The ballroom was suffused with tension, though no fabric or runway adorned it this time. No glittering chandeliers or theatrics. Just rows of chairs filled with journalists, cameras perched like watchful vultures, and a single podium standing at the front, stark beneath the harsh white lights.
Elena waited in the wings, her breath steady, her palms cool despite the weight of what she carried. She wore no gown, no armor of silk or sequins—only a simple black dress, tailored sharply, the kind of garment that allowed no distractions. Today, it was not her artistry she was offering the world, but her voice.
Daniel stood at her side, his hand brushing hers briefly. “They’re waiting for you,” he whispered.
She nodded once, then stepped forward. The murmur of voices died instantly. The air tightened.
Elena approached the podium, her heels clicking against the marble floor, each step measured. She lifted her gaze to the sea of expectant faces—skeptical, curious, hungry. For a moment, she let the silence hang, forcing every camera lens and every pen to focus only on her.
“My name is Elena de la Cruz,” she began, her voice clear, ringing. “And today, I will not show you dresses, or sketches, or collections. Today, I will show you truth.”
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Gasps fluttered through the room as she opened the folder, placing it on the podium. She did not read from it—she spoke from memory, from the stories etched into her heart.
She spoke of seamstresses underpaid and discarded. Of suppliers driven into bankruptcy by impossible demands. Of young designers stripped of credit and silenced by contracts. Of voices Regina Velasco had buried beneath pearls and charity galas.
Faces appeared on the screen behind her—recordings Daniel had prepared. One by one, the testimonies played: Mr. Santiago, voice trembling with years of betrayal; Clara, her eyes wet but defiant as she recounted her stolen career. Each story landed like a stone in the still pond of the room, rippling outward.
Journalists scribbled furiously. Cameras zoomed in. Elena did not falter.
“For too long,” she said, her voice firm, “our industry has celebrated the sheen while ignoring the seams. Regina Velasco has built her empire on exploitation, on intimidation, on silence. I will not be silent anymore. And neither will they.”
A pause. The silence was deafening. Then the room erupted. Reporters shouted questions, cameras flashed like lightning.
Elena held up a hand, commanding calm. “I am not here to destroy fashion. I am here to save it. This is my stand. And I welcome anyone who dares to stand with me.”
The ovation that followed was fractured—some clapped, some whispered nervously, some sat in stunned stillness. But it was undeniable. Elena had lit the match.
From the back of the room, Daniel’s eyes burned with pride. But even he could see it—among the crowd of journalists, there were faces too still, too composed. Loyal to Regina. Already plotting.
The moment Elena stepped down from the podium, her phone buzzed. A single message appeared, unsigned.
You’ve made your move. Now it’s my turn.
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