Chapter 27: The Gathering of Designers

The morning of the National Couture Design Championship dawned like the opening scene of a film—bright, electric, and humming with anticipation. Greendale’s largest convention center, a glass-and-steel masterpiece that gleamed beneath the early sun, was already overflowing long before the competition officially began. The air outside shimmered with the flash of cameras and the murmur of hundreds of voices.

Luxury cars lined the grand entrance in a glittering procession, their polished surfaces reflecting the chaos of reporters and photographers pressed behind barricades.

Microphones jutted forward like weapons. The rhythmic click of camera shutters filled the air, punctuated by the occasional shout of a journalist calling out a name.

Perfume, exhaust, and adrenaline mingled in the crisp morning breeze.

Everywhere one looked, there was movement—assistants rushing with garment bags, stylists adjusting last-minute details, and security guards struggling to maintain order. Every influential designer, investor, celebrity, and socialite in Greendale had gathered for this single event.

This wasn’t just another fashion competition.

It was THE competition.

Winning today meant more than a trophy. It meant becoming the face of the country’s design industry. It meant international recognition, contracts worth hundreds of millions, and the kind of fame that could rewrite a career overnight.

But above all else, it meant glory.

And glory was the rarest fabric of all.

This year’s championship was hosted by the Bright Group, the country’s largest entertainment and fashion conglomerate.

The name alone carried weight.

Founded by Alexander Bright, a man whose reputation had long since transcended the industry, Bright Group was synonymous with integrity.

At seventy, Alexander Bright was a legend. His silver hair and sharp eyes were as recognizable as the empire he had built.

He had started as a tailor’s apprentice in his youth, working in a cramped shop with nothing but a needle, a dream, and an unshakable belief that talent should never bow to money.

Decades later, that belief had become the foundation of his empire.

No bribes. No favoritism. No backstage deals.

Only talent.

That was the Bright philosophy, and it had turned the company into the most trusted name in fashion.

Even those who disliked Alexander’s uncompromising nature admitted one thing: if Bright Group hosted a competition, the winner truly deserved it.

Inside the convention center, banners bearing the Bright Group insignia hung from the ceiling like flags of honor. The stage gleamed under the spotlights, its runway stretching forward like a promise. Rows of velvet seats filled the hall, each one reserved for someone powerful enough to change a designer’s fate with a single word.

The air itself seemed to vibrate with expectation.

Outside, another luxury vehicle rolled to a stop. The crowd stirred.

Missy Hawthorne stepped out first.

She wore an elegant white gown that shimmered faintly under the morning light, the fabric hugging her figure with practiced perfection. Her hair was styled in soft waves, her makeup flawless. Behind her, an assistant carried a glass case containing her previous championship trophy, the gold plaque gleaming proudly for the cameras.

The Hawthorne family had arrived in full force. Emily followed close behind, radiant in a tailored suit that screamed old money.

Raymond walked beside her, his expression calm and confident, while Drake and Jagger trailed behind, both wearing the easy smiles of men who believed victory was already theirs.

Around Missy gathered her usual entourage—Sheila, Zara, Rain, and Hannah—each dressed as though attending a royal gala rather than a competition.

Their laughter rang out like the clinking of crystal glasses.

"Last year’s champion has arrived," someone whispered.

"I told you, Missy will win again," another replied.

"There isn’t anyone in Greendale who can compete with her."

"This competition is practically hers."

Missy smiled modestly, lowering her lashes in a performance of humility. "Oh please," she said lightly. "I’ll simply do my best."

Her friends exchanged knowing looks. Everyone knew what that meant.

Of course she was going to win.

The cameras loved her. The crowd adored her. And Missy Hawthorne basked in it all like a queen returning to her throne.

Emily Hawthorne, meanwhile, had already joined a cluster of wealthy socialites near the VIP entrance. The women surrounded her instantly, their voices dripping with admiration.

"Mrs. Hawthorne," one of them gushed, "I heard Missy is representing Rona Design again this year."

Emily smiled gracefully, the picture of composure. "Yes," she said. "She’s worked extremely hard. I’m very proud of her."

Another woman sighed. "Your daughter is truly talented. Winning consecutive championships at such a young age—she’s destined to be a Master Designer."

Emily laughed softly, the sound polished and practiced. "My daughter deserves every bit of recognition she receives."

Her words were humble. Her eyes were not.

Inside, she was glowing with pride. Every compliment was a thread in the tapestry of her satisfaction. The Hawthorne name would shine again today, and she would make sure everyone saw it.

Not far away, Raymond stood with several business partners, his voice low and confident. Even an important project meeting had been postponed for this event. Nothing mattered more than Missy’s victory.

Drake stood nearby, arms folded, his expression relaxed. Jagger leaned lazily against a pillar, his grin easy and careless. Both brothers exuded the same quiet arrogance.

After all, last year Missy had defeated everyone.

Why would this year be any different?

Raymond’s gaze swept across the hall, lingering briefly on the judges’ table. He knew two of them personally—men who had already received generous "consulting fees" weeks ago. As long as Missy didn’t embarrass herself, the scores would lean in her favor.

Everything was arranged.

Everything was under control.

Or so he believed.

Backstage, the atmosphere was a storm of nerves and excitement. Representatives from twenty different companies were setting up their stations, adjusting mannequins, and checking fabrics. Some were independent rookies, others veterans representing luxury brands. Some worked in teams, others alone.

Four elimination rounds had been prepared, each revolving around a completely different theme. Contestants would present one original design at a time, explaining the inspiration behind it. Only the highest-scoring designers would advance.

One mistake, and years of effort would vanish.

The stakes were merciless.

Five judges would decide today’s results, and each one carried enough influence to make or break a career.

The first was Erwin Bright, eldest son of Alexander Bright and current president of Bright Group. Like his father, Erwin was known for his incorruptibility. Several companies had tried sending him gifts before competitions—rare watches, limited-edition art, even luxury cars. Every single one had been returned unopened. His scores depended solely on merit, and his reputation for fairness was absolute.

The second judge was Selena Marwin, a legendary actress whose career spanned more than a hundred films. Her beauty was timeless, her presence magnetic. But it was her eye for aesthetics that made her invaluable. Selena didn’t judge beauty alone—she judged emotion, authenticity, and story. A dress without soul, she often said, was nothing more than fabric.

The third judge was Jonathan Harper, a master designer whose name inspired both reverence and fear. At sixty-five, he was the industry’s most outspoken critic. He despised plagiarism with a passion. Years ago, he had publicly torn apart an entire collection after discovering it had copied another designer’s sketches. Since then, no one dared present stolen work before him.

The remaining two judges were industry veterans—experienced, respected, and, on paper, perfectly impartial. But Raymond Hawthorne knew better. Both had quietly accepted his "consulting fees." Their smiles were polite, their consciences conveniently silent.

As long as Missy performed decently, the outcome was already written.

Or so he thought.

A sleek black sedan pulled up to the entrance, drawing a ripple of attention. The door opened, and Lucy Wale stepped out.

At twenty-eight, Lucy was elegance personified—tall, poised, and effortlessly stylish. The daughter of renowned actor Romilly Wale and Liora Fashion’s chairwoman Martha Wale, she carried herself with the kind of confidence that came from both talent and pedigree.

Last year, she had finished as second runner-up, only a few points behind Missy. Many still whispered that Lucy’s creativity had surpassed everyone else’s, that she had lost only because her presentation lacked polish.

Her eyes flicked toward Missy, who stood surrounded by admirers, her trophy gleaming in its glass case. Lucy’s lips curved into a faint, disdainful smile.

"Still showing that thing everywhere," she murmured.

One of her teammates chuckled. "Ignore her."

Lucy’s smile deepened. "I plan to. But that doesn’t mean I have to like her."

She turned away, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. The sound was crisp, confident—like a challenge.

Moments later, another vehicle arrived. The crowd instinctively parted.

A wheelchair appeared, rolling smoothly down the ramp.

Adam Gray.

The first runner-up from last year’s competition. A genius designer whose work had stunned even the most jaded professionals. His designs were known for their precision, their emotion, their quiet brilliance.

Behind him walked his assistant, two bodyguards, and his fiancée, Jodey Hale.

Unlike Lucy, Adam didn’t even glance toward Missy. He simply rolled past the crowd, his expression calm, his focus unshakable. His designs, everyone knew, spoke louder than words.

Jodey leaned down slightly, her voice soft. "Nervous?"

Adam shook his head. "No. I only care about my work."

She smiled. "As expected."

The crowd watched him pass in silence. Even those who didn’t know him personally felt the weight of his presence. There was something magnetic about him—an aura of quiet authority that needed no words.

Time passed. One company after another signed in. The media’s cameras flashed without pause, capturing every arrival, every whispered rumor.

But gradually, the conversations began to shift.

"Has LUXT Design arrived yet?"

"I heard this is their first public competition."

"I’ve been dying to meet their chief designer."

"Their Milan collection was unbelievable."

"They’ve become the second most profitable luxury brand in only five years."

"I wonder what kind of person created those masterpieces."

Even veteran designers were curious.

LUXT Design had become almost mythical. Their collections sold out within minutes. Their designers remained anonymous—no interviews, no public appearances, no scandals. Only breathtaking creations that seemed to redefine beauty itself.

Only art.

Missy listened quietly, her expression composed. But even she couldn’t hide the flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

She had tried to buy LUXT’s newest collection several times. Every attempt had failed. Sold out. Every time.

She smiled, her confidence returning. "Whoever their designer is," she said lightly, "they’ll finally meet real competition today."

Emily nodded approvingly. "Never underestimate anyone."

"I won’t," Missy replied. "But I’m not afraid either."

Her tone was calm, but her eyes gleamed with pride.

She had no idea how wrong she was.

At that exact moment, another car pulled up to the entrance.

The crowd stirred again, the air shifting with sudden energy.

The door opened.

Layla stepped out first.

The elegant Vice President and public face of LUXT Design was instantly recognizable. Her tailored black suit fit like a second skin, her posture perfect, her expression serene. The moment she appeared, camera flashes exploded in a frenzy.

"Layla!"

"It’s Layla!"

"LUXT Design is here!"

The reporters surged forward, shouting questions, their voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus.

Layla smiled politely but didn’t stop. She turned slightly, gesturing toward the car.

The second person stepped out—a tall, handsome young man with an imposing yet gentle presence. No one recognized him, but his aura commanded attention. His movements were calm, deliberate, the kind that made people instinctively step aside.

And then, the third figure emerged.

A woman.

She wore oversized sunglasses and simple casual clothes—a cream blouse, black trousers, and low heels. Her long hair caught the morning breeze, glinting softly under the sunlight. She wasn’t surrounded by bodyguards. She didn’t wave to the cameras. She didn’t need to.

Because the moment she stepped out, the noise seemed to fade.

There was something about her—something quiet yet magnetic. People couldn’t look away.

Layla turned toward her with a smile. "This way."

The woman nodded once, her expression unreadable. Together, the three of them walked through the entrance, heading straight toward LUXT Design’s assigned preparation room.

The crowd parted instinctively, whispers following in their wake.

"Who is she?"

"Is that the designer?"

"She doesn’t look like one."

"She doesn’t look like anyone we’ve seen before."

The murmurs grew louder, curiosity spreading like wildfire.

Inside the hall, Emily Hawthorne turned slightly, her attention caught by the commotion near the entrance. She smiled politely at the women around her, pretending disinterest, but her eyes flicked toward the doorway.

And then she froze.

Her breath caught.

Her smile vanished.

For a heartbeat, she couldn’t move.

The woman walking beside Layla lifted her head slightly, the light catching her profile.

Emily’s pupils widened.

Her fingers tightened around her clutch until her knuckles turned white.

The world seemed to tilt.

"Mindy?" she whispered.

The name slipped out before she could stop it.

Her voice was barely audible, but in that single word was disbelief, fear, and something dangerously close to dread.

Because standing there, calm and radiant beneath the flashing lights, was the daughter she had cast aside.

And this time, Mindy Wilson wasn’t walking into their world as a victim.

She was walking in as their competition.

The crowd continued to buzz, oblivious to the storm that had just begun to gather.

Emily stood frozen, her heart pounding in her chest, as the realization sank in.

The game had changed.

And the Hawthornes were no longer the only players.