Chapter 1: Threads of Control

Chapter 1: Threads of Control

Location: Paris, France

The morning light sliced through the glass walls of Iva Fashion House, casting long reflections on the polished marble floors. The hum of productivity halted—just for a second—as the rhythmic click of stilettos echoed down the corridor. Ivikaa Viren Ambani had arrived. Dressed in a crisp tailored black pantsuit with a sculpted blazer and minimal gold accents, she was the very embodiment of Western elegance—timeless, sharp, and arresting. Her dark, curly hair cascaded around her shoulders in perfect waves, with a few strands framing her face to add a touch of softness to her otherwise commanding presence. Effortless yet meticulously styled, it mirrored the balance of control and elegance that defined her. Every step she took was intentional, every movement fluid, like choreography only she could perform. Assistants straightened their backs, designers lowered their voices, and the entire floor shifted into heightened awareness.

She didn't need to speak—her presence did the talking. Her eyes swept the workspace with practiced precision, taking in the new designs pinned on mannequins, the mood boards half-formed on cork walls, the trailing fabrics awaiting approval. No chaos dared approach her line of vision. She paused briefly to glance at a sketch left carelessly on a table—her manicured finger tapped it once, a silent cue for Maya, her assistant, to follow up. With a subtle nod, she moved forward again. Her walk was not rushed, yet everyone knew—this was not leisure. This was power in motion. She didn't tolerate anything that compromised her brand's fierce, forward vision. Her rules were gospel, and her brand existed at the knife's edge of elegance and command.

Ivikaa entered her office—a sanctuary of glass, linen, and muted luxury—without a word. The automatic doors whispered shut behind her, sealing the world out. She stood for a moment at the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking Paris. To anyone watching, she appeared untouchable. No softness. Just clarity, control, and concrete ambition. But for now, the Ice Queen was in her throne, and the empire moved at the pace of her breath.

Just then, the door opened gently. Maya stepped in, tablet in hand, expression carefully neutral. She moved with the fluid professionalism Ivikaa demanded, but her eyes gave away a sliver of unease.

Maya Awasthi.

At the age of 23 when Ivikaa founded her fashion house there was one that solidified her as a force in the world of high fashion. And by her side from the very beginning was Maya, a quiet yet determined ally who became more than just an assistant. There is only one person who takes her wrath and command is her personal assistant Maya.

"Sayantika didn't win," Maya said quietly. "She was announced as the runner-up at the India Ethnic Fashion Week."

Ivikaa's hand froze mid-air. Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She didn't speak. The shift in atmosphere was enough. Sayantika had been selected, mentored, prepared. Perfection was expected. Mediocrity wasn't even a language Ivikaa entertained. Second place wasn't a result—it was an insult.

"Get me her performance footage," she said flatly. "And hold the PR post. We don't celebrate second place."

Maya turned to leave, but Ivikaa's voice, now colder, stopped her. "Who?"
Maya hesitated. "Agnivanshi Fashions."

Ivikaa didn't blink. Ethnic Fashion Week. She barely remembered approving the team's proposal. One of her sub-teams had participated—more as a routine exposure activity than anything strategic. She hadn't designed the collection, hadn't even looked at the final showcase. For her, it was a minor engagement, completely insignificant in the grander scheme of her empire. India's applause or judgment had long stopped mattering to her. She didn't seek crowns in places she had outgrown.

Yet, an hour later, a lavish bouquet of white lilies appeared on her desk. Clean, pretentious, dramatic. She narrowed her eyes slightly before spotting the small white card nestled within the petals.

"Congratulations, Miss Runner-Up – with LOVE, Martha."

Of course. Martha. Her longtime Parisian rival—ever watchful, ever petty. Martha thrived not on her own brilliance, but on Ivikaa's rare missteps. And here she was, gloating over a title Ivikaa hadn't even tried to win. It wasn't about the loss. It was about the idea that Ivikaa had been defeated—and Martha would savor even the illusion of that.

Ivikaa didn't react—not outwardly. The card was placed calmly into her drawer, unreadable as ever. Let Martha smile. Let the world speculate. Ivikaa had empires to build. She didn't have time for games she never entered in the first place.
By the evening, every fashion tabloid from Paris to Milan was flashing variations of the same story:

"Ambani's Ice Queen Melts: Runner-Up at Ethnic Fashion Week"
"Indian Princess... Not So Indian?"
"Ivikaa Ambani Stumbles on Home Turf"
"From Couture to Cracks: Has Ivikaa Lost Her Touch?"

Ivikaa read the headlines one after the other, flipping through each magazine and online column with the same cold detachment she reserved for subpar design sketches. The truth was laughable—she hadn't even participated. The collection had been handled by a junior team, approved as a low-priority project. Yet the world acted like she had walked the ramp herself and tripped over her own creation.

Martha's fingerprints were all over it. She had orchestrated this. One well-placed flower bouquet, a deliberately leaked "congratulatory" message, and whispered sound bites to the right people at the right tables. The result? A media storm portraying Ivikaa's disinterest as disgrace.

Ivikaa said nothing. She didn't need to. But the glint in her eye told Maya everything.
Because Martha had just made a fatal mistake—she turned a woman who didn't care about the game into one who suddenly had a reason to play.

Just as Ivikaa closed the tabloid in her hand, her phone lit up with a familiar name. Papa.
Her papa. Born and brought up in THE AMBANI family. She is THE AMBANI princess. Yes. Daughter of Education Minister of India and sole owner of Ambani Industries – Viren Ambani.
She didn't hesitate even for a fraction of a second before answering. "Hello, Papa," she said, her voice steady but softer than it had been all morning. With the flick of her wrist, she gestured for Maya to leave her cabin.

"Beta, how are you?" Viren Ambani's voice crackled over the line, rich with warmth, age, and a tinge of weariness.

"I'm fine, Papa," she replied, leaning back slightly in her chair.

"How are you?" A pause.

"I miss you, Ivikaa," he said plainly. "This house... it echoes too much now. Your brothers are neck-deep in the business, and I sit in the study pretending to read policy papers just to avoid the silence."

For a moment, she said nothing. The weight of her father's loneliness cut deeper than she let on.

"I miss you too," she said quietly. "And them."

"You haven't visited in a long time," he continued gently, not accusing, but certainly hoping.

"I know Paris is your world now, but this is still your home."

Ivikaa's fingers tightened slightly around the edge of her desk. Her heart belonged nowhere and everywhere. But the idea of her father, the man who gave her both her name and her wings, sitting alone in a mansion echoing with absence—unsettled something in her.

"I'll think about it, Papa," she said quietly. "But you know... Paris is home now. I've blended here. It feels like. It feels far, sometimes."

Her father's chuckle was low, tinged with understanding. "I know, beta. You've always been strong. But remember, no matter where you are, you're never too far from me."

"I know, Papa," Ivikaa murmured, even though part of her—her heart—still wondered if she could ever truly return to the place that had shaped her.

She stayed silent for a moment longer, savoring the rare connection with her father, before he broke the stillness.  "Take care of yourself, Ivikaa. Your brothers – Virya, Vayu and I... we are fine. But just know we all miss you. The world might be calling, but don't forget us back here."

"I won't forget," she replied, the words laden with sincerity, yet tinged with the bittersweet truth that, for all her success, the empire she had built in Paris still felt like an ocean away from the family she left behind.

Ivikaa took a deep breath, the weight of the conversation with her father still lingering, but she knew she couldn't afford to stay in that emotional space for too long. Just then, the familiar sound of Maya's footsteps broke through the quiet hum of the office. Maya stepped in with her usual poise, holding a tablet in her hands. She looked up, eyes reflecting a mixture of professionalism and something else—perhaps caution—before she handed it over to Ivikaa. "A new development, Ivikaa," Maya said, her voice measured as always.

Ivikaa took the tablet without a word, her sharp gaze flicking to the screen. Ivikaa's eyes narrowed as she scrolled through the Instagram posts. The caption was everywhere: "Agnivanshi Fashions claims victory at India Fashion Week. Raha Agnivanshi takes the crown with a design that radiates elegance and tradition—crafted by none other than Devaki Agnivanshi." The headline stung, but not for the reasons one might think. This wasn't just about a model or a design.

"Who is this Agnivanshi?"

Ivikaa muttered under her breath, furrowing her brow as she swiped through the photos. It was clear that this wasn't a name she was familiar with. The design, though striking, was traditional in nature, something Ivikaa herself rarely paid attention to. She'd long moved past the rules of ethnic fashion. It wasn't the victory that piqued her interest; it was the realization that someone, somewhere, had been making waves in a world she thought she'd left behind. Despite not being familiar with them, Agnivanshi Fashions had managed to claim the top spot in an arena Ivikaa had long since dismissed as unworthy of her attention.

"Get me all the details about India Fashion Week and the Agnivanshi team," she said, her voice cool but with a sharp edge of command. "I want everything—how they won, what they showcased, and who these Raha and Devaki Agnivanshi really are."

Maya nodded immediately, her calm expression betraying no surprise at Ivikaa's swift shift from passive observation to active interest. "Of course, Iva," she replied, already tapping away at her tablet to gather the information. She knew better than to ask why—Maya had learned over the years that when Ivikaa's attention was caught, there was no such thing as 'just a passing curiosity.'

Ivikaa was never one to take such challenges lightly.

Later that night, as the Parisian city lights twinkled outside her office window, Ivikaa leaned back in her chair, taking a moment to unwind. The soft hum of the city filtered in through the glass, adding to the calming ambiance. She closed her eyes, letting the quiet of the night settle over her. Just as she began to relax, her phone buzzed, the sudden interruption pulling her from her thoughts. The screen flashed with the familiar names of her twin brothers, Virya and Vayu Ambani. When the papa Ambani is being busy as government official he doesn't even glance at his father's empire. It solely taken care by his twins.

A smile tugged at her lips as she swiped to answer the call, the connection instantly lighting up with their faces.

"Hey, Iva," Virya greeted with his signature grin, his face animated and full of energy. Vayu, ever the quieter one, sat beside him, his presence a comforting contrast to his twin's exuberance. The two were the anchors that kept Ivikaa grounded, even if she was miles away. The warmth of their voices was like a balm to her, softening the edges of her day.

"Are you both still breathing?" Ivikaa teased, her voice betraying the warmth hidden beneath her usual icy exterior. It was their daily routine, a constant thread that connected them no matter where life took them. She wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

Vayu leaned forward, his voice soft but full of the same affectionate routine. "Just about, but it's been another hectic day at the office. I had to juggle a million things for the so called Ambani Industries."

Virya rolled his eyes playfully. "As if Vayu doesn't secretly love running the show! But I spent the whole day buried under project proposals. Too much paperwork, not enough excitement."

Ivikaa couldn't help but laugh. Their daily check-ins had become her grounding ritual, the steady pulse of familiarity in her life, no matter how chaotic everything else was. "Sounds like a typical day for both of you," she replied with affection, feeling the weight of the distance between them somehow lighten.

Virya raised an eyebrow, clearly shifting gears. "What about you? How's Paris treating you? We heard about the India Fashion Week stuff."

Ivikaa detected the subtle concern in his voice, though it was masked by his usual teasing tone. She leaned back in her chair, staring at the city lights outside. "You two are always so worried about me. Are you spying on me?" she deflected, trying to brush it off. "I'm fine. Just... the usual. Busy."

Vayu frowned slightly, sensing her attempt to avoid the topic. "We know it's not just the usual, Iva. Are you sure everything's okay? And no, we're not spying on you. It's your job, MOM."

Ivikaa paused, taking a moment to collect herself before speaking. She stared out at the glittering city below her, her gaze distant. "Everything's fine, Vayu," she reassured him, though her words carried a faint edge. She hadn't shared the emotional turmoil she'd experienced earlier that day—her pride had taken a hit, but it wasn't something she wanted to burden them with. They had their own challenges, and this wasn't one they needed to carry for her.

"Alright, we won't nag," Virya said, his voice light but laced with concern. "We just wanted to check in, see how the Ice Queen's holding up."

Ivikaa smirked, a hint of her usual confidence slipping back into place. "I'm always fine, Virya," she said, her tone smooth. "Now, enough about me. Tell me about your day. What else happened?"

And so, the conversation shifted back to their usual back-and-forth banter. The challenges of their day-to-day lives, the small victories, and the occasional frustrations were shared as if time and distance didn't exist. For those few moments, Ivikaa felt like she was right there with them in India, a part of their lives despite the physical miles between them. It was a rare moment of peace, a chance to just be Ivikaa, the sister, away from the pressures and battles of her world.
As the screen went dark after her call with twins, a familiar silence settled into the room. Ivikaa leaned back slightly, her fingers instinctively reaching for the drawer to her right. She opened it slowly and pulled out a photo frame—its silver edges worn from years of quiet touches. Inside was a photograph taken years ago: her entire family frozen in a rare, joyful moment. Her father (Viren Ambani), tall and strong, stood behind her mother, Christina Ambani, who radiated warmth and elegance. In front were the children—Ivikaa holding little Kiaan Ambani in her lap, while the twin boys, Virya and Vayu, stood on either side, all of them smiling as if nothing could ever go wrong.

Her overprotective, motherly instincts always kicked in whenever she wasn't in touch with her brothers. Growing up in a household full of men, Ivikaa had never quite behaved like a typical girl. She was tough, composed, and fiercely independent—but deep down, she longed for a softness she had never truly known. A mother's hug. A feminine voice to confide in. That craving had only deepened after losing her mother, Christina Ambani, during childbirth with her youngest brother, Kiaan. Just like her siblings, Ivikaa was half Indian and half American—a blend of two worlds, yet sometimes feeling like she belonged to neither.

The loss of her mother left a void she could never fill. When Kiaan was born, she took on the role of caregiver without hesitation. She raised him like her own child, pouring every ounce of the maternal love she never got to give Christina into her baby brother. But fate had other plans. Kiaan died in a tragic accident at just ten years old, and with him, a part of Ivikaa died too. She just kept moving, burying the grief beneath layers of success, resilience, and control. But in moments like this—alone, with the past staring back at her from behind glass—the pain returned like a whisper that never truly left.

This was just the beginning of a new life. And no matter where it took her, she would face it head-on—unflinching, relentless, and with a resolve that no one could break.

✧ ✦ ✧

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