Chapter 66: The Warrior’s Entrance

Backstage, the air was thick with tension and the faint hum of the orchestra beyond the curtains. Layton Knight stood silently near the runway entrance, his hands tucked into his pockets, his gaze fixed on the stage where Ana Bose was completing her walk.

The applause that followed her final pose rolled through the Pavilion like a wave, but Layton barely heard it. His eyes remained on the woman who had orchestrated this impossible recovery.

So that’s your answer, Mindy, he thought, his expression unreadable. The models disappeared, and instead of panicking, you rewrote the entire show. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Not bad," he murmured under his breath, the words carrying a mixture of admiration and something far more complicated.

Footsteps approached from behind. Mike appeared, moving quietly, his expression serious. "Sir," he said softly, glancing around before reaching into his jacket. He handed Layton a small digital voice recorder. "Here it is."

Layton took it without hesitation. "You recorded everything?"

Mike nodded once. "They planned it together."

Layton’s faint smile vanished. His eyes hardened, the warmth replaced by a cold, calculating edge. "Good," he said simply, slipping the recorder into his pocket.

"I’ll listen later." His gaze returned to the runway, his jaw tightening. Whatever satisfaction he had felt moments ago was gone, replaced by the quiet fury of a man who had just confirmed his suspicions.

Momments earlier, the heavy fire escape door slammed shut with a metallic clang that echoed through the stairwell. Missy Hawthorne spun around, her heels scraping against the concrete floor, her face twisted in anger. "What happened?" she demanded, her voice sharp. "Where are the models?"

Kelvin King leaned against the railing, his expression dark and impatient. "Where do you think they are?" he snapped. "My people kidnapped them exactly as planned. How was I supposed to know she’d send her own people onto the runway?"

Missy’s eyes blazed. "This only made her stand out even more! We practically handed her the spotlight!" She jabbed a finger toward him, her voice rising. "This was your idea! I told you we should’ve kidnapped Mindy instead!"

Kelvin’s face turned to stone. "Shut up," he said coldly. "Are you stupid? She’s never alone. Matthias. Wade. Her security. You think kidnapping her would’ve been easier?" His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "You’d be dead before you even touched her."

Missy bit her lip, her anger trembling on the edge of panic. "Then what do we do now? We can’t let her win."

Kelvin exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair. "What exactly do you expect me to do? If we make another move now, we’ll only attract attention. Everyone already suspects someone is behind this. You think Matthias won’t investigate? And He won’t connect the dots?" He stepped closer, his voice low and sharp. "We lay low. That’s the only option."

Missy’s breathing grew heavier. "But he’ll be furious," she whispered.

Kelvin met her gaze, his tone flat. "I know. But we don’t have a choice." He turned toward the exit. "I’m leaving."

Missy’s voice echoed through the stairwell, shrill and furious. "USELESS! KELVIN!" She kicked the wall, the sound reverberating through the concrete. "MINDY!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "I swear I’ll destroy you!"

The fire escape door slammed shut behind Kelvin, leaving her alone in the echoing stairwell. Neither of them noticed the two figures standing one floor above, hidden in the shadows, listening silently to every word.

Inside the Royal Pavilion, the applause for Ana’s walk still thundered through the hall. She stood elegantly at the end of the runway, her posture perfect, her expression serene. The host stepped forward, his smile bright and practiced.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, his voice carrying easily through the microphone, "what a spectacular opening! I don’t think anyone expected such an incredible beginning."

The audience laughed and applauded again, the energy in the room electric. "And now," the host continued, "the second couture look from LUXT Design—The Betrayal."

Backstage, Layla Hart was trembling. Her palms were slick with sweat, her breathing uneven. She gripped Dante’s arm tightly, her knuckles white. "I’ll fall," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the music.

Dante looked down at her, his expression calm, almost amused. "Then don’t," he said simply.

...

Layla glared at him. "You’re not helping."

He smiled faintly. "You negotiated with twenty CEOs last month. This is easier."

"Those CEOs weren’t staring at me," she muttered.

"They are today," Dante replied, extending his hand. "Ready?"

Layla looked toward Mindy, who stood a few feet away, her expression composed, her eyes steady. Mindy gave a single nod. "You’ve got this."

Layla inhaled deeply, straightened her shoulders, and took Dante’s hand. "Let’s do it."

The lights dimmed once more, and the orchestra shifted to a slower, more dramatic melody. The host’s voice rang out clearly. "Presenting The Betrayal! Walking this design—the Vice President of LUXT Design, Miss Layla Hart!"

The audience erupted in surprise. "What?!" someone exclaimed. "Another executive?" "This is unbelievable!" The murmurs spread like wildfire, but they were silenced the moment Layla stepped onto the runway.

She emerged from the shadows like a vision of vengeance. The blood-red gown shimmered beneath the lights, every crystal catching the glow and scattering it like falling tears of blood. The fabric clung to her form before cascading into a dramatic train that flowed behind her like spilled crimson silk.

The asymmetrical neckline revealed one shoulder, the cut sharp and deliberate, exuding strength rather than vulnerability. Long black lace gloves extended past her elbows, completing the illusion of elegance laced with danger.

The audience forgot to breathe. The giant screens beside the runway displayed the concept in elegant gold lettering:

Palette: Blood Red, Deep Burgundy, Black

Story:Trust. Broken. Every crystal represents betrayal by someone once loved.

The silence that followed was reverent. Then, as Layla reached the center of the runway, the applause exploded. Photographers stood from their seats, camera shutters flashing in rapid succession. Even the judges leaned forward, their expressions shifting from polite interest to genuine admiration.

Matthew Clark, Maxine’s Creative Director, whispered to Sophia Laurent, "The construction—remarkable."

Sophia adjusted her glasses, her eyes gleaming. "It photographs perfectly from every angle."

Isabella Moretti smiled, her French accent soft. "Luxury houses will fight over this gown."

Sebastian Moreau nodded slowly. "Betrayal," he murmured. "Never looked this beautiful."

Even Zylo Mark, the notoriously stoic Editor-in-Chief, crossed his arms and said a single word. "Interesting." For him, that was the highest praise imaginable.

Layla’s confidence returned with every step. The fear that had gripped her moments ago melted away, replaced by the commanding presence of a woman who had conquered boardrooms and now conquered the runway.

She reached the end, turned gracefully, and offered a cold, knowing smile before walking back. The applause followed her like thunder.

Ana clapped enthusiastically from the side of the stage, her grin wide. In the audience, Andrew Bose had just entered the Pavilion. His eyes immediately found his daughter standing near the runway, radiant and confident. His breath caught. "My daughter..." he whispered, pride softening his features. "She’s incredible."

Inside LUXT’s suite, Mindy watched the live broadcast on the large monitor. A satisfied smile curved her lips. "I told you," she said quietly.

Matthias stood beside her, his silver mask reflecting the light from the screen. "I never doubted you," he replied. He extended his hand toward her. "Ready?"

Mindy looked at him for a moment, then placed her hand in his. "Always."

Outside the suite, Wade leaned casually against the wall, his arms crossed. "I’ll handle things here," he said. "You go."

Mindy nodded. "Take care of everyone."

"I always do," Wade replied with a grin.

Without another word, she walked toward the door. Matthias watched her leave, his gaze following her until she disappeared down the corridor. His eyes never left her back.

On stage, Layla joined Ana at the end of the runway. The two women exchanged a smile, their hands brushing briefly in silent solidarity. The host stepped forward again, his voice bright.

"Ladies and gentlemen, if this is how LUXT begins, I can only imagine what’s coming next!" The audience laughed and applauded. He opened the next cue card, his expression shifting as he read.

"Our third couture presentation—The Warrior."

He paused, blinking twice before continuing.

"Walking this collection—the Chief Designer of LUXT Design, Miss Mindy Wilson."

The room fell silent. Absolute silence. Even the judges looked up, their pens frozen mid-note.

Darkness swallowed the runway.

The orchestra fell silent. For a moment, there was nothing—no sound, no movement, only the faint hum of anticipation.

Then, a single spotlight flickered to life, illuminating the entrance.

The sharp, rhythmic click of high heels echoed through the darkness.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Then another sound joined it—a metallic scrape, long and deliberate.

Screeeee— The sound of metal dragging against marble.

Every head turned toward the source. The audience held its breath.

From the shadows, Mindy Wilson emerged.

She was a vision of power and defiance. The gown was unlike anything that had graced the Pavilion before—an embodiment of strength forged through pain. The palette was stark and commanding: black, gunmetal gray, and silver.

The armor-inspired corset hugged her figure with sculpted precision, each panel layered with metallic embroidery that caught the light like forged steel. The structured shoulders curved upward, resembling the pauldrons of a warrior queen’s armor.

A dark cape flowed behind her, its edges embroidered with silver thread that shimmered like moonlight on water. In her right hand, she held a sword, its blade dragging lightly against the runway, leaving a faint metallic trail.

Screeeee—

Not a single person clapped. Not because they disapproved, but because they were completely stunned. The giant screen behind her displayed the concept in bold letters:

The Warrior

She no longer waits to be saved. She becomes her own shield. Every scar becomes armor. Every fall becomes strength.

Mindy never looked at the audience. She didn’t smile. She didn’t acknowledge the cameras. She walked with the steady, unyielding grace of someone who had survived a battlefield and emerged stronger. Every step was deliberate, every movement a declaration.

Layton couldn’t look away. His chest tightened painfully as he watched her.

This isn’t acting, he thought.

This is who she became. His throat constricted.

What happened to you, Mindy? How much pain have you endured to become this?

Across the Pavilion, Matthias watched her with quiet admiration. A gentle smile touched his lips, the kind that carried both pride and understanding.

Beside him, Zac whispered, "I’ve got goosebumps."

Dante nodded slowly. "I don’t think anyone is breathing."

Zac glanced at Matthias. "Honestly, I’m a little scared."

Matthias’s smile deepened slightly. "I think she looks cute."

Both Zac and Dante turned to him in disbelief.

"Cute?!" Zac hissed. "That’s cute to you?!"

Matthias didn’t answer. His eyes never left Mindy.

In the audience, Raymond Hawthorne sat frozen. His mind reeled as he watched the woman on stage—the proud, quiet little girl who used to wait for him at home, sketching designs on scraps of paper, now standing before thousands, commanding the entire stage.

A painful realization struck him like a blow. Six months ago, he had thrown away the greatest designer the Hawthorne family had ever known.

Mindy reached the edge of the runway. The lights caught the polished blade of her sword, turning it into a streak of silver fire. Slowly, she lifted it.

The audience held its breath. Then—whoosh! The sword sliced through the air, the sharp metallic whistle echoing across the silent Pavilion. The sound was clean, powerful, final.

For three seconds, no one moved. Four. Five. Then, from the judges’ table, Sebastian Moreau stood. Clap. Clap. Clap. The sound was crisp, deliberate.

Matthew Clark rose next, followed by Sophia Laurent, then Isabella Moretti. Finally, even Zylo Mark stood, his expression unreadable, and began to applaud.

The audience erupted. Thunderous applause shook the Pavilion. People rose from their seats, cheering, shouting, clapping until their hands ached. Photographers forgot to stop shooting, their flashes turning the stage into a storm of light.

Mindy lowered her sword slowly, a faint, almost invisible smile curving her lips. She turned and walked back toward the center of the runway.

Ana couldn’t contain herself any longer. She cupped her hands around her mouth and whistled loudly.

"WOOOO! That’s my girl!"

Mindy laughed softly, just for a second, before her expression returned to its composed calm. She took her place between Ana and Layla, the three women standing side by side beneath the lights—three Chapters of the same story.

Near the front row, Adam Gray smiled from his wheelchair, his eyes glistening. Steven stood quietly behind him.

"I’m glad I came," Adam whispered.

"This... this is history."

Backstage, the atmosphere inside Rona Design’s suite was suffocating. The team stood clustered around the monitor, watching the live broadcast in stunned silence.

Maya’s eyes were wide, unblinking, fixed on the screen. Bratt glanced at her, then back at the display.

"Maya," he said quietly. No response.

"Maya." Still nothing.

He sighed. "You’re drooling."

Maya blinked, startled. "W-What?!" She touched the corner of her mouth, realized he was right, and immediately stepped back.

"I’m not drooling!"

Bratt folded his arms, smirking. "I literally saw it. Professional designer, huh?"

Maya’s cheeks flushed crimson. "Shut up!"

Rian chuckled from behind them.

"I don’t blame her," he said. His eyes remained on the screen, his voice softening.

"She really is... a monster."

The three designers stood in silence, watching Mindy Wilson command the stage with effortless power. For the first time, they understood.

They weren’t competing against another designer. They were competing against a legend in the making.