INICIAR SESIÓNCrystal woke to sunlight and a thousand missed notifications.Her phone buzzed relentlessly—congratulations, interview requests, offers from investors she had never heard of. The show had broken the internet. The European expansion was saved.She should have been ecstatic.But her mind kept drifting to blue eyes and burning gazes.Stop it, she told herself. You have work to do.She showered, dressed, and headed downstairs to the hotel's private dining room. Her parents had insisted on a family breakfast before she flew back to New York.She walked in and stopped.Her parents were there. And standing beside them, was a man she had never seen before.If Ethan Vale was a creature carved from winter ice—all striking blond hair, pale skin, and sharp, gorgeous blue eyes—the man who stepped into the room was the exact opposite. He was warmth personified. Dark hair swept back from a face that belonged on magazine covers fell perfectly across his forehead— warm olive skin, sharp jaw, full lip
The celebration was intimate.Only fifty guests—the elite of the European fashion world—gathered in a private salon at the Ritz. Crystal wore a gown of deep emerald, her hair swept up, the Laurent diamonds at her throat. She moved through the crowd like a blade through silk.The show had been declared a masterpiece. The expansion was saved. Her parents had called from New York, weeping with pride.She should have been happy.But something gnawed at her.Who had sabotaged the lights?She felt them before she saw them.Two pairs of heels clicking across the marble. The cloying cloud of expensive perfume. The whisper that rippled through the crowd as people stepped aside.Crystal turned.Vanessa Sterling glided toward her like a shark scenting blood. Beside her, Savannah Vale walked stiffly, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the floor.What are they doing here? Crystal wondered. Who invited them?Then she remembered. The private event was hosted by a neutral third party—a Swiss banker who
The day had started with such promise.Crystal woke at 5 AM, the Paris dawn painting her hotel room in shades of gold and rose. She lay in bed for a moment, listening to the city wake up, and allowed herself a rare moment of quiet pride.Tonight, she thought. Tonight, the world sees what we built. Months of work. Hundreds of sketches. Thousands of hours of labor. And now, in just fifteen hours, it would finally breathe.By 8 AM, she was at the Palais Garnier.The backstage area hummed with controlled energy. Models stretched in silk robes. Dressmakers made last-minute adjustments. Elodie ran between fitting rooms with a clipboard and a headset.Crystal walked through it all like a general surveying her troops."Status?" she asked.Elodie beamed. "Everything is perfect. The lighting team is doing a final check now. We're ahead of schedule."Crystal allowed herself a small smile. "Let's keep it that way."At 10 AM, the power flickered.Just once. A brief stutter that made the LED lights
The Paris atelier was a disaster zone.Crystal walked through the double doors and stopped cold. Bolts of ruined silk lay scattered across the cutting tables like casualties of war. The fabric—pale gold, blush pink, midnight blue—was stained and discolored, the chemical spill having bled through the protective wrap like poison through skin.Her head designer, a petite Frenchwoman named Elodie, rushed toward her, wringing her hands."Ms. Laurent, I am so sorry. The warehouse shipped the wrong batch. By the time we realized, the contamination had already spread. Every piece for the show—everything—it's all destroyed."Crystal closed her eyes.One week, she thought. One week until the show."Show me what's left."Elodie led her through the wreckage. The samples. The backup fabric. The emergency reserves. All ruined. Every single bolt.Crystal's chest tightened. But she didn't panic."Get me the list of every fabric supplier within two hundred kilometers. Anyone who carries silk in these
The call came at 5:47 AM.Crystal was already awake, watching the sunrise from her balcony—her ritual, the one thing no one could take from her. But the voice on the other end shattered the peace."Ms. Laurent, it's the Paris atelier. The shipment of silk for the show—it's been contaminated. Some kind of chemical spill at the warehouse. The entire collection is compromised. We have nothing to show on Friday."Crystal was already moving."Schedule the earliest flight. I'll handle it from the air."Her assistant hesitated. "Ms. Laurent... all our private jets are grounded. Mandatory safety upgrades. The FAA inspection is tomorrow. There's nothing we can do."Crystal closed her eyes. "Then book me first class on the earliest commercial flight to Paris. I don't care which airline.""Already done. Air France, 9 AM. Seat 2A."An hour later, she was in the back of a town car, her head full of sketches and solutions.She didn't ask who else might be on that flight.She should have.The first-
The ballroom of the Laurent Fashion headquarters had been converted into a conference hall. Rows of chairs faced a stage with a podium and a massive screen. Every major investor in the European expansion was present—hedge fund managers, venture capitalists, representatives from private wealth firms.Crystal stood backstage with her parents, reviewing her notes., surrounded by her senior executives. Luc Moreau was there, still bitter, still watching her with narrowed eyes. Monique was there, now fiercely loyal. "The European expansion is our biggest initiative in a decade," Adrian said, his voice grave. "We've opened up forty percent of the company's shares to public investors to fund the new Paris atelier and the Milan flagship."The numbers flashed on the screen. Crystal had reviewed them a hundred times. The Laurent family still held 60% of the shares—controlling interest. The remaining 40% had been sold to a patchwork of institutional investors, private equity firms, and wealthy in







