Chapter 148: A Peek At Masterpiece

The phone stopped vibrating just as I reached for it, the screen fading back to black with a missed call notification: Unknown Local Number.

A second later, a text message chimed on the display:

"If you still want to see the drawings... you can come. You know where I live."

I couldn’t help but chuckle softly. She had chosen to dial Sarah’s line—the number printed right beneath mine on the gold-embossed card. Even in her desperation, she felt safer reaching out to the calm, gentle woman who had defended her on the stairs rather than the intimidating guy who had gotten her fired.

I walked over to Sarah’s room and knocked lightly before opening the door. Sarah was curled up on the bed, clutching a heating pad to her stomach with a pained wince.

"Was that... Benita?" Sarah asked, her voice raspy as she tried to sit up. "Did she call?"

"She called your line," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "And she just texted. She’s ready to show us her drawings."

Sarah groaned, trying to swing her legs over the side of the bed. "I’ll... I’ll get my coat. Give me two minutes—"

"Stay right where you are," I commanded gently, stepping forward to put a hand on her shoulder. "You can barely stand, Sarah. I’m not dragging you through muddy slum streets with food poisoning."

"But Mr. Ethan," she protested, looking up at me with pale, worried eyes. "She only opened up because I was there! What if she shuts down the second she sees it’s just you?"

"Then I’ll handle it," I said smoothly. "Rest up. Drink your water. I’ll bring our new fashion icon back in one piece."

I grabbed my dark hoodie, pocketed my phone, and headed down to the hotel garage alone.

Twenty minutes later, the unmarked SUV rattled through the flooded potholes of the slum district, pulling up to the familiar, crumbling concrete apartment building. The rain from earlier had turned the dirt road into thick, heavy mud, but the air was clear.

I walked up the creaky metal stairs, stopping outside her door. I knocked three times.

The door unlocked almost immediately, pulling open just a crack. Benita stood in the narrow opening, wearing a worn oversized sweater, her dark hair tied back in a loose bun. Her eyes darted behind me, searching the empty stairwell.

When she realized Sarah wasn’t with me, her entire face fell. Panic and suspicion instantly flared back into her eyes, her hand tightening on the edge of the door frame.

"Where is she?" Benita asked defensively, taking a step back. "Where’s the woman from the card? I... I called her."

"She came down with severe food poisoning from the local market," I explained calmly, keeping my posture relaxed and giving her plenty of space on the landing. "She wanted to come, but she couldn’t leave her bed. So it’s just me."

Benita bit her lower lip, her posture stiffening as she wrestled with her deep mistrust. She looked down at the floor, then back at my face, searching for any sign of deception.

"I didn’t come here to force anything, Benita," I added quietly. "You texted because you wanted someone to see what you can do. I’m right here."

A long, tense silence hung in the stairwell. Finally, Benita let out a shaky breath, unlatching the door chain and swinging it open.

"Come in," she mumbled, turning her back to walk inside. "And take off your shoes."

I stepped across the threshold into her tiny, dimly lit apartment. It was meager—peeling wallpaper, a single rickety table, a small cot in the corner, and a single halogen lamp casting a warm glow over the room.

But what caught my breath wasn’t the poverty of the apartment.

It was the walls.

Every single inch of the concrete structure was covered in taped-up butcher paper, scrap factory cardboard, and torn newsprint. And drawn across every single surface were hundreds of breathtaking, revolutionary fashion sketches—flowing gowns with avant-garde silhouettes, razor-sharp modern street couture, and intricate architectural dress structures that looked like they belonged in a Parisian museum.

I walked slowly into the center of the room, turning in a circle, genuinely stunned by the raw, overwhelming genius plastered across her walls.

The system hadn’t lied. Her latent potential wasn’t just high—it was a 9.9. A generational talent, living in complete darkness, drawing world-class high luxury on garbage paper.

Benita stood by her small wooden table, clutching a thick, battered sketchbook against her chest, watching me with a mixture of raw vulnerability and intense anxiety.

"Well?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Say something."

I walked up to the nearest wall, running my fingers lightly over the textured paper. The line work was astonishing—fluid yet precise, balancing dangerous avant-garde sharp edges with soft, breathtaking drape lines.

"These aren’t just good, Benita," I said softly, my voice filled with genuine awe as I turned back to look at her. "These are incredible. This is world-class art."

She blinked, her wide dark eyes searching my face in utter shock. "Really...?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You’re... you’re not just saying that to be nice?"

"I don’t waste time being nice," I replied firmly, stepping closer to the center table. "I’m telling you the truth. If these designs were brought to life on a runway in Paris, Milan, or Tokyo, they wouldn’t just turn heads—they would trigger a global shift. You have the raw instinct to redefine how the entire world dresses."

A faint blush crept up her cheeks, her shoulders relaxing for the first time since I had met her. A tiny, fragile glimmer of hope lit up in her eyes—the look of an artist who had been buried in the dark for years, finally hearing someone recognize the music in her head.

But then, just as quickly, her expression faltered. She looked down at her small, worn hands, letting out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh.

"Well... it doesn’t really matter, does it?" she mumbled, clutching her sketchbook tighter. "They’re just drawings. Words on paper. I don’t even know how to properly sew high-end clothes yet. All I’ve ever done at the mill is patch together torn scrap fabric and cut raw cotton bolts. I don’t have the machines, the silk, the leather... nothing."

She looked back up at me, the harsh reality of her situation crashing over her again. "You need more than just paper ideas to build a brand, and I have zero money."

A slow, unshakeable smile spread across my face as I listened to her.

"You bring the vision, Benita," I said, my voice steady and commanding. "I bring everything else."