Chapter Text
In the fashion world, countless names are born from a trend, only to fade away when the seasons change.
Yet, there is one name that has never followed the tide.
Instead, the tide follows them.
Hasthinas Maison.
For nearly a century, it has dominated almost every corner of the fashion industry, from haute couture houses and ready-to-wear lines to exclusive fragrances, cosmetics, modeling agencies, and fine jewelry.
The emblem of Hasthinas Maison, the Queen of the Night flower, has never missed a stage in the world's most prestigious fashion capitals:
Paris
Milan
New York
Tokyo
Jakarta
Wherever the runway lights illuminate, the name Hasthinas is always on everyone's lips.
Many assume an empire of this scale was built by a mastermind businessman.
But that couldn't be further from the truth.
He was a tailor.
A simple man known merely as Mr. Danendra. A man who started everything in a modest boutique with a single, aging sewing machine, driven by the firm belief that clothes are never just pieces of fabric. They are the way a person tells their story to the world.
It took him decades to turn that humble boutique into an empire.
And now, in the twilight of his life, Mr. Danendra faces a question far more daunting than building a global company:
Who is truly worthy of inheriting Hasthinas Maison?
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ House of White Bloom ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
That night was the most anticipated evening of the season, the Hasthinas Legacy Fashion Gala.
It was an exclusive affair accessible only to guests with a private invitation. Celebrities, magazine editors, investors, royals, and fashion collectors from across the globe filled the seats.
Sitting in the front row was the family behind Hasthinas Maison.
The founder and CEO, Mr. Danendra, still radiated authority despite his silvering hair. His sharp gaze swept over every detail of the show, as if no single stitch could escape his scrutiny.
To his right sat his eldest son, Melvine Detra Danendra, better known simply as Detra.
Detra wore a custom black suit accented with gold details, a glass of champagne permanently in hand since the event began. He returned every greeting with a charming smile.
On the other side sat his younger brother, Baskara Pandu Danendra.
Unlike Detra, who thrived in the spotlight, Baskara seemed completely absorbed in his own world. He wore a simple white shirt with a silver earring in one ear. Instead of acknowledging the audience, his eyes were fixed on the models walking down the runway.
"Look number seven," Pandu murmured softly. "Shorten the train by five centimeters."
An assistant standing behind him immediately jotted it down. "Understood, sir."
Mr. Danendra glanced at his youngest son, a subtle smile touching the old man's face. Baskara never stopped being a designer, even while the runway show was in full swing.
The stage lights dimmed. An orchestral score swelled to fill the hall.
The final model stepped out.
The ivory-colored gown seemed to flow like moonlight. Hand-stitched white rose embroideries adorned the entire skirt, while its silhouette seamlessly blended classic luxury with sharp, modern lines.
The audience fell silent for a few breathless seconds.
Then... thunderous applause echoed through the hall. Even the notoriously hard-to-please fashion editors rose to their feet.
A standing ovation.
The host smiled broadly. "Ladies and gentlemen... tonight’s entire collection was crafted by the Creative Director of Hasthinas Maison..."
A brief pause.
"...Baskara Pandu Danendra!"
Flashbulbs flooded the room once more.
Baskara rose from his seat. Without any dramatic display of emotion, he walked toward the runway. The applause grew even deafening. To the fashion world, Baskara's name was synonymous with perfection. Every collection he designed sold out before it even hit production. Models dreamed of wearing his creations, while rival fashion houses scrambled to predict his next stroke of inspiration.
Behind the cheers, Detra tightened his grip on his champagne glass.
Clink...
A faint hairline crack appeared on the glass.
"You should be enjoying the show," a gentle voice came from the woman beside him, Garia, his wife.
Detra offered a hollow smile. "I am."
Yet, his eyes never veered from Baskara, who now stood in the center of the runway, taking his bow before the roaring crowd.
Not far from them, another man joined in the applause.
Gareth Pyrisse.
Garia's older brother looked immaculate in a dark gray suit paired with a silver rose-patterned tie. He clapped longer than anyone else in the room.
"Simply brilliant," he murmured under his breath.