Toen de lichten in het huis begonnen te dimmen en een tastbare sensatie door de gang kabbelde, begaf ik me naar mijn toegewezen stoel. Gereserveerd. Voorste rij. Middelpunt. Mijn pad, door een wrede speling van het lot of misschien door een zorgvuldig georkestreerde stoelindeling, voerde me rechtstreeks langs Serena en haar glinsterende hof van narren. Ze zag de elegant geschreven naam op het kleine plakkaat op mijn stoel – Dr. Clara Vance – en keek me toen aan, haar perfect gebeeldhouwde wenkbrauwen die aan elkaar breiden in een uitdrukking van pure, onvervalste verontwaardiging. Hoe was ‘Country Girl’, het meisje dat vervaagde denim en tweedehands truien droeg, op de eerste rij beland bij de meest exclusieve show van het seizoen? Een stoel, merkte ik op met een flikkering van persoonlijke tevredenheid, die verschillende plaatsen beter was dan de hare.
She deliberately stepped into my path, a human roadblock of couture and arrogance. A cruel, playful smile danced on her lips. The surrounding crowd, sensing the imminent drama like sharks sensing blood in the water, grew quiet, their smartphones subtly rising.
“Well, well, well,” she said, her voice a loud, carrying whisper designed to be heard by everyone within a ten-foot radius. “Little Miss Rags, all the way in the front row. How did you manage that? Did you get lost on your way to the kitchens?” She looked my simple dress up and down with theatrical disdain. “I don’t see a logo on that, well, that thing you’re wearing. Did you forget your label, darling?” She leaned in, her cloying, expensive perfume an assault on my senses. “You really should pin a tag on it. ‘Made in Nowhere.’ At least then people would know what, exactly, you’re trying to be.”
I held her gaze, my expression neutral, my heart a steady, rhythmic drum. “Excuse me, Serena. I need to get to my seat. The show is about to start.”
“Oh, but I’m just so terribly clumsy,” she said, her voice dripping with mock-apology. As I tried to step around her, she stuck out her leg, a subtle but intentional trip, her stiletto catching the back of my heel. I stumbled, lurching forward, my arms flailing for a moment as I tried to catch my balance.
And in that moment of engineered chaos, she “accidentally” grabbed the delicate, paper-thin silk of my sleeve to “steady” me. Her long, manicured nails dug into the fabric like talons.
I heard it before I felt it. The sharp, sickening RRRRIP of tearing fabric. It was not a loud sound, but in the suddenly silent, expectant space around us, it was as loud as a gunshot.
A collective, horrified gasp went through the crowd. I looked down. A massive, jagged tear ran from my shoulder halfway down my arm, exposing the pale, bare skin underneath. The perfect, azure blue sheath was ruined.
Serena brought her hands to her mouth in a perfect, theatrical pantomime of horror. But her eyes, her cold, dead eyes, were dancing with triumphant malice. This was better than she could have ever planned.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, her voice ringing with false concern. “I am so, so sorry! This material… my goodness, it’s just so weak.” She let her voice fill with a fake, pitying tone, loud enough for the entire section to hear. “I guess that’s what happens with those cheap, market-stall clothes. They just fall apart. They tear so easily.”
She leaned in close, her whisper a final, devastating blow meant only for me. “Now it’s rags, Clara. Just like you. You can take the girl out of the country…” She smiled, a wide, predatory baring of teeth, waiting for my public humiliation, for the tears, for me to run from the room in shame. She was waiting for the sixteen-year-old girl she had created to make one final, pathetic appearance.
III. The Lion’s Verdict
“NON!”
The roar was so sudden, so volcanic, it seemed to shake the very foundations of the hall. It was not my voice. It was a voice that could make or break careers with a single, dismissive syllable.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea. Monsieur Laurent, the legendary, mercurial designer and the host of this very show, a man known for his genius and his terrifying temper, was storming towards us. His face, usually a mask of haughty boredom, was a terrifying canvas of pure, apoplectic fury. He didn’t even see me at first. His eyes, the most feared and respected in the entire industry, were fixed with laser-like horror on the torn, ruined sleeve of my dress.
“WHAT HAPPENED HERE?!” he screamed, his thick French accent making the words sound like a physical assault. “WHO DID THIS? WHO IS THE IMBECILE RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS SACRILEGE?”
Serena, seeing the great designer approaching, immediately shifted into her fawning “influencer” persona, her smile bright and cloying. “Monsieur Laurent, I am so deeply sorry. It was a terrible accident! This girl… her cheap dress just fell apart in my hands…”
