Chapter Sixteen: The Rival
724 Words
Paris was colder than Lena expected.
Not the weather—though the crisp autumn air bit at her cheeks—but the atmosphere. The city was beautiful, yes. Romantic, yes. But beneath the charm and cobblestone streets, the fashion world here was sharp-edged, glittering with judgment and silent competition. It was a battlefield dressed in silk.
She stood in the grand lobby of the Hôtel du Palais, surrounded by marble columns, velvet furniture, and the scent of expensive perfume. Her driver was late, but her thoughts were earlier than ever—racing ahead to the showcase, to her missing gowns, to the silence from Grayson.
He hadn’t called.
Not once since she landed.
She told herself it was fine. That she needed space. That this was her moment. But the silence between them was louder than any applause she might earn. And it hurt more than she expected.
The New Voices showcase was held in a converted cathedral—vaulted ceilings, stained glass, and a runway that stretched like a prayer aisle. Lena stepped into organized chaos. Models rushed past in towering heels. Stylists barked orders in rapid French. Photographers hovered like vultures, lenses hungry for drama.
And at the center of it all stood Aurelien Marchand.
Paris’s golden boy. The youngest designer to headline Paris Fashion Week. Brilliant. Ruthless. Beautiful in that dangerous way that made people forget he had teeth.
He turned as Lena entered, his smile slow and calculating.
“Ah, the American,” he said, voice smooth as silk. “Or should I say, the Wolfe bride?”
Lena’s jaw tightened. “I’m Lena Moretti. And I’m here as a designer.”
Aurelien’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Of course. But you must admit, the scandal makes you more interesting.”
“I’m not here to be interesting,” Lena replied. “I’m here to be unforgettable.”
Aurelien laughed, a low, amused sound. “Then let’s see if your designs speak louder than your headlines.”
Backstage, Lena reviewed her lineup. Her collection was bold—structured silhouettes, rich textures, and unapologetic femininity. It was her voice, stitched into every seam. Her team buzzed around her, adjusting hems, steaming fabric, checking lighting.
Then her assistant rushed in, pale-faced.
“Two of our gowns are missing,” she said. “Gone from the rack.”
Lena’s heart dropped. “What?”
“We checked the cameras. Someone moved them. No ID. No footage.”
Lena didn’t need footage.
She knew exactly who it was.
She found Aurelien in the VIP lounge, lounging like a prince, sipping champagne.
“You took my gowns,” she said, voice low and lethal.
He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Lena stepped closer. “You’re threatened. That’s flattering.”
Aurelien smiled. “You’re bold. But this is Paris. We don’t play fair.”
Lena’s voice was ice. “Then I’ll rewrite the rules.”
She turned and walked out, her mind already racing. She had backups. She had talent. And she had something Aurelien didn’t—grit. She wasn’t born into this world. She fought her way in. And she wasn’t leaving quietly.
The show began.
Lena’s models walked the runway in reworked pieces—last-minute adjustments, improvised styling, and raw emotion. Her team had worked miracles in hours. The crowd leaned in. The press scribbled notes. And when the final look appeared—a crimson gown with a hand-stitched quote embroidered down the back—there was silence.
Then applause.
Thunderous. Relentless. Unstoppable.
Lena stood backstage, breathless. Her hands trembled. Her heart raced.
She’d done it.
She hadn’t just survived Paris.
She’d conquered it.
Later that night, at the after-party, Lena stood on a balcony overlooking the Seine. The city glittered below, but her thoughts drifted elsewhere.
To New York.
To Grayson.
To the silence between them.
Her phone buzzed.
1 New Message: Grayson Wolfe
She opened it.
“I watched the show. You were brilliant. I miss you.”
Lena’s eyes stung. She typed back.
“I miss you too. But I’m not coming back the same.”
His reply came instantly.
“Good. I don’t want the same. I want you.”
She stared at the screen, heart full and aching.
Paris had given her power.
But love—real love—was waiting back home.
- Writer
