PART 2
The creative director lifted the microphone.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
He didn’t have to.
The silence inside the hall had become so complete that I could hear champagne dripping from the hem of my gown onto the polished runway.
One drop.
Then another.
Every camera in the room was pointed at me.
The woman in diamonds was no longer smiling.
Her name was Celeste Beaumont.
Heiress.
Socialite.
Fashion investor.
A woman whose photographs appeared on magazine covers even though she had never designed, sewn, or sketched a single dress in her life.
And tonight she was wearing one of mine.
She simply didn’t know it.
The creative director finally spoke.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I believe an introduction is overdue.”
A murmur moved through the audience.
Celeste crossed her arms.
“Oh, please,” she muttered.
The creative director ignored her.
His name was Antoine Laurent, and for nearly thirty years, he had controlled one of the most respected fashion houses in Paris.
Designers feared him.
Editors worshipped him.
Investors listened when he spoke.
But I remembered a different Antoine.
The man who had once sat across from me in a tiny studio at two in the morning while I sketched dresses on the backs of unpaid electricity bills.
The man who had made me a promise.
One I had never allowed him to keep.
Antoine looked directly at me.
“For the last four years,” he said, “our house has experienced what critics have called a creative rebirth.”
Several editors nodded.
“Our collections have changed.
Our silhouettes became bolder.
Our embroidery became more intimate.
Our gowns began telling stories again.”
He paused.
“People assumed those ideas came from me.”
The audience shifted.
Antoine smiled faintly.
“They did not.”
My heart began pounding.
This wasn’t what we had agreed.
I took one step toward him.
“Antoine.”
He looked at me.
There was apology in his eyes.
But also determination.
“You told me you would never do this.”
“I know.”
Celeste laughed nervously.
“What exactly is happening?”
Antoine turned toward her.
“The woman you just told did not deserve to watch this show designed the dress you are wearing.”
The room exploded.
Gasps.
Whispers.
Camera shutters.
Celeste froze.
Then she looked down at herself.
Her silver gown had been one of my favorite pieces.
I had sketched it in a hospital waiting room four years earlier.
Its asymmetric neckline had come from the folded edge of my mother’s blanket.
The constellation of crystals across the bodice had been inspired by the lights outside her window.
I had called it Étoile Silencieuse.
The Silent Star.
Celeste had paid nearly ninety thousand euros for it.
She had also spent the evening telling reporters that the dress represented “old European sophistication.”
She had no idea it had been designed by a woman she considered unworthy of sitting beside her.
“That’s impossible,” she said.
Antoine’s expression hardened.
“No.”
He pointed toward me.
“That is Elena Vale.”
The name traveled through the room like electricity.
Some people recognized it.
Most didn’t.
But several older editors immediately straightened in their chairs.
I saw one woman cover her mouth.
“Elena Vale?”
Another whispered, “The scholarship student?”
Someone behind her answered.
“She disappeared.”
Antoine continued.
“Four years ago, Elena began designing privately for Maison Laurent under a confidentiality agreement.
She refused public credit.”
Celeste stared at me.
“Why?”
I answered before Antoine could.
“Because I wanted the work to matter before my name did.”
She blinked.
I continued walking slowly down the runway.
“My designs were judged without a face attached to them.
Without followers.
Without family connections.
Without people deciding whether I looked wealthy enough to create something valuable.”
The audience had become painfully still.
Celeste’s cheeks reddened.
“You expect us to believe you secretly designed entire collections?”
“No.”
I stopped in front of her.
“I expect the sketches, contracts, prototypes, dated files, and atelier records to speak for themselves.”
A photographer laughed quietly.
Not at me.
At her.
Celeste heard it.
Her humiliation turned quickly into anger.
“You planned this.”
“No.”
“You came here dressed like that deliberately.”
I looked down at my champagne-soaked gown.
It was ivory silk, simple from a distance but constructed with nearly invisible hand embroidery along the waist.
“I came here because Antoine invited me.”
“To embarrass me?”
“I had never met you before tonight.”
That answer hurt her more than any insult could have.
To Celeste, being unknown was worse than being hated.
She stood abruptly.
“You think one dramatic speech makes you important?”
“No.”
I glanced toward her gown.
“But apparently my work did.”
Several people gasped.
Celeste’s face hardened.
She reached for her handbag.
Then Antoine said something that stopped her.
“Elena also designed the finale.”
I turned toward him sharply.
“Antoine.”
He lowered the microphone.
“This has gone far enough.”
But he shook his head.
“No.
It went too far four years ago.”
My stomach tightened.
Celeste looked between us.
“What happened four years ago?”
I said nothing.
Antoine did.
“She was supposed to stand where I am standing tonight.”
The room went quiet again.
Four years disappeared.
Suddenly I was twenty-three.
Exhausted.
Terrified.
Hopeful.
I had been studying design in Paris on a scholarship that barely covered tuition.
I worked nights at a hotel laundry.
On weekends, I altered dresses for wealthy women who never learned my name.
My mother lived hundreds of kilometers away and called every Sunday.
She always asked the same question.
“Are you still drawing?”
And I always answered yes.
Even when I was too tired to hold a pencil.
Then came the competition.
The Laurent Emerging Designer Prize.
Thousands applied.
Twelve finalists were selected.
I was one of them.
The winner would receive funding, an atelier placement, and a runway debut.
I created twelve pieces with almost no money.
I bought discarded fabric.
I reused old beads.
I stitched until my fingers bled.
And somehow, I won.
Or I was supposed to.
The night before the announcement, my mother collapsed.
Cancer.
Advanced.
Aggressive.
Suddenly fashion meant nothing.
I left Paris before sunrise.
I abandoned the ceremony.
The interviews.
The contract.
Everything.
For six months, I stayed beside my mother.
And then one rainy morning in November, she died holding my hand.
After the funeral, I couldn't draw.
For months, I couldn't even look at fabric.
Every sketch reminded me of the dreams she had believed in more than I had.
Then Antoine found me.
He offered me the prize again.
I refused.
He offered a public position.
I refused that too.
Finally, I gave him another proposal.
I would design.
Quietly.
No photographs.
No interviews.
No public identity.
I wanted nothing between me and the work.
Antoine accepted.
And Elena Vale disappeared.
Until tonight.
Celeste listened with an expression that revealed no sympathy.
Only calculation.
She had realized something.
“If she was hidden,” she said slowly, “then legally, the designs belong to the house.”
Antoine’s jaw tightened.
“That is not relevant.”
“It is extremely relevant.”
She looked at the investors seated nearby.
“My family owns a significant position in Maison Laurent.”
Now I understood.
This wasn’t simply about pride anymore.
Celeste wasn’t embarrassed because she had insulted a designer.
She was frightened because my existence could change the value of something she believed her family controlled.
She smiled again.
But this smile was different.
Cold.
Strategic.
“So perhaps,” she said, “Elena should remember that she is an employee.”
I almost laughed.
Antoine didn’t.
“Elena has never been my employee.”
Celeste’s smile vanished.
“What?”
“She licenses her work to the house.”
A ripple of surprise moved through the buyers.
One of them immediately pulled out his phone.
Celeste stared at Antoine.
“That makes no sense.”
“It made perfect sense to me.”
Antoine stepped onto the runway.
“I knew what she was worth.”
For the first time that evening, Celeste seemed genuinely shaken.
I could almost see the calculations happening behind her eyes.
Collections.
Licensing.
Ownership.
Revenue.
Brand identity.
She looked at me differently now.
Not as someone beneath her.
As someone dangerous.
Then the enormous screen behind the runway flickered.
Everyone turned.
The Laurent logo disappeared.
A black screen replaced it.
Then a sketch appeared.
My sketch.
The finale gown.
A crimson dress with a sculpted neckline and hundreds of hand-sewn black crystals descending across the train like falling ash.
The audience applauded.
But I couldn't move.
Something was wrong.
That image had never been approved for public release.
More sketches appeared.
One after another.
Private sketches.
Unfinished concepts.
Notes in my handwriting.
Fabric annotations.
Measurements.
Then photographs.
My studio.
My desk.
My apartment.
My blood went cold.
“Turn it off,” I said.
Antoine spun toward the technical booth.
“Turn that screen off!”
The technicians were already moving frantically.
“We’re trying!”
Another photograph appeared.
It showed me entering a hospital.
Then another.
Me standing outside a small cemetery.
Then another.
My mother.
The audience stopped whispering.
I felt as if the floor had disappeared beneath me.
Those weren't fashion files.
They were my life.
“Who did this?”
Antoine shouted.
The screen went black.
For one second, I thought it was over.
Then white letters appeared.
ELENA VALE IS A FRAUD.
The hall erupted.
I stood frozen.
Celeste looked almost as surprised as everyone else.
Almost.
Then documents appeared.
Contracts.
Invoices.
Bank transfers.
A headline flashed across the screen.
SECRET DESIGNER STOLE COLLECTION FROM DEAD STUDENT.
My breath stopped.
A photograph appeared beside the accusation.
A young woman.
Dark hair.
Green eyes.
A face I had not seen in years.
Isabelle Moreau.
My roommate from design school.
My best friend.
The woman who had died four years ago.
The woman whose funeral I had attended three weeks after burying my mother.
“No,” I whispered.
The screen displayed two sketches side by side.
One labeled ISABELLE MOREAU — 2021.
The other labeled ELENA VALE — 2022.
They were almost identical.
The audience began murmuring.
Phones rose everywhere.
Antoine looked at me.
“Elena?”
“I didn't steal that.”
More documents appeared.
Emails.
Dates.
Signatures.
Everything seemed real.
Too real.
Celeste slowly stood.
“Well.”
I turned toward her.
She had regained her confidence.
“Perhaps,” she said, loud enough for the cameras, “we have finally learned who you really are.”
“You knew about this.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“That’s quite an accusation.”
“You knew.”
“I assure you, Elena, I had no idea.”
But she was enjoying it.
Antoine grabbed my arm gently.
“Don’t respond.”
I pulled away.
Because something on the screen had caught my attention.
A date.
March 17, 2021.
I stared at it.
The room around me disappeared.
March 17.
I remembered that date.
Not because of fashion.
Because that was the day Isabelle had called me from Lyon.
She had been crying.
She told me she was leaving school.
She told me she had made a mistake.
And then she said something strange.
“Elena, if anyone asks, I never gave them your notebook.”
At the time, I thought grief had made me misunderstand her.
I had been sitting beside my mother's hospital bed.
I told Isabelle we would talk later.
We never did.
Three weeks later, Isabelle was dead.
Officially, it had been a car accident.
I looked at the screen again.
The supposedly stolen sketch was dated March 17.
The same day she called me.
“Antoine.”
He leaned closer.
“What?”
“That date is wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn't draw that dress in 2022.”
“When did you draw it?”
“2020.”
His eyes widened.
“Can you prove it?”
I thought of the old apartment.
The boxes.
My mother's belongings.
Then I remembered.
“Yes.”
The audience was still murmuring.
Celeste stepped toward the aisle.
I raised my voice.
“Don't leave.”
She stopped.
Every camera turned toward us again.
Celeste slowly looked back.
“Excuse me?”
“You wanted everyone to watch.”
I pointed toward the runway.
“So stay.”
Her lips tightened.
I faced the audience.
“The document on that screen claims I copied Isabelle Moreau’s design in 2022.”
No one spoke.
“That is impossible.”
Someone shouted, “Why?”
“Because I created the original sketch in October 2020.”
Another voice called, “Do you have proof?”
“Yes.”
Celeste laughed.
“How convenient.”
I ignored her.
“My mother filmed me designing it.”
Silence.
“She filmed almost everything when I first moved to Paris because she wanted to keep records of my work.”
Antoine stared at me.
“You still have the recordings?”
“I have the phone.”
“Where?”
“In storage.”
Celeste shrugged.
“Then this proves nothing tonight.”
I turned toward her.
“No.
But whoever created those documents didn't know the recordings existed.”
Her expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
So did Antoine.
Then security entered the hall.
Four men approached the technical booth.
The head of production came running toward us.
“Monsieur Laurent.”
“What happened?”
“We found an unauthorized device connected to the presentation system.”
“Whose?”
“We don't know yet.”
“Find out.”
The man hesitated.
“There’s something else.”
Antoine’s patience snapped.
“What?”
“The device wasn't connected tonight.”
My skin prickled.
“What do you mean?”
I asked.
He looked at me.
“It was installed three days ago.”
Three days.
That meant this wasn't spontaneous.
Someone knew I would be here.
Someone knew Antoine planned to reveal me.
And someone had been preparing to destroy my credibility before I ever stepped onto the runway.
Celeste picked up her handbag.
“This circus has become embarrassing.”
I watched her.
“You're right.”
She stopped.
“It has.”
I stepped closer.
“So let's end it.”
For the first time, uncertainty crossed her face.
I reached toward the side seam of her silver gown.
She jerked backward.
“Don't touch me.”
“I'm not touching you.”
I pointed.
“Look.”
Everyone looked.
Hidden beneath the crystal embroidery was a tiny stitched symbol.
A crescent moon intersected by a needle.
My signature.
I put it inside every original design.
Almost invisible.
Never advertised.
Never discussed publicly.
Antoine knew about it.
The atelier knew.
No one else should have.
I looked at the giant screen.
Then back at Celeste.
“The fake Isabelle sketch contains that symbol.”
Antoine turned toward the screen.
He understood immediately.
“If Isabelle had created the design first…”
“She couldn't have known my private mark.”
Celeste said nothing.
I continued.
“Whoever fabricated those files copied one of my finished sketches and changed the date.”
The audience erupted again.
Reporters began shouting questions.
“Who fabricated the documents?”
“Was Maison Laurent hacked?”
“Is Celeste involved?”
“Isabelle Moreau died four years ago—why use her name?”
Celeste's face turned pale.
“I had nothing to do with this.”
I believed one part of that.
She hadn't created the files.
Celeste was cruel, entitled, and reckless.
But the person behind this was patient.
Careful.
Someone who knew my history.
Someone who knew Isabelle.
Someone who knew my secret relationship with Maison Laurent.
Antoine ordered security to seal the technical room.
Then his phone vibrated.
He looked down.
His expression changed.
“What is it?”
I asked.
He didn't answer.
“Antoine.”
He slowly handed me the phone.
An email had arrived from an unknown address.
There was no subject.
Only one sentence.
ASK ELENA WHY ISABELLE REALLY DIED.
My fingers went numb.
Below it was an attachment.
A video.
“Don't open it here,” Antoine said.
I pressed play.
The video was grainy.
Dark.
Recorded at night.
A date appeared in the corner.
April 8, 2021.
Two days before Isabelle's death.
She stood outside a café.
Someone was arguing with her.
The person's back was toward the camera.
I couldn't see the face.
But I could hear Isabelle.
“You promised Elena would never find out.”
The figure answered.
The audio distorted.
Then Isabelle said something that made my entire body go cold.
“You already took her designs.
What else do you want from her?”
The video ended.
I stared at the screen.
Antoine whispered my name.
But I barely heard him.
All those years, I had believed Isabelle's death had been an accident.
I had believed my missing notebooks had been lost during the chaos surrounding my mother's illness.
I had believed my anonymity had protected me.
Maybe none of that was true.
A notification appeared on Antoine’s phone.
Another email.
Another attachment.
This one was a photograph.
I opened it.
And everything inside me stopped.
The photograph showed Isabelle sitting at a restaurant table.
Across from her sat Antoine.
The timestamp was the night before she died.
I slowly looked up.
Antoine's face had lost all color.
“Elena…”
I stepped away from him.
“You knew her.”
He shook his head.
“Listen to me.”
“You told me you had never met Isabelle.”
“I can explain.”
“You told me that.”
“I was protecting you.”
“From what?”
He glanced toward the cameras.
“Not here.”
My voice broke despite everything I did to control it.
“From what?”
Before he could answer, every light in the hall went out.
People screamed.
Phones illuminated the darkness.
Security shouted instructions.
I heard footsteps.
Fast.
Close.
Then someone grabbed my wrist.
I twisted away.
A voice whispered beside my ear.
“Your mother knew too.”
I froze.
The hand disappeared.
Lights flashed back on.
People were running toward the exits.
Security surrounded Antoine.
Celeste was gone.
I turned in circles, searching faces.
“Who said that?”
No answer.
“Who said that?”
Antoine grabbed my shoulders.
“Elena, we need to leave.”
“My mother knew what?”
His expression told me more than his words ever could.
He knew.
Somehow, Antoine knew.
And he was terrified to tell me.
We were rushed backstage.
Behind us, reporters shouted my name.
Elena Vale.
For four years, I had hidden from that name.
Now the entire world knew it.
But suddenly that wasn't what frightened me.
Inside a private dressing room, Antoine locked the door.
I stood across from him.
“No more secrets.”
He said nothing.
“You knew Isabelle.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“She came to me because she discovered someone was selling your sketches.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“I never found out.”
“That's a lie.”
“It isn't.”
“Then why did you hide the meeting?”
“Because Isabelle begged me to.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
Antoine lowered his eyes.
“Because the person she suspected was someone you trusted.”
A cold pressure formed inside my chest.
“Who?”
Before he could answer, someone knocked.
Three times.
Slowly.
Antoine and I looked toward the door.
Security had been told not to disturb us.
Another knock.
Three times.
Antoine moved toward the door.
I caught his arm.
“Don't.”
A white envelope slid underneath.
There was handwriting across the front.
My name.
Not Elena Vale.
My childhood nickname.
Leni.
Only two people had ever called me that.
My mother.
And Isabelle.
My hands trembled as I opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
My mother stood outside the Laurent atelier.
The photograph had been taken six months before she became ill.
Beside her stood Isabelle.
And between them stood a third person.
Someone I recognized immediately.
Someone who had no reason to know either of them.
My knees nearly gave way.
Because smiling beside my mother was Celeste Beaumont.
On the back of the photograph were seven handwritten words.
SHE DIDN'T THROW THAT CHAMPAGNE BY ACCIDENT.
I stared at the door.
Then at Antoine.
And suddenly I understood something horrifying.
Tonight had never been about a seat.
It had never been about a blocked view.
It had never even been about fashion.
Celeste had known exactly who I was before she lifted that glass.
And if the photograph was real, she had known my mother too.
The hallway outside went silent.
Then my phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
DON'T TRUST ANTOINE.
A second message appeared.
IF YOU WANT THE TRUTH ABOUT YOUR MOTHER, COME ALONE.
Then came an address.
I recognized it instantly.
The abandoned apartment where Isabelle and I had lived as students.
And beneath the address was one final photograph.
Taken tonight.
Only minutes earlier.
Celeste stood outside that apartment.
Waiting for me.
If you want to know what happened next, please type “YES” and like for more.
Source: Stories of Destiny · Thao Thao
