Chapter 155: Suspicious Tutor

I crossed my arms and leaned back against the heavy mahogany cutting table, refusing to leave the room.

Jean-Luc had a weird, twitchy energy to him—that lingering French pretentiousness mixed with a passive-aggressive edge—and I wasn’t about to leave Benita alone with anyone who might try to subtly undermine her confidence the moment my back was turned.

For the first thirty minutes, I kept a sharp, watchful eye on him as he paced around the workstation. But as the lesson got underway, I realized my suspicions were mostly just reaction to his initial snobbery. Once Jean-Luc got down to business, his dramatic flair shifted entirely into pure, meticulous craftsmanship.

He pulled up a high-end industrial leather-and-silk sewing unit, adjusted the foot pedal, and motioned for Benita to stand right beside him.

"Look here, Mademoiselle," Jean-Luc said softly, his loud, abrasive tone melting away into a quiet, focused hum. "When you make a sharp cut on a heavy bias like this, you do not force the needle through. You let the feed dogs glide the silk naturally. See? Like a breath."

Benita leaned in, her eyes wide as she drank in every single movement of his hands.

"Now," Jean-Luc said, stepping back and gesturing toward the machine. "You try. Do not fear the speed. Control it."

Benita sat down on the stool, adjusted her grip on the raw fabric, and pressed her foot to the pedal. The machine hummed to life. Her first few stitches were slightly uneven, but within two minutes, under Jean-Luc’s precise guidance on hand positioning and tension control, her seam tightened into a flawless, razor-sharp line.

Jean-Luc’s eyebrows shot up behind his wire-framed glasses. He looked from the stitching to Benita, genuine awe replacing his earlier skepticism.

"Mon dieu," he whispered, a genuine smile breaking beneath his waxed mustache. "Your hands... you learn at a terrifying speed, Benita."

Benita looked up at me, a brilliant, glowing smile spreading across her face as she ran her fingers over the smooth, perfectly executed seam.

Seeing that Jean-Luc was actually giving her top-tier, respectful instruction, the tension in my shoulders finally relaxed.

Her technical growth was accelerating at a rate that was going to shock the entire fashion world—and the Met Gala was starting to feel less like a dream and more like an inevitable reality.

I walked back to my corner office on the 59th floor, leaving Benita and Jean-Luc deeply engrossed in advanced pattern drafting. Sitting back in my desk chair with a glass of scotch, I started pulling up industry network feeds to see what opportunities were popping up on the immediate horizon.

That’s when a private industry memo caught my eye.

A high-profile regional fashion showcase was scheduled for next month. It wasn’t Paris or Milan Fashion Week—not yet—but it was an exclusive, highly curated regional runway event attended by major buyers, high-net-worth investors, and prominent fashion journalists. It was the absolute perfect trial by fire to debut Benita’s raw talent, test her pieces under real runway spotlights, and start building her global momentum.

I picked up the desk phone and dialed the event organizers directly to secure a prime showcase slot for her.

"We’d be thrilled to feature your designer, sir," the event director replied on the line, sounding eager. "However, per our showcase guidelines and regional board regulations, we can’t accept independent, unrepresented submissions. She needs an officially registered, legally established fashion house—even a local entity—to sign off on the slot and handle buyer licensing."

I hung up, leaning back in my leather chair with a smirk.

A registered brand was the only hurdle standing between Benita and her first official runway debut. We didn’t just need a name; we needed a fully incorporated luxury entity that could hold her patents, protect her designs, and instantly position her as a force to be reckoned with.

I pressed the intercom button for Sarah. "Sarah, get up here. We need to register Benita’s luxury fashion house before the end of the week."

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I summoned Benita up to the 59th-floor executive office. She walked in holding a sketchpad, her fingertips still stained with silver tailor’s chalk, looking curious as Sarah set down a tray of chilled sparkling water.

"Sit down, Benita," I said, gesturing toward the leather armchair across from my desk. "We have a runway event coming up next month. It’s a local showcase, but it’s packed with serious buyers, elite collectors, and press. It’s time to put your name on the map."

Her eyes went wide, a sudden mix of adrenaline and surprise flashing across her face. "Next month?! Ethan... my brand isn’t even registered yet!"

"Which brings us to the real strategy," I replied, leaning forward on the desk. "I don’t want your house to be like every other standard luxury brand on the market—flooding boutiques, putting logos on basic canvas totes, selling to anyone with a credit card. We’re building an anti-mass-market empire."

I turned to Sarah, laying out the blueprint in full view of both of them.

"The concept is total exclusivity and rarity," I explained smoothly. "Every single piece Benita creates will be treated like a numbered art piece. No mass production. No restocks. Ultra-rare, handcrafted, collectible couture. If someone wants a Benita Young piece, they don’t just walk into a mall—they get vetted, they join a waiting list, or they buy it at auction."

Benita sat back, her mouth slightly open as she listened. The idea of her designs being treated not just as clothes, but as high-value, rare collectibles hit her right in her creative soul.

"Rare... and collectible," she repeated softly, a brilliant, proud smile breaking across her face. "Like wearable art pieces that can never be replicated."

"Exactly," I said. "You focus on the art. Leave the corporate armor to us."

I turned directly to Sarah, my voice dropping into clear, decisive execution mode. "Sarah, get the legal team moving on this immediately. Incorporate the entity, register the trademarks, secure the global patent protections for her signature silhouettes, and lock down that runway slot for next month. Set up the corporate structure so we have absolute control over distribution."

"Consider it done, Mr. Ethan," Sarah said, making rapid notes on her tablet before looking at Benita with a warm nod. "By tomorrow morning, your fashion house will legally exist."

Benita looked between me and Sarah, clutching her sketchpad tight against her chest as the reality of what we were building truly set in.