Bleeding Spots: Cruella De Vil

Chapter 1

In the heart of the roaring 1960s London, where dreams played in every corner, lived a woman whose ambition echoed through the cobblestone streets. Cruella De Vil, a name that resonated like a promise and a threat, was more than a mere designer. She was a tempest, a whirlwind of creativity and ambition, her every step echoing with the determination to carve her name in the annals of fashion history.

Her story began in a small, dusty attic studio overlooking the Thames, a space filled with the scent of fabric and the echo of dreams. Day and night, Cruella could be found there, her fingers dancing like spiders on silk, her eyes alight with a fierce passion that seemed to burn brighter than the city lights below. The room was strewn with sketches, each stroke of her pen a testament to her relentless pursuit of perfection.

Cruella was not content with the ordinary. Her designs were a riot of colors, a rebellion against the muted palettes of her contemporaries. She dared to blend fabrics that others deemed incompatible, creating ensembles that whispered of audacity and screamed of originality. Her creations were not just clothes; they were statements, bold and unapologetic.

The fashion circles buzzed with whispers about the woman with the shock of black and white hair. Some admired her audacity, her refusal to bow to conventions. Others, however, saw her as a threat, a challenger to their own ambitions. Cruella, though, was unfazed. She thrived on the competition, on the challenge of proving herself in a world where a woman's success was often measured in whispers and sidelong glances.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink, Cruella stood by her window, her eyes fixed on the city below. London, with its towering buildings and bustling streets, was a canvas, and she was determined to paint it in her own colors. The city's heartbeat was her own, its dreams fueling her relentless pursuit of greatness.

In that moment, as the city lights flickered to life, Cruella made a silent vow. She would not just be a designer; she would be a legend. Her name would be synonymous with innovation and fearlessness. She would weave tales with fabric, and her every creation would be a chapter, a story that would be whispered through the generations.

The night stretched before her, a tapestry of endless possibilities. And as Cruella turned back to her sketches, her hand steady and her eyes ablaze, she knew that her journey had only just begun.