Isabella Martinez slammed her sketchbook shut as her assistant rushed in with the news. "Did you hear? The First Lady-elect chose Dominique for the inauguration gown."

Three months of sketches, sleepless nights, and carefully orchestrated "chance" meetings at charity events—all wasted. Isabella glanced at the red silk draped on her mannequin, a dress that would now never see the lights of the National Mall.

Her phone buzzed: a message from Sophie Chen at Vogue. "Need comment re: Dominique announcement. Deadline 1 hour."

Isabella's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She had dirt on Dominique—everyone did. The "ethically sourced" fabrics that actually came from sweatshops, the designs suspiciously similar to young indie creators. One phone call to the right blogger...

But then she remembered last year's Designers Guild dinner. Dominique had pulled her aside after Isabella's divorce hit Page Six. "The vultures are circling," she'd warned. "Watch your back." That night, three potential scandals about Isabella mysteriously disappeared from the gossip sites.

Her atelier door burst open again. "Ms. Martinez! The First Lady-elect's office is on line two. Something about... a state dinner collection?"

Isabella straightened her spine, a small smile playing at her lips. The inauguration was just one night. State dinners happened all year.

She picked up the phone, already visualizing silhouettes. "This is Isabella Martinez. Yes, I'd be honored to submit proposals for the spring collection."

Later that evening, as her team celebrated with champagne, Isabella's phone lit up with a text from Dominique: "The state dinner commission. Well played. Lunch next week?"

Isabella responded with a single emoji: a chess piece.

In fashion, like politics, the real game was always longer than it seemed.