Chapter 3 - THE RED CARPET OF GLASS AND LIESThe Hudson Glass Pavilion on Manhattan’s West Side was a temple of modern vanity. Floodlights cut through the damp evening air, painting the steel-and-glass structure in stark, blinding whites and electric blues. Microphones clustered around the velvet-roped entrance like metallic fungi, while flashbulbs popped in rapid, rhythmic succession.
Vanessa Hale arrived in a custom chauffeur-driven Bentley, draped in a floor-length white fur coat that cost more than Claire’s first car. She stepped out with her head held high, flashing the practiced, toothy smile that had graced a hundred beauty blogs and Instagram feeds.
Ethan walked beside her, his suit tailored to perfection, though a slight, nervous twitch in his left eye betrayed the absolute terror gripping his insides. Marcus Vance’s twelve million dollars was hanging by a frayed thread, and the internet was already beginning to whisper. Anonymous style forums were lighting up with screenshots of Claire’s leaked design files, comparing them side-by-side with Vanessa’s promotional teaser photos.
Yet, inside the sprawling backstage area, the show went on. The machine had too much momentum to stop.
Claire walked through the side service entrance twenty minutes before showtime. She wore no makeup, her dark hair pulled back into a severe, utilitarian knot. Her temporary staff badge had been torn from her neck earlier that day by Ethan, but she didn't need one. She carried an authentic designer's master toolkit in her canvas tote—shears, measuring tape, tailor's chalk, and a heavy brass seam ripper.
Backstage was a hurricane of frantic energy. Hair stylists yelled, makeup artists sprayed setting mist, and terrified dressers rushed models into fragile silk creations.
Vanessa sat before an illuminated vanity mirror, her makeup artist frantically applying a final coat of gloss.
When Claire stepped into the dressing bay, Vanessa’s reflection froze in the glass.
"What is she doing back here?" Vanessa shrieked, spinning around in her chair. "Security! Get this lunatic out of my dressing room!"
Two burly security guards, hired by Ethan’s agency to keep order, rushed over and grabbed Claire by the shoulders.
Claire didn't resist. She let them pull her back until she stood directly behind Vanessa’s chair, leaning down so her face was level with the terrified model's in the mirror.
"Relax, Vanessa," Claire murmured smoothly. "You haven't worn the best piece yet."
Vanessa’s eyes darted toward the corner of the room, where the final gown—Cathedral—hung suspended inside a garment bag, locked behind a heavy-duty zipper.
"You can't ruin this," Vanessa hissed, her voice trembling beneath her glossy facade. "Ethan owns everything. We have the contracts. We have the police on standby if you cause a scene."
"Contracts signed under fraudulent pretenses and corporate identity theft tend to dissolve when exposed to sunlight," Claire replied softly. She reached out, her fingers lightly brushing the heavy black fabric of the garment bag containing Cathedral. "Make sure you walk it well, Vanessa. That dress demands proper posture. If you slouch, the entire internal framework collapses."
Before Vanessa could reply, the house lights in the main pavilion dimmed. The bass-heavy runway soundtrack began to thump through the acoustic panels, vibrating through the concrete floor.
"Places!" a stage manager screamed over the headset. "Models on deck! Show starts in sixty seconds!"
Ethan burst into the backstage area, his face pale, sweat beading along his hairline. He grabbed Vanessa by the arm, hoisting her up, and shot a murderous glare at Claire.
"If you move one inch toward that runway," Ethan whispered through clenched teeth, his voice venomous, "I swear to God I’ll have you arrested for trespassing and industrial sabotage before you reach the street."
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Claire smiled, stepping back into the shadows of the heavy black velvet curtains.
"Break a leg, husband," she whispered.
