The whispers were like insects, buzzing in Barron's ears.
"Look at the hem," a woman in emerald silk murmured. "It doesn't even have the crystal trim. Poor thing."
Victoria Schmidt, Elza's stepmother, was working the room. "We tried to help her," she sighed loudly to a group of board members. "But with Barron's legal fees... well, she has to cut corners. It's probably a replica from downtown."
Barron felt the heat rising in his neck. It wasn't that he cared about fashion. He cared about winning. And right now, his wife looking like a discount version of Bianca was a loss.
"We're leaving," Barron growled, grabbing Elza's elbow.
Elza planted her feet. She shook her head. No.
"Don't be stupid," he hissed. "They're eating you alive."
Elza looked at him. Her eyes were clear. Wait.
Bianca sashayed over, emboldened by the crowd's approval. "Elza, really, if you needed a dress, you could have asked. My maid has some lovely things from last season."
Clotilde chimed in. "It's fine, Bianca. Maybe Elza likes the... minimalist look. It hides the flaws."
Just then, the double doors swung open. The room went silent.
Valentina V walked in.
The editor-in-chief of Vogue didn't walk; she glided. She wore sunglasses indoors. Her bob was sharp enough to cut glass. She was the supreme court justice of style.
Clotilde's eyes lit up. This was the kill shot.
"Valentina!" Clotilde waved. "Over here! You have to settle a debate."
Valentina stopped. She turned her head slowly. She walked toward the circle, the crowd parting like the Red Sea.
"What is this?" Valentina asked, her voice a monotone drawl.
"We have a 'Who Wore It Better' situation," Clotilde giggled. "Bianca is wearing the Velvet Noir, and Elza is wearing... well, a version of it."
Valentina looked at Bianca. Bianca puffed out her chest, showing off the crystals.
Valentina reached out. She touched the fabric of Bianca's sleeve. She rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger.
"Tsk."
The sound was quiet, but it echoed like a gunshot.
Clotilde's smile faltered. "Right? The quality is just—"
Valentina turned her back on Bianca. She walked to Elza.
Barron tensed. If this woman insulted Elza, he was going to cause a scene that would make the evening news.
Valentina reached into her sleek clutch and retrieved a delicate, gold-rimmed jeweler's loupe. She didn't just peer from a distance; she stepped into Elza's personal space, lifting the fabric of the sleeve and rubbing the heavy velvet between her thumb and forefinger. She pressed the loupe to her eye, examining the seam running along the wrist. There, perfectly camouflaged and impossible to verify without professional magnification, was a tiny, hand-stitched emblem in black silk thread.
The room held its breath.
Valentina stood up. She took off her sunglasses. She looked Elza in the eye.
"The 2024 Atelier prototype," Valentina said. "Hand-stitched by Pierre himself before he died. There are only three in existence."
She turned to the crowd. She pointed a manicured finger at Bianca.
"That," Valentina said, "is a mass-produced fake from the diffusion line. The crystals were added to hide the cheap stitching."
She pointed at Elza.
"This is art."
Bianca's face went the color of a beet.
Valentina turned back to Elza. "I didn't think anyone had the connections to get this out of the archive. You have exquisite taste, my dear."
Elza inclined her head. A queen acknowledging a subject.
Barron stared at his wife. He looked at the dress, really looked at it. It wasn't plain. It was perfect. And she knew it the whole time.
