The lobby was a controlled riot of flashes and whispers. The sheer audacity of the impromptu show had stunned everyone. Models moved through the crowd, their vibrant garments cutting through the sterile grandeur of the hall.
My eyes scanned the growing throng, searching. I needed to act quickly before Victoria’s security could react.
There he was. Marcus DuBois, Chief Executive Officer of the investment group funding the runway show, stood near the main entrance, his expression a mixture of confusion and intense interest. He held a phone to his ear, his face tight. He was clearly getting an earful.
I took a deep breath, pushing through the thicket of captivated onlookers. Critics were openly raving now, their voices excited.
“This is extraordinary,” one woman exclaimed, gesturing wildly at a model in a deep green shift dress. “The texture! The story!”
I reached Marcus, carefully navigating around a tripod. His eyes were fixed on the models, his jaw slack.
“Mr. DuBois?” I said, my voice cutting through the noise.
He turned, startled, his gaze sweeping over me, recognizing me from the House of St. Cyr. His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Maya? What in God’s name is going on here?” he demanded, lowering his phone.
I didn’t waste a second. My hand, steady despite the tremor in my chest, extended a folded, creased piece of paper. It was a photocopy of the relevant section of my apprentice agreement, highlighted and annotated by Great-Aunt Evelyn.
“This,” I said, meeting his gaze directly, “is proof that the designs Victoria St. Cyr is about to show in the main hall are legally mine. Her claim on them, Mr. DuBois, expired thirty days ago.”
He took the paper automatically, his fingers brushing mine. His expression was still confused, but a flicker of alarm entered his eyes.
He unfolded the document, scanning the highlighted clause. The critical phrases – “exclusivity clause,” “five-year anniversary,” “failure to serve notice” – jumped out.
As he read, his face drained of color. His eyes darted from the document to my models, then to the main hall where Victoria’s show was moments from beginning. The pieces were falling into place for him.
He crumpled the document slightly in his hand, then smoothed it out, reading it again more carefully. His brow furrowed deeply.
“Expired?” he murmured, almost to himself. “Thirty days ago?”
The financial implications of this realization must have hit him like a physical blow. Millions of dollars in investment, marketing, and reputation, all tied to designs Victoria had no legal right to. The corporate payouts he’d authorized for the main show would be a monumental liability.
He looked up at me, his gaze no longer dismissive, but sharp, calculating. The murmurs of admiration for my guerrilla show intensified around us, a symphony of unexpected success.
“I need to make a call,” he stated, his voice tight. He turned on his heel, striding away from the crowd, already pulling his phone back to his ear. I knew he wouldn’t be calling Victoria to congratulate her.
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