Chapter 15 - The Grand Palais Siege
Friday evening arrived under a torrential Parisian rainstorm, but outside the glass-domed majesty of the Grand Palais, hundreds of paparazzi bulbs flashed like strobe lightning. Limousines lined the Avenue Winston Churchill for half a mile.
Inside the VIP holding lounge, the tension was suffocating. Every major fashion critic from New York, London, and Tokyo sat in the front rows.
And in the center of the celebrity section, occupying prime seats they had forced through their corporate shareholding in the venue’s parent company, sat Victoria Vance and Chloe.
Victoria wore an expression of smug, supreme patience. She whispered in Chloe’s ear, and Chloe giggled—a hollow, nervous sound that echoed over the ambient hum of the crowd. They were waiting for the disaster. They were waiting for an incomplete collection and an announcement that the showpiece had been pulled.
Backstage, the models stood in formation. Thirty-five ethereal creations of structured grit and silk, each woman wearing an architectural silver cuff shaped like a broken shackle.
"Two minutes to house lights down," the stage director announced into his headset.
Matteo stood in front of me, adjusting the collar of my minimalist black tuxedo. His gaze was fierce, protective, and completely unwavering.
"Are you ready to take your throne?" he asked.
"I’m ready to burn down their front row," I replied.
The lights in the cavernous Grand Palais suddenly plummeted into absolute darkness.
The crowd gasped. A single, low bass note—deep, resonant, and ominous—vibrated through the floorboards. Then, a single white spotlight struck the center of the eighty-meter mirrored runway.
The music shifted into a haunting, percussive symphony. The first model stepped out.
The applause began as a polite murmur and swelled into an uncontrollable roar. Look after look glided down the mirrored glass: fluid trousers in crushed charcoal velvet, coats lined with hand-painted raw silk, dresses structured with boning that mirrored antique armor.
May you like
Victoria’s smug smile began to slip. From my position in the backstage monitor booth, I saw her scanning the runway notes, her brow furrowing in confusion. The show was running with mathematical perfection.
And then, the music dropped into absolute silence.
