Investing In Overlooked Women: I Get Cashback On Every Glow-Up

Before the shock of Rick’s endorsement could even settle, a smooth, condescending voice cut through the backstage chatter.

”Well, well. Look at the overnight sensation.”

A young guy in his late twenties strolled into the dressing room, impeccably dressed in a tailored velvet blazer, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. He carried himself with the bloated ego of someone who had never worked a day for his status. Behind him, two assistants hovered like nervous shadows.

”Oliver Rick,” Sarah murmured beside me, keeping her voice barely audible. ”S. Rick’s grandson. Uses his grandfather’s name to push his own mid-tier line, O.R. Atelier.”

Oliver walked right up to Benita, giving her a slow, sweepingly appreciative look that made her tense up instantly.

”I have to say, darling,” Oliver said, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile. ”The showcase was... surprisingly vibrant. The raw cuts, the dramatic stitching—very bold. Very ambitious for someone who came out of nowhere.”

Benita blinked, offering a guarded, polite nod. ”Thank you. I appreciate that.”

”Oh, don’t thank me,” Oliver replied smoothly, taking a half-step closer. His smile turned razor-thin, cold, and entirely fake as he leaned in just enough for only us to hear. ”After all, they always say ’good designers borrow, great designers steal.’ Sometimes a clever little thief knows exactly which trash can to dig through to find inspiration, right?”

Benita froze, her eyes widening in disbelief as the insult hung in the air.

Before either of us could even process the snake-like jab, Oliver smirked, tapped his champagne flute against his knuckles, and turned smoothly on his heel. ”Enjoy your little moment, kids. The industry moves fast.”

He walked away, chuckling quietly with his assistants as he vanished back into the VIP crowd.

Benita stood glued to the floor, her cheeks flushing red with a mix of shock and rising fury. ”Did he... did he just call me a thief?!”

I didn’t answer right away. I stood there, my chin slightly lowered, my eyes narrowed into cold, calculating slits as I watched Oliver Rick blend into the flashing cameras outside.

He thought he was being clever, marking his territory because his grandfather just gave a newcomer the spotlight he had been begging for his whole life.

A slow, dangerous smile pulled at the corner of my lips as I reached into my jacket and felt the weight of my phone.

Oliver Rick, I thought, tracking his velvet coat through the crowd. You just picked a fight with the wrong billion-dollar setup.

Bright and early the next morning, the glass doors to UncuT’s new headquarters swung open, and S. Rick stepped through.

Seeing him in broad daylight was a completely different experience. He was dressed in a pristine, vintage-cut slate coat with hand-stitched detailing along the lapels that looked fifty years ahead of its time. He wasn’t the cynical old man from the VIP lounge anymore; he was a walking encyclopedia of high fashion, talking like a true veteran. He broke down global distribution, private client lists, and the exact psychology behind creating a ultra-rare, highly collectible brand. Honestly, once you got past his cold exterior, the guy was surprisingly cool.

I leaned against the wall, taking him in with a small, amused hmph as I watched him inspect our layout. The man’s personal style alone made everyone else in the room look unrefined.

”Sarah,” I called out softly, stepping toward my PA. ”Handle everything Rick needs. Get the paperwork signed, coordinate the launch preparations, and make sure his team has full access.”

”On it, Ethan,” Sarah nodded efficiently, tablet already in hand.

With the business end running smoothly under Rick’s guidance, I walked down the glass-walled corridor toward the main studio to check on Benita.

She was completely locked in. Tailor’s chalk in hand, measuring tape thrown over her shoulder, surrounded by fabric swatches and sketch boards. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass panel, I gave her a casual wave.

She caught my eye, wiping a smudge of charcoal from her cheek, and flashed a wide, tired smile. She held up two fingers, pointing toward a rack of fresh sketches hanging beside her existing, winning lineup from the runway.

”I’m adding more fitted designs to complete the full launch lineup!” she called out through the crack in the door, her eyes shining with manic creative energy. ”On top of the ones we already finished!”

I leaned against the doorframe, folding my arms with a deadpan expression. ”Good. That’s great. Because you’ve got exactly one day left to complete them.”

Benita’s entire body went rigid. The chalk slipped right out of her fingers and bounced off the floor.

”ONE WHAT?!” she shrieked, her jaw dropping to her chest. ”Ethan, are you out of your mind?! I haven’t slept in—”

A slow smirk broke across my face, and I couldn’t hold back a low chuckle. ”I’m joking, Benita. Relax.”

She let out a massive, exhausted gasp, throwing a roll of measuring tape right at my head—which I casually ducked.

”Jeez, Ethan!” she groaned, burying her face in her hands before laughing despite herself. ”Don’t play with my heart like that! I almost had a stroke!”

A month flew by in a blur of endless production, late-night revisions, and aggressive marketing pushes. Every single piece was perfected, the high-end promotional campaign peaked across all media platforms, and the online store was locked and loaded for global launch.

We were all gathered in my executive suite, watching the massive digital projector screen on the wall count down the final seconds to UncuT’s official online drop and pre-order release.

The room was buzzing with celebratory energy. Jean-Luc was already popping a bottle of vintage champagne, his usual dramatics replaced by pure, joyous laughter. Rick stood beside him, sipping his glass with a calm, proud nod of approval, looking every bit the proud mentor.

Sarah stepped beside me, holding her tablet as the countdown hit zero and the live metrics started flooding in.

”Ethan, the site is holding up under the traffic peak,” Sarah reported, her eyes wide with excitement. ”In the first ten minutes, pre-orders for the core collection hit seven figures. We’re trending globally.”

Cheers erupted around the room. I let out a low laugh, taking a glass from Jean-Luc as we prepped to toast to our massive success.

Then, my phone vibrated in my hand.

The screen lit up with an incoming encrypted call: Chloe.

Chloe was my girlfriend—a brilliant corporate lawyer finishing her advanced legal studies abroad, who took care of every major legal maneuver, contract, and global IP protection for my assets from across the ocean.

”Hold that toast for a second,” I said, stepping toward the quiet of the balcony doors as I slid the answer icon. ”Hey, babe. Perfect timing. We just launched and—”

”Ethan, stop the launch,” Chloe’s voice cut through the phone, sharp as a razor, completely void of small talk.

I froze, my smirk instant vanishing. ”What?”

”I just got served with an emergency federal cease-and-desist and a full copyright infringement injunction,” Chloe said, the rustle of heavy legal documents echoing through the receiver. ”It’s filed against UncuT. They’re alleging structural IP theft and design duplication.”

”On what?” I demanded, my tone dropping to pure sub-zero cold. ”Every piece was created from scratch in our atelier.”

”They’re claiming ownership on seven out of the twelve designs in your launch lineup, Ethan,” Chloe said grimly. ”Seven of them. Someone filed prior design patents and draft archive proofs three days before you registered UncuT.”

”What?!”

The word cracked out of me so hard that the room behind me went dead silent. Jean-Luc paused mid-pour, Rick’s glass stopped halfway to his lips, and Benita turned around from the screen, her smile completely draining from her face.