make a change. I was a copper for a while, Detective Sergeant, and then after… everything, I worked for a local magazine in Manchester. Then I got a reporting job at The Register. I know someone in HR here and she suggested I apply. So… it’s this or back to writing about bin collections.”

Her voice faltered. The last bit came out quicker than intended. It sounded ridiculous the moment it left her lips.

Carla's face remained unreadable as she carefully set the layout pages aside. Yet something inside her shifted. Just for a second. Whether it was the mention of her hometown, Manchester, the sheer absurdity of Lisa’s career path, or the undeniable charm radiating from the woman standing before her, Carla couldn’t tell. Her job was to seek out beauty - identify it, elevate it - so of course, she couldn’t ignore it when it appeared so blatantly. But there was something more alluring about the blonde than just her ridiculously pretty face. Her big green eyes held something Carla recognised all too well, something so familiar it made her freeze for a moment.

"You don’t read Revière," she said, emerging from a trance the other woman hadn't even noticed she was in.

Lisa shook her head. “No.”

"And before today, you’d never really heard of me."

Another shake of the head. “No.”

"And you have no style. No sense of fashion.”

Lisa hesitated. “That depends on-”

“That wasn’t a question,” Carla replied, flat as ever.

Lisa flushed, her jaw tensing. But she pulled herself together.

“I worked on violent crime cases for nine years,” she said, voice steadier now. “I dealt with gang leaders, grieving parents, and spent months undercover once. After I left the force, I taught myself to write on deadline and eventually earned a byline at The Register. I’m not a fashion girl, but I know how to listen, how to adapt, and I don’t flinch under pressure.”

Carla lifted her hand to cut her off. “That’s all.”

The dismissal hit hard. Lisa lingered for a beat, unsure whether to say more. But the look on Carla’s face left no doubt. She turned, feeling humiliated, and walked to the door, her pulse thudding in her ears.

But just as her hand reached the handle, something in her paused. Lisa remembered exactly why she was here, and the iron-clad resolve, forged through years on the force, surged back through her veins.

She turned around.

“You’re right,” she said quietly, “I don’t belong here. I’m not glamorous, I’m not a model, and I’ve got no idea what’s on-trend this season. But I’m smart. I learn fast. And I’ll work harder than anyone else you’ve ever had sitting in that chair.”

Carla said nothing. Just watched. The silence stretched between them. For a heartbeat, it felt like a standoff, neither woman willing to blink first, neither ready to back down.

Then the door swung open, and in burst Ryan, one of the magazine's leading fashion authorities, close confidant and nephew of Carla, with a new mockup in his hand. And if anyone ever dared accuse the brunette of nepotism, they only had to look at poor Ryan, who failed the interview for the creative department internship five times, to know that favours weren’t extended, not even to family.

“We got the exclusive on the new Dior heels for Anya,” he said, not even looking up, “but if she wears them with that tweed jumpsuit, she’ll look like she’s auditioning for Doctor Who-”

He stopped. Eyes flicked to Lisa.

Lisa, summoning the last of her dignity, met Carla’s gaze. “Thanks for your time,” she said softly.

Then she walked out, spine straight, eyes forward.

Ryan turned to Carla with a slow blink. “Who is that sad little person?” he asked, aghast. “Are we doing a ‘Before and After’ feature I wasn’t told about?”

Lisa walked through the foyer of the towering building, feeling (much to her surprise) utterly disappointed. It wasn’t that she desperately wanted the job, or was eager to work for someone as arrogant, impatient, and unapologetically bitchy as Carla Connor. But there was something about the woman, about her gaze, her presence, that made Lisa’s blood boil in her veins. It ignited something raw and defiant. A need to stand her ground, to prove she could hold her own, and to make damn sure Carla Connor never got the chance to look down on her just because she wasn’t wearing Dolce & Gabbana.

She was so lost in the swirl of her own thoughts that she didn’t hear the hurried footsteps behind her until Sarah’s voice caught up with her.

“You’re hired. Tomorrow, at eight o’clock. Sharp.”

Sarah didn’t wait for a response. Her tone made it clear she wasn’t thrilled with the outcome, and before Lisa could even process it, she’d already spun on her heel and disappeared down the corridor.

Lisa remained where she was, right in the centre of the humming building, as the reality slowly sank in.

It was just like everyone in London said: once you’ve worked at Revière, you can write your own ticket to any of the most prestigious magazines in the country. A single line on your CV - “Carla Connor’s assistant” - was a definite guarantee of quality, which could open doors that would otherwise stay slammed shut.

But for Lisa, it wasn’t just about the opportunity. It was about proving something. To herself. To everyone who thought she didn’t belong.

And maybe, just maybe… to the fierce, stunning woman with an intense gaze.

Because Lisa Swain had never been one to back down from a challenge.

And Carla Connor? She looked like the challenge Lisa would gladly take on.