Chapter 13 - Midnight Sabotage
The confrontation at the Musée d'Orsay had drawn battle lines across Paris. For forty-eight hours, our workshop inside the 8th arrondissement operated under lockdown. Twelve seamstresses, handpicked by Celeste and vetted by Matteo, worked in round-the-clock shifts to finish the thirty-six looks for the debut runway of the resurrected *Maison Laurent*.
Every stitch was an act of defiance. The collection was titled *Renaissance*—structured silhouettes interwoven with delicate hand-spun silks and raw metallic threads, symbolizing scars turning into armor.
At 2:00 AM on Thursday, just thirty-six hours before the Grand Palais show, I stood alone in the main cutting room. Matteo had left an hour earlier to oversee the runway construction across town, and Celeste was fast asleep in her apartment down the boulevard.
The atelier was quiet, save for the hum of the climate control preserving the rare vintage silks.
Suddenly, the lights flickered and plunged into pitch blackness.
The hum of the ventilation died. The emergency generators did not kick in.
I froze, reaching instinctively for the heavy brass shears resting on my work table. In the silence, the soft scrape of a rubber sole against hardwood resonated from the back corridor—where the master rack holding the show’s three finale gowns was stored.
"Who’s there?" I called out, my voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking through my veins.
No answer. Only the unmistakable, sickening sound of tearing silk.
I lunged through the darkness, pulling my phone from my pocket and flicking on the flashlight. The beam sliced through the dust motes and landed on the finale rack.
A masked figure dressed in black courier gear stood over the centerpiece gown—a dress crafted from sixty meters of pleated ivory faille embroidered with gold bullion thread. In their gloved hand was an open blade, already slicing down the bodice.
"Stop!" I yelled, throwing the heavy brass shears across the room.
The shears struck the intruder’s shoulder with a dull thud. The figure cursed in a feminine voice, dropped the blade, and spun around. I dove forward, grabbing the stranger's sleeve. We crashed into a mannequin, knocking it over with a resounding crash.
I tore the black balaclava off with my free hand.
The flashlight beam illuminated the frantic, tear-streaked face of Sophie—my lead assistant cutter, a girl I had sponsored through the École de la Chambre Syndicale.
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"Sophie?" The breath left my lungs. "Why?"
"They have my brother's medical debts, Claire!" Sophie sobbed, falling to her knees among the ruined yards of ivory silk. "Victoria Vance bought his clinic's promissory notes! She told me if I didn't destroy the finale, they would seize his treatment facility tomorrow!"
