My husband gave my front-row seat at Fashion Week to his twenty-four-year-old mistress

Midnight. The atelier on Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré looked like a war zone.

Scraps of crimson organza, spun-gold thread, and shattered glass littered the floor. Julian hadn't just bribed my senior seamstresses; before leaving, they had deliberately cut the delicate boning of the corsets and poured indelible ink over five of the centerpiece gowns.

My assistant, Sophie, was sobbing openly by the cutting table. "It's over, Madame. The show starts at 8:00 PM tomorrow. Even with every student from the fashion institute working all night, we can't repair thirty haute couture looks in twenty hours!"

I stood in the center of the devastation, my hands running along the charred remains of a silk cape.

Julian thought he knew how to hurt me. He thought couture was made of fabric, thread, and obedient labor. He forgot that my mother survived the collapse of Soviet-era factories by crafting ballgowns out of parachute nylon and military wire.

"Stop crying, Sophie," I commanded softly.

Sophie looked up, wiping her tears. "Madame?"

"Clear the floor. Sweep up every bead, every scrap of gold lace, every damaged panel of silk."

"What are we going to do?"

"We are not repairing Julian’s sabotage," I said, unpinning my hair and stripping off my blazer. I grabbed the golden shears resting on the table. "We are going to cut away every piece of fabric that Julian touched. Haute couture isn't about perfection. It’s about survival."

From the shadows near the freight elevator, a heavy wooden crate was wheeled into the room. Marc nodded to me, prying open the timber lid with a crowbar.