Chapter 67: The Queens

Backstage, the air was thick with tension and disbelief. Missy Hawthorne stood frozen before the giant monitor, her reflection faintly visible in the glossy screen. On it, Mindy Wilson stood proudly between Ana Bose and Layla Hart, the three women illuminated by the golden light of the runway.

The applause outside refused to die down. It rolled through the Pavilion like thunder, wave after wave of admiration that refused to fade.

Missy’s fingers curled into fists, her nails digging so deep into her palms that they pierced the skin. She didn’t even notice the pain. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her breath uneven, her eyes wide with fury.

No... she thought, her mind spinning. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Today was supposed to be her day. The day she watched Mindy fail. The day she laughed as the so-called prodigy stumbled and fell.

The day she stood on that stage as the victor, basking in applause while Mindy’s name faded into humiliation. But instead, the world was applauding her. Applauding Mindy Wilson.

Her throat tightened as she stared at the screen.

Why? she thought bitterly.

Why is everyone looking at her with admiration? Why does she always rise, no matter how many times I try to crush her?

Beside her, Emily stood equally pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes never left the screen. "We underestimated her," she murmured quietly, her voice trembling with reluctant awe.

Missy’s breathing grew heavier. "This can’t continue," she hissed. "If she keeps winning, everything will fall apart."

Emily said nothing. She didn’t need to. The truth hung between them like smoke—thick, suffocating, undeniable.

On the runway, the host walked back to the center of the stage, his face flushed with excitement.

He rubbed his arms dramatically, pretending to shiver. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said with a grin, "is it just me, or does everyone have goosebumps?"

The audience laughed, the tension breaking into delighted murmurs. The host chuckled. "Honestly, I’m beginning to fear what LUXT has prepared next."

Even the judges smiled, exchanging amused glances. But Mindy, standing near the edge of the stage, remained calm. A faint smirk curved her lips, subtle but unmistakable.

The host reached for the next cue card, his fingers trembling slightly from the energy in the room. He opened it, glanced down, and blinked.

Then he looked again. His eyes flicked toward Mindy, then back to the card. "Our fourth couture presentation..." he began slowly, "The Queen."

He paused, squinting at the card as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was reading. "Miss Wilson," he said, half-laughing, "are you serious?"

The audience chuckled softly, intrigued.

The host cleared his throat and continued.

"The Queen will be presented by..." He hesitated, his eyes widening slightly.

"...Mrs. Emma Wilson and Mrs. Hannah Knight."

The laughter died instantly.

Somewhere in the Pavilion, a champagne glass slipped from someone’s hand and shattered against the marble floor. The sharp clink echoed through the silence. Every head turned toward the stage. The judges exchanged bewildered looks.

"Did he just say Emma Wilson?" one whispered.

"And Hannah Knight?" another murmured.

Layton Knight slowly rose from his seat, his expression unreadable. Raymond Hawthorne’s eyes widened in disbelief. But Matthias King, seated near the judges’ table, merely smiled. His expression was calm, almost knowing. This was exactly what he had expected.

Backstage, Emma Wilson adjusted the sleeve of her gown with practiced grace. The fabric shimmered faintly under the soft backstage lights, catching the gold in her hair. Beside her, Hannah Knight smiled warmly, her calm presence radiating quiet confidence.

Wade stood before them, trying his best to appear composed, though his voice betrayed a hint of nervousness. "Don’t be nervous," he said, clearing his throat.

Emma turned her head toward him, one elegant brow arching. "Nervous?" she repeated, her tone amused. "We know we can do this."

Hannah chuckled softly. "The only nervous person here," she said, "is you."

The design team burst into laughter, the tension breaking for a moment. Even Wade rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, muttering something about "just checking."

Emma reached out and took Hannah’s hand. "Our granddaughter trusted us," she said softly. "We won’t disappoint her."

Hannah squeezed her hand in return, her eyes glinting with affection. "Let’s remind them," she said, her voice low but firm, "that queens don’t grow old. They become legends."

The two women exchanged a single, confident nod.

The Pavilion lights dimmed slowly, the chatter fading into silence. Darkness swallowed the runway.

Then, two spotlights appeared—one at each entrance. The orchestra began to play a soft, regal melody, the kind that carried both nostalgia and power.

From the left entrance, Emma Wilson appeared.

The audience collectively inhaled.

She moved with the grace of a woman who had once ruled the fashion world and still carried its crown.

Her gown shimmered in deep crimson, charcoal gold, and silver embroidery. The bodice was structured yet fluid, the fabric hugging her form before cascading into a flowing skirt that caught the light with every step.

The embroidery along the hem glowed faintly, each thread woven with precision, each bead placed like a jewel in a crown.

Every step she took carried decades of confidence, the kind that could not be taught—only earned.

The screen behind her displayed the words in elegant script:

The Crimson Queen

The Grace of Experience

The Strength of a Mother

From the opposite side, Hannah Knight emerged.

Her gown was the color of midnight—obsidian black threaded with silver, the fabric glinting like starlight. Dark red gemstones adorned the bodice, arranged like royal insignias across her chest.

The neckline was high, the sleeves long, the silhouette commanding yet graceful. She looked calm, wise, untouchable.

The screen changed again:

The Obsidian Queen

The Wisdom of Loyalty

The Power of Unbreakable Faith

The audience stopped breathing. Neither woman hurried. Neither tried to impress anyone. They simply walked—slow, deliberate, regal. Like queens returning to their kingdom.

The giant screen behind them shifted once more, revealing the collection’s theme:

THE QUEEN

Not One... But Two.

Two generations. Two paths. One empire.

A legacy that no one can erase.

The palette appeared beneath the words: Deep Crimson. Obsidian Black. Silver. Charcoal Gold.

Emma reached the center of the runway first. Moments later, Hannah arrived from the opposite side. The two women faced each other, their eyes meeting in silent understanding. No words were needed. They smiled—softly, knowingly—and then turned together.

Side by side, they walked toward the end of the runway.

The Pavilion erupted.

Before they even reached the end, the audience was on its feet. Thunderous applause filled the hall, echoing off the marble walls. The judges rose from their seats, clapping with genuine admiration.

Sebastian Moreau applauded continuously, his eyes shining. Matthew Clark removed his glasses, shaking his head in disbelief. "I’ve judged fashion for twenty-seven years," he said, his voice carrying over the noise. "I’ve never witnessed anything like this."

Sophia Laurent smiled, her voice soft but awed. "This isn’t a runway," she said. "It’s a living painting."

Richard Beaumont leaned forward, his tone reverent. "They’re not selling clothes," he whispered. "They’re telling history."

Isabella Moretti nodded, her eyes glistening. "This collection belongs in Paris," she said simply.

Even Zylo Mark, who rarely showed emotion, applauded without hesitation. The cameras flashed relentlessly, capturing every second of the moment.

Emma and Hannah reached the end of the runway, turned gracefully, and began their return. The applause did not fade—it grew louder, stronger, until it felt like the entire Pavilion was trembling.

When they reached the center again, Mindy stepped forward. Emma stopped on her left. Hannah on her right. Ana and Layla moved beside them, completing the formation.

Ana. Emma. Mindy. Hannah. Layla.

Five women. Five Chapters. One complete story.

The applause refused to stop.

The host stepped back onto the stage, laughing helplessly. "I don’t know about all of you," he said, "but I completely forgot I’m supposed to be hosting." The audience laughed with him, the tension dissolving into joy.

"I don’t think anyone expected LUXT Design to begin the runway with such an explosion."

He accepted a microphone from an assistant and turned toward Mindy. "The judges would like to ask a few questions," he said, handing it to her respectfully.

Mindy accepted it with a graceful nod.

Richard Beaumont spoke first, his tone warm and sincere.

"Miss Wilson," he began, "I’ve attended fashion weeks around the world—Paris, Milan, London—but today, I witnessed something different."

He gestured toward the five women standing before him. "Your mood board, The Rise of a Queen—I understood every Chapter without you saying a single word. I honestly cannot wait to see your final masterpiece."

He smiled. "I have only one question. The models Zeus Vision submitted weren’t the ones who walked today. I’m certainly not complaining, but... what happened?"

Mindy inclined her head respectfully. "Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Beaumont," she said. She paused for a moment, then spoke clearly. "Our models were kidnapped."

The Pavilion fell silent.

Then chaos erupted.

"What?!" someone shouted. "Kidnapped?" "Is she serious?"

Missy’s face froze. Emily’s expression stiffened. Kelvin King’s smile vanished. He hadn’t expected her to reveal it publicly.

Isabella Moretti leaned forward, concern etched across her face. "Do you know who did it? Are they alright?"

Mindy shook her head slowly. "Not yet," she said. "But we’re investigating. And yes, they are fine now."

As she spoke, her eyes swept across the audience. For less than a second, they rested on Kelvin King.

Kelvin felt his heartbeat pause. She knows, he thought. Then, almost immediately, he corrected himself. No. Maybe not. But she suspects.

He leaned back in his chair, forcing a calm smile. I underestimated you, he thought coldly. It won’t happen again.

Sebastian Moreau adjusted his notebook. "Miss Wilson," he said, "why present two queens instead of one?"

Mindy smiled gently. "Because a kingdom isn’t built by one woman," she said. "My mother taught me design. My grandmother taught me resilience. Mrs. Knight showed me that loyalty can become family." She looked toward Emma, her voice softening. "Every queen was once guided by another."

The audience applauded softly. Hannah wiped the corner of one eye, smiling through the emotion. Emma’s expression was proud, her eyes glistening.

The remaining judges asked about construction, fabric choices, and historical inspirations. Mindy answered each question with calm precision, her tone confident but humble. Every word carried weight, every explanation revealing the depth of her artistry.

Finally, the host stepped forward again. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "that concludes LUXT Design’s first four couture presentations." He smiled broadly. "Our next presentation—King Group, in collaboration with Liora Fashion."

The lights began to shift, signaling the transition. Emma turned to Mindy and pulled her into a brief hug. "You did beautifully," she whispered.

Mindy smiled. "You both did."

Backstage, the moment the door closed behind them, the tension shattered. The entire LUXT team erupted into cheers. "We did it!" someone shouted.

Ana collapsed dramatically onto a sofa, her gown spilling around her like a cloud of silk. "I thought I was going to faint," she groaned, holding up her trembling hands. "Look! I’m still shaking. Never, ever ask me to walk a runway again."

Layla dropped onto another sofa beside her, kicking off her heels. "I negotiate billion-dollar contracts," she said, exhaling loudly. "I’ve stared down board members twice my age. But that runway..." She shook her head. "That was terrifying."

Mindy laughed, the sound light and genuine. "You both were incredible," she said.

Ana immediately sat up, wagging a finger. "No. No compliments. Just retirement."

Mindy grinned mischievously. "Maybe we should do this again sometime."

Ana and Layla shot upright in unison. "NO!" they shouted.

The entire suite burst into laughter.

Wade folded his arms, smirking. "I actually think—"

Both women turned to glare at him. "Don’t," they said in perfect harmony.

He raised his hands in surrender. "I didn’t say anything."

The laughter grew louder, filling the room with warmth and relief.

A few moments later, Zac strolled over, his usual grin firmly in place. He leaned casually against the arm of the sofa and looked at Layla. "I have to admit," he said, "you looked absolutely stunning out there, Miss Hart."

Layla rolled her eyes. "Flattery won’t work."

Zac placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "I wasn’t flirting," he said. "I was stating facts."

Dante, standing nearby, coughed discreetly into his fist to hide a smile.

The door opened again, and Andrew Bose hurried inside, his expression a mixture of disbelief and pride. His eyes immediately found Ana.

"There you are!" he exclaimed, crossing the room in quick strides. He pulled his daughter into a warm hug.

"When someone called and said, ’Your daughter’s walking the runway,’ I thought they were joking. But you—" He pulled back to look at her.

"You were magnificent. You truly looked like a princess."

Ana blushed, her cheeks pink. "Dad, stop," she said, laughing. "You’re embarrassing me."

Andrew chuckled, then turned toward Mindy. His expression softened into something deeply sincere. "Mindy," he said, "those designs... they’re extraordinary. I’m proud of you."

Mindy smiled politely. "Thank you, Mr. Bose."

Matthias glanced at the clock on the wall. "We should eat something," he said, his tone calm but purposeful.

"We still have two hours before the final masterpiece." He looked at Mindy, a faint smile playing on his lips.

"And I have a feeling she’s saved the best for last."

Mindy didn’t deny it. She simply smiled, her eyes glinting with quiet confidence.

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the kind that follows victory. Outside, the applause from the Pavilion still echoed faintly through the walls—a reminder that the world had just witnessed something unforgettable.

And though the night was far from over, everyone in that room knew one thing for certain: the queens had already claimed their throne.