Chapter 152: First Brand Signature!

The black sedan pulled smoothly into the underground private garage of our 60-story skyscraper. As soon as the doors opened, Sarah stepped forward to greet us, her tablet tucked under her arm, looking much better after recovering from her bout of food poisoning.

"Welcome back, Mr. Ethan," Sarah said, holding open the private executive elevator. "The 58th floor is fully prepped and ready for Miss Young."

When the elevator doors slid open on the 58th floor, Benita froze, her breath catching in her throat.

The entire floor had been converted into a massive, state-of-the-art luxury design atelier. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a breathtaking panoramic view of the skyline. Arranged in clean, elegant rows were industrial-grade tailoring units, precision laser fabric cutters, computerized embroidery systems, heavy-duty leather splitters, and bolts of raw silk, cashmere, and high-tech textiles stacked neatly against the wall.

"Woah..." Benita whispered, stepping into the space with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Is all of... all of this... mine?"

Sarah walked over, handing me a digital receipt on her tablet. "Here is the breakdown for the machinery and initial raw materials setup, Mr. Ethan. Total came to roughly $100,000."

I glanced at the screen and shrugged. "100k? That’s nothing. A drop in the bucket for this setup."

Just then, two heavily built security guards stepped off the service elevator behind us, carefully carrying the encased $100,000 limited-edition archival dress mounted on its distinctively posed mannequin.

Sarah blinked, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise as she watched them set the mannequin down in the center of the studio’s main platform. "Mr. Ethan... what is that for? Isn’t that an archival piece from the boutique?"

"Benita liked the proportions and the pose," I explained with a smirk. "So we bought the whole thing—dress and mannequin—so she can use it as an experimental canvas to figure out her brand’s signature style."

Sarah looked between the insanely expensive piece and Benita in mild shock, but quickly smiled. "Of course. Creative freedom comes first."

Benita walked over to one of the sleek, computerized sewing machines, touching the digital touchscreen interface timidly. Her shoulders slumped just a little as a wave of anxiety washed over her.

"Umm..." she mumbled, looking back at us with a flushed face. "I know these are for sewing... but honestly? I have no idea how to operate machines like this yet. I’ve only ever worked raw factory cutters and basic hand looms..."

"No problem at all," I said warmly, stepping over to a tool bench. "That’s exactly why we bought the archival dress."

I picked up a wooden tray, placing a pair of ultra-sharp tailor’s shears, a set of silver dressmaker pins, a few needles, and spools of high-strength thread onto it, then handed the tray directly to her.

"Forget the complex electronics for now," I said softly, looking her dead in the eye with complete confidence in her potential. "Work your magic with the simple things first. Cut it, pin it, drape it, re-stitch it—do whatever your hands tell you to do. Show me your vision."

Benita took the shears into her hand. The moment her fingers closed around the metal grip, all her hesitation vanished. Her eyes narrowed into sharp, artistic focus, and the frightened factory girl disappeared—replaced by a true fashion visionary about to create her first masterpiece.

I didn’t move an inch. I pulled up a chair in the corner of the massive studio, crossed my legs, and just watched.

The moment the metal blades of those shears sliced into the $100,000 archival silk, the whole room shifted. There was no hesitation in her hands. She moved like a surgeon—snapping threads, pinning raw drapes directly onto the mannequin, tearing away the traditional structure to rebuild something entirely her own. She was completely consumed by the flow, oblivious to me, to Sarah, and to the ticking clock.

Hours bled into the evening. Seeing that she was fully locked in, I stepped out for a while to let her breathe and handle a few corporate updates with Sarah.

When I walked back onto the 58th floor hours later, the studio was quiet. The floor was littered with scrapped silk ribbons, bent pins, and severed hems.

And standing in the center spotlight on the mannequin was an absolute masterpiece.

It was wild, edgy, and completely breathtaking. She had completely deconstructed the original dress, using raw silver pins to hold asymmetrical, flowing pleats together, contrasting sharp, deconstructed cuts with soft, cascading silk. It looked like something straight off an exclusive Milan runway—raw, rebellious, and impossibly high-end.

"Benita..." I breathed, stepping closer, genuinely stunned by the sheer speed of her evolution. "This is... incredible. This is a complete masterpiece."

She was sitting on the floor with her knees pulled to her chest, her hands covered in tiny pin pricks, staring up at the dress with a exhausted, miserable look on her face.

She shook her head, tears of frustration glistening in her eyes. "No... no, it’s not," she mumbled, her voice thick. "It’s horrible. This isn’t what I had in my head at all. It feels messy... the stitches are uneven, the pins are exposed... I just destroyed a hundred-thousand-dollar piece of art and turned it into trash. I wasted your money."

I looked at the dress, then down at her, and a soft, understanding smile spread across my face. That was the curse of a genius—her internal vision was so impossibly high that even a breathtaking, revolutionary piece felt like a failure to her because her physical hands couldn’t match the speed of her mind yet. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

I walked over, dropped to one knee, and picked up a stray pair of shears from the floor.

"Benita, look at it," I said softly, pointing toward the pinned silk. "You see exposed pins and raw seams because you’re looking at the finish line. I see a rough prototype—a brilliant, wild concept sketch brought into three dimensions."

She looked up at me, blinking back her tears.

"This was supposed to be a rough draft," I continued smoothly, my voice unshakeable. "You don’t write a bestselling novel on your first draft, and you don’t build a world-class fashion empire without tearing up some silk first. This isn’t wasted money. This is the exact price of your growth."

She stared at the dress again, taking a slow, shaky breath as my words sank in.

"You really... you really think it’s a good direction?" she whispered.

"I think," I said, offering her a hand to pull her up off the floor, "you just created your brand’s very first identity."