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”That’s what I like to hear,” I said, stepping closer to inspect the four transformed pieces. The lines were sharp, the drapes held a distinct weight, and the overall silhouette practically screamed main-character energy. ”You’ve got the vision unlocked. Now we just need to get your technical execution to match it.”

I turned to Sarah, who was already making notes on her tablet. ”Sarah, start scouting the best master pattern-makers and couture tailors in Europe. We need veterans who can translate Benita’s raw cuts into flawless, production-ready garments without stripping away her edge.”

”On it,” Sarah replied, tapping away on her screen. ”I’ll pull up profiles of head artisans from Paris and Milan.”

While Sarah and I were finalizing the recruitment criteria, Benita pulled out her phone and sat down on the edge of the cutting table. A few moments later, the ambient music of a high-profile red carpet stream started floating across the open studio.

She was glued to the screen, her thumb casually swiping through high-definition clips of the Met Gala. Her eyes widened as she watched Hollywood A-listers, pop stars, and supermodels step out of luxury limousines, surrounded by hundreds of flashing camera bulbs as they ascended the iconic carpeted steps.

”Ethan... look at this,” she called out, her voice filled with a sudden, breathless awe.

I walked over and leaned in to look over her shoulder.

”Look at all these celebrities,” she whispered, pointing at a star wearing a massive, structured avant-garde gown. ”Imagine... just imagine if one of my pieces ended up on that carpet. If a global star walked up those steps wearing something I cut and pinned right here on this floor... that would be absolute magic. That would be legendary.”

I looked from her glowing face on the phone screen to the four rebellious, high-couture masterpieces standing right behind her under the studio lights.

”It wouldn’t just be magic, Benita,” I said with a slow, confident smile. ”It’s going to be our baseline standard.”

She looked up at me, blinking in surprise.

”The Met Gala isn’t some distant fantasy for you anymore,” I continued, my voice calm and unshakeable. ”With the speed you’re evolving and the backing behind you, we aren’t just going to pitch a dress to a celebrity. We’re going to have the biggest stars in the world begging you to dress them.” ℴ

Benita let out a soft, excited laugh, clutching her phone to her chest as her jaw set with a new level of ambition. ”Then I better start designing for the red carpet right now.”

”You know,” I said casually, leaning against the edge of the cutting table, ”I can easily get Ruby to wear one of your pieces.”

Benita blinked, her brow furrowing in total confusion. ”Who’s Ruby?”

”Wait, you don’t know Ruby?” I laughed softly. ”Pull her up on your phone.”

Benita unlocked her phone, typed the name into Google, and tapped on the top streaming result. A second later, a chart-topping pop track started playing through her speaker. She listened intently as the infectious, high-energy melody filled the atelier. Back in her home country, she hadn’t really been exposed to Ruby’s music, but within thirty seconds of listening, her eyes lit up and a huge grin spread across her face.

”Oh... wow,” Benita breathed, her foot tapping to the beat as she scrolled through Ruby’s millions of followers and iconic fashion moments. ”This song is actually amazing! Wait... she’s huge! Are you serious?!”

”Dead serious,” I replied with a calm smile. ”She’s my girlfriend. And if you keep making this kind of rapid progress, by the time the next Met Gala rolls around and Ruby gets her invitation, I’ll have her walk up those iconic steps wearing a custom piece designed by you.”

Benita gasped, dropping her phone onto the soft sofa behind her as her jaw practically hit the floor. ”Your... your girlfriend?! Ethan, you’re not joking right now?!”

”I never joke about fashion or my people,” I said smoothly. ”Show me you can master the craft, and the biggest red carpet in the world is yours.”

The absolute shock on Benita’s face instantly turned into a fire of pure, electric excitement. She practically sprinted over to her tool tray, grabbing her measuring tape and shears with a renewed, fierce energy that burned hotter than ever before.

”I’m ready!” she shouted, her eyes blazing with determination as she turned back to the mannequins. ”Bring in those master tailors! I’m going to train until my hands bleed!”

”Love the energy,” I chuckled, watching her practically vibrate with adrenaline. ”I’ll make sure the master artisans are here right away.”

On cue, the executive elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Sarah walked out, trailing behind a tall, sharp-looking man who looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Paris atelier. He wore a structured double-breasted suit over an oversized graphic tee—a classic high-end ”ugly chic” aesthetic—complete with a neatly waxed handlebar mustache and thin, wire-framed glasses perched on his nose.

”Mr. Ethan, Miss Young,” Sarah introduced smoothly. ”This is Jean-Luc, former head cutter at a top French couture house. He’ll be handling Benita’s technical masterclass.”

”Ah, enchanté,” Jean-Luc said, stepping forward with a dramatic flair. He reached out to shake my hand, gripping it a little too hard in a subtle power move before sweeping his eyes across the massive 58th-floor studio.

Then he froze.

He pulled his wire-framed glasses down to the tip of his nose, his jaw tightening as he locked eyes on the $100,000 archival piece Benita had reconstructed on the mannequin. His face twisted into a look of absolute, high-fashion horror.

”Mon dieu...” Jean-Luc gasped, marching directly up to the mannequin as if approaching a crime scene. ”Is that... is that what I think it is?! Why would anyone do such a hideous, barbaric thing to an archival masterpiece?! The seams are butchered! The silk is pinned raw! This is total destruction!”

Benita flinched, shrinking back slightly as her cheeks burned red, her fingers nervously clutching her measuring tape.

I stepped straight into Jean-Luc’s line of sight, my voice dropping into a cold, lethal calm that cut through his French drama instantly.

”Listen to me very carefully, Jean-Luc,” I said, eyeing him up and down without blinking. ”That isn’t a destroyed dress. That’s a raw prototype created by a genius who sees fashion at a level you haven’t even begun to comprehend yet. You were brought here to teach her technical machine precision, not to judge her vision. If you can’t respect her creative process, say the word right now, and Sarah will have your replacement flown in from Milan by tonight.”

Jean-Luc blinked, catching the sharp, dangerous authority in my eyes. He looked at me, then at the firm, unyielding stance of Benita, and let out a heavy, dramatic French sigh, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

”Ah... forgive me,” Jean-Luc mumbled, dropping his pompous act immediately and clearing his throat. ”A bit... overwhelming for a purist, you see. But... the vision underneath the raw cut? I see it now. The tension on the bias is actually... remarkable.”

He turned directly to Benita, offering a low, respectful bow. ”Not a problem, Monsieur. We begin at once. Mademoiselle Benita, let us turn these wild ideas into haute couture.”