Chapter 2 - The Archives of DuVall
Forty-eight hours before the Winter Rose Gala, a rain-slicked black sedan pulled up to the rear alley entrance of a private brownstone in Chicago's Gold Coast district.
Naomi stepped out into the cold drizzle, holding a dark umbrella. She walked up the stone steps and pressed a small brass buzzer beside an unmarked door. A camera clicked overhead, and a moment later, the heavy iron lock disengaged with a solid thud.
The interior of the brownstone was warm, smelling of cedarwood, lavender, and rich leather. Standing in the foyer was Jean-Luc DuVall—a tall, slender man in his early sixties with silver hair, sharp dark eyes, and an impeccably tailored charcoal vest. He was the master mind behind Atelier DuVall, the private Paris fashion house that dressed European royalty, Middle Eastern princesses, and the top one percent of global wealth.
Jean-Luc did not take public clients. He did not advertise. He did not loan dresses to red-carpet influencers. His creations were works of fine art, commissioned in secret and guarded like state intelligence.
When Jean-Luc saw Naomi, his stern face broke into a broad, genuine smile. He stepped forward and wrapped her in a warm, respectful embrace.
"My dear Naomi," Jean-Luc said, his French accent rich and heavy. "It has been far too long. Look at you—living in the shadows of Chicago while your rightful place is at the top of the world."
"Hello, Jean-Luc," Naomi said, stepping inside and handing him her coat. "Thank you for taking my call on such short notice."
"For you? I would close the atelier in Paris and fly across the Atlantic immediately," Jean-Luc replied, gesturing for her to follow him down a dimly lit hallway lined with original fashion sketches from the 1950s. "I received your message regarding the Moretti foundation event."
They entered a vast, velvet-draped fitting room. Standing in the center of the room, lit by soft halogen spotlights, were two identical dress forms.
On each form hung a masterpiece of modern haute couture.
The dress was sculpted from heavy, midnight-blue silk that looked like liquid night sky. The neckline was an asymmetrical cut that framed the collarbones with brutal, geometric perfection. The bodice was hand-boned, pulling into a razor-sharp waist before cascading into a dramatic, sweeping skirt. Thousands of microscopic hand-cut black and sapphire crystals were sewn along the seams, catching the light like distant stars.
It was the Celeste DuVall commission—a two-million-dollar singular creation that had taken four months and six seamstresses in Paris to craft by hand.
Naomi walked up to the dresses, running her fingers lightly over the cool, heavy silk.
"Vanessa Whitfield-Moretti believes she purchased the only one in existence," Naomi said quietly.
Jean-Luc let out a soft, mocking laugh. "Mrs. Moretti paid two million dollars for her gown, yes. But she forgets that Atelier DuVall was founded sixty years ago under the direct patronage of the Du Pont-Carter estate. When the commission was placed through her husband's shell account in Zurich, my master cutter recognized the secondary vault specifications."
Jean-Luc walked over to a marble table and picked up a heavy black leather file stamped with a wax seal.
"The Celeste dress was originally designed in 1968 by my father for your grandmother, Lady Helena Carter," Jean-Luc said softly, opening the file to reveal an original charcoal sketch signed by his ancestor. "The design rights do not belong to Atelier DuVall. They belong to the Carter bloodline. When Mrs. Moretti demanded the gown, I crafted hers... and I crafted yours."
Naomi looked at the twin dresses. "She invited me to the gala as a joke, Jean-Luc. She wants to humiliate me in front of the city's power structure."
"Then we shall give her a joke she will remember for the rest of her natural life," Jean-Luc said, his dark eyes flashing with fierce loyalty. "She wears the dress of a woman who bought her way into the Moretti name with stolen money. You will wear the dress of the woman who owns the foundation itself."
Jean-Luc snapped his fingers, and two young female assistants stepped out from behind the velvet curtains, carrying velvet shoe boxes and a flat mahogany chest.
"The heels are custom-molded silk," Jean-Luc instructed. "And inside this chest are the sapphire and diamond drop earrings from your grandmother's private safe in Geneva. Brought to Chicago yesterday by private courier."
Naomi looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror. "Dominic Moretti will be there."
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"Dominic Moretti is a powerful man," Jean-Luc noted carefully. "He built an empire on blood, steel, and real estate. But he is a man who respects authority above all else. When he sees you in this gown, he will not see a maid. He will see the truth."
Naomi took a deep breath, setting her hand against the midnight-blue silk. "Let's begin the fitting."
