They laughed at a plus-size seamstress when her stepsister ripped the only dress her late mother had left her—

Dawn broke cold and crystalline over Manhattan.

While Ennio’s men cleared the aftermath of the failed ambush and delivered the captured saboteurs directly to federal prosecutors along with wiretap recordings proving Dario Moretti’s conspiracy, Hattie stood in the center of the studio, inspecting her final collection.

Every hem was immaculate. Every bead was secure.

At 8:00 AM, a fleet of armored transport vans escorted by private security arrived at the studio. The eight gowns, wrapped in protective velvet sheeting, were loaded with the care normally reserved for priceless Renaissance masterpieces.

When they arrived at the Metropolitan Pavilion—the epicentre of the city's International Fashion Showcase—the backstage area was already a storm of chaos.

Hair stylists, makeup artists, screaming producers, and terrified models rushed through the corridors. In the VIP greenroom, Victoria Kincaid was downing her third glass of prosecco, while Blair sat in a makeup chair, sobbing hysterically.

"Mother, what are we going to show?!" Blair cried, swatting away an eyelash technician. "The collection isn't finished! The four dresses we managed to cobble together look like lumpy pillowcases! Moretti’s men never called back, and the press is already taking their seats!"

"Shut up, Blair!" Victoria hissed, her voice ragged with panic. "We will send out the vintage archive pieces from Charles's first year! We’ll tell the reporters it’s a 'retrospective homage'! We just have to survive today. Once the fashion board renews our licensing, we can sue Ennio for the freeze—"

The heavy double doors of the backstage loading dock swung open.

A hush rippled through the bustling backstage crew.

Walking through the doors, flanked by four towering security guards, was Hattie.

She wore an impeccably tailored cream wool trench coat cinched at her waist, her hair styled in soft, cascading Hollywood waves, her makeup radiant and bold with a classic crimson lip. Beside her walked Ennio, wearing a three-piece charcoal suit that screamed sovereign authority.

Behind them, assistants rolled in three long racks of breathtaking garments under dark velvet covers, each emblazoned with a brand-new crest: **L’HIRONDELLE — HATTIE VANCE.**

Victoria choked on her wine. Blair leaped out of the makeup chair, her jaw dropping.

"Hattie?!" Victoria shrieked, marching toward her, her face twisting in pure rage. "How dare you show your face here! You stole our sketches! You stole our equipment! Guards! Security! Have this woman removed immediately!"

Two venue security guards approached, but the moment they saw Ennio Valtrani step into their path, they halted dead in their tracks, their hands immediately dropping to their sides.

"I wouldn't advise taking another step," Ennio said smoothly.

The chief director of the International Fashion Showcase, Jean-Paul Laurent—a legend of Parisian couture—hurried out of the main hall, looking stressed.

"What is this screaming?!" Jean-Paul demanded in his thick French accent. "Maison Kincaid was supposed to present their runway lineup forty minutes ago! We are holding the curtain for the international press!"

"Jean-Paul!" Victoria cried, latching onto his sleeve. "This girl—this former employee—has broken in to disrupt our presentation!"

Jean-Paul didn't even look at Victoria. His eyes were glued to the edge of the velvet cover on Hattie’s first rack, which had slipped slightly to reveal the hem of the midnight-blue gown.

Jean-Paul walked past Victoria as if she were invisible. He reached out with trembling, reverent fingers, lifting the velvet cover.

The entire backstage area went dead silent.

The gown was a triumph of engineering and art. The velvet seemed to hold the night sky within its folds, the structural silver boning shaped to flatter a full, voluptuous figure with an elegance that defied standard runway conventions. And along the train, thousands of tiny hand-embroidered silver swallows took flight toward the waist.

Jean-Paul slowly turned to Hattie, his eyes wide with awe. "Mon Dieu... who designed this?"

"I did," Hattie said, her voice clear, unapologetic, and proud. "I am Hattie Vance. And this is my collection."

Jean-Paul looked at Blair’s pathetic rack of wrinkled, hastily pinned archive gowns in the corner, then back to Hattie’s masterpieces.

"Maison Kincaid is off the program," Jean-Paul declared without a second of hesitation. "Miss Vance, your collection opens the Grand Finale."

"No!" Blair screamed, lunging forward with her nails bared toward Hattie. "That’s my spot! You fat, thieving little—"

Before Blair could get within three feet of Hattie, Ennio’s arm shot out, catching Blair by the wrist in an iron grip that brought the girl instantly to her knees with a yelp of pain.

"I warned you in the ballroom, Blair," Ennio whispered, leaning down just enough so only she could hear the venom in his tone. "You don't touch the swallow."