Chapter 8 - The Red Carpet
The night of the Hawthorne Foundation Gala arrived with a brilliant sunset over the Pacific Ocean.
The event was held at the newly constructed Hawthorne Plaza in downtown Los Angeles—a massive, ultra-modern glass structure designed by world-renowned architects.
Over eight hundred high-profile guests filled the grand ballroom, including Hollywood celebrities, international diplomats, tech billionaires, and the highest tiers of California society.
Among them, sitting at a secondary table near the back of the room, sat the Miller family.
Harrison Miller looked ten years older, his face lined with stress. Brad sat beside him in a ill-fitting tuxedo, his hands trembling as he drank his third glass of scotch. Vanessa Carter sat on his right, wearing a heavy crimson velvet dress that looked dated and overly fussy compared to the sleek, modern aesthetic of the hall.
The Miller Group had been forced to attend to preserve what little commercial dignity they had left after losing two major port development contracts to Hawthorne Logistics the previous week.
At eight-thirty, the ballroom lights dimmed into a deep, moody indigo.
A dramatic spotlight struck the center of the main runway, and the opening music began—a striking, modern orchestral piece featuring heavy cellos and silver flutes.
The haute couture show began.
Twelve international models stepped onto the runway, showcasing the gowns I had spent three weeks creating.
The audience gasped collectively.
The collection was breathtaking. Deep sapphire silks, midnight-black velvets, hand-beaded silver stars, and sleek, sculpted silhouettes that celebrated female strength and grace without a single compromise.
Standing at the edge of the VIP lounge, Harrison Miller watched the runway through narrowed, bitter eyes.
“She didn't make those,” Harrison muttered to his son, his voice laced with poison. “Hawthorne hired a French design team to ghost-write that collection for her.”
Brad didn't answer his father. His eyes were glued to the stage, his mouth slightly open, a deep, sickening realization washing through his chest as he recognized the unique, hand-finished hems and structural boning he had seen in my studio a hundred times.
Then, the music shifted into a triumphant, rising crescendo.
The final model stepped off the runway, and the master of ceremonies stepped up to the main microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer echoed through the high-ceilinged hall. “Please welcome the founder and head designer of Mercer Couture—Miss Kate Mercer!”
The crowd erupted into thunderous applause.
I stepped out onto the runway beneath the brilliant white spotlights.
I wore a floor-length, backless gown made of shimmering liquid-silver silk that caught every beam of light like a starry night sky. My dark curls flowed over my shoulders, my skin radiated health and confidence, and my face held not a single trace of the hurt or humiliation from three weeks ago.
Beside the runway, Alexander Hawthorne stood waiting for me.
He stepped onto the stage, took my hand in his, and lifted it gently toward the crowd, his gray eyes shining with undeniable pride.
The applause doubled, several high-society women standing up to give a standing ovation.
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From his table in the back, Brad stared at me as if he were watching an angel he had thrown into the dirt, only to see her rise as a queen.
Vanessa gripped her table napkin so hard her knuckles turned white, her eyes burning with pure, unadulterated envy.
