The city woke to the aftermath of Daniel’s declaration, but by noon, Elena had made her move.
A press release went out under Marquez Couture’s golden letterhead: “A statement from Elena Marquez.” Within an hour, every fashion magazine, society page, and television host buzzed with anticipation. Regina Velasco had already sharpened her knives, ready to cut Elena down further—but Elena wasn’t going to wait to be struck.
She chose the grand hall of the National Arts Museum, where her late mother once unveiled her own designs. It wasn’t just a press conference—it was a show. Rows of chairs filled with reporters, cameras lined the back wall, and at the center of the stage stood a single mannequin draped in something breathtaking: a gown Elena had designed in secret, one she had never dared to release.
When she entered, the murmurs hushed. She wore a sleek black suit, elegant but severe, her chin high and her eyes steady. The cameras flashed as she took the podium.
“I have been accused of many things in these past weeks,” she began, her voice carrying through the marble hall. “Of impropriety, of weakness, of losing sight of what Marquez Couture stands for. But I am not here to deny love. I am here to claim it.”
You Pick, You React
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Gasps fluttered through the crowd. Elena’s hand rested lightly on the mannequin beside her. “This dress—” she gestured to the masterpiece of fabric and light “—was designed not for the runway, not for royalty, but for the courage to love without fear. My mother once told me that true couture is not about status, but about soul. Today, I choose to honor that.”
She drew in a breath, then delivered the blow Regina had not expected. “Yes, I love Daniel Reyes. He is not a scandal, not a shame, but my partner—in life, and in the vision we will carry forward together. If that costs me contracts, if that costs me clients, then so be it. But understand this: Marquez Couture will not crumble, because it was built not on gossip, but on creation.”
The room erupted—some reporters shouting questions, some stunned into silence, flashes popping like fireworks. Elena stood unwavering, her hands folded in front of her, the mannequin’s gown gleaming like armor beside her.
Outside, on the museum steps, Daniel watched from the crowd, awe softening his features. She hadn’t just defended herself—she had turned the narrative into something untouchable.
When she stepped down from the podium, reporters swarmed, their voices frantic: “Do you mean marriage?” … “Are you ready for the backlash?” … “What does Regina Velasco have to say about this?”
But Elena only gave a small smile. “Ask Regina what it feels like to lose her script.”
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