Chapter 158: Making History!

The steady hum of the yacht’s engine had long been replaced by the quiet, high-stakes hum of my private office.

Across the wide glass desk, Sarah slid a sleek leather-bound folder toward me, her pen already clicked and ready. On the top sheet, embossed in clean, uncompromising typography, was the newly minted registration confirmation: UncuT.

"Everything’s official, Ethan," Sarah said, her voice crisp and efficient as ever. "Uncut is legally registered, trademarked across all major territories, and fully locked in. The intellectual property rights, the business structure, the regional tax filings—done, done, and done."

"Good," I said, flipping through the documents with a tight nod. "Because there’s no backing down now."

Benita had picked the name herself—raw, unpolished potential refined into pure luxury. It fit her, and more importantly, it fit what we were about to unleash on the industry.

While Benita was up on the 58th floor tearing through silk, organza, and sheer desperation under Jean-Luc’s ruthless supervision, Sarah and I had been fighting the war behind the scenes. Brand registration, venue clearances, security, high-tier press passes, VIP front-row seating lists—the silent machinery that turns high fashion into a global power move.

I leaned back in my chair, looking out over the city skyline as the dusk settled in.

The countdown timer on my phone had done its job, but time was moving fast. The initial seven-day marathon in the atelier was just the ignition. Now, the Regional Fashion Week was only weeks away. The biggest stage in the territory, crawling with cynical critics, predatory buyers, and legacy fashion houses itching to watch a newcomer fail.

"Is the runway slot secured?" I asked, turning my gaze back to Sarah.

"Prime time slot," Sarah replied with a faint, knowing smile. "Right before the closing gala. All eyes will be on UncuT."

I closed the folder with a solid thud and picked up my coat.

"Let’s go check on our designer," I said, a slow smile pulling at my lips. "It’s time to see if UncuT is ready to slice through the competition."

I pushed open the frosted glass doors to the 58th-floor atelier, expected to hear the usual chaotic blend of shouting assistants, whirring sewing machines, and Jean-Luc berating someone in French.

Instead, the room was almost dead silent, save for the swift, razor-sharp snip of shears cutting through heavy silk.

The studio looked like a battlefield of high fashion. Bolts of organza, iridescent satin, and hand-woven fabrics were spilled across the long cutting tables. Sketch paper was pinned everywhere, covered in jagged, brilliant charcoal lines. But in the center of the floor, lit up by the harsh track lights, stood Benita.

She was a force of pure nature. Her hair was pinned up in a messy bun, a tape measure draped around her neck, and pins gripped between her lips. She didn’t even notice me walk in. She was moving around a tailor’s dummy with a speed and precision that didn’t look human—draping, tucking, and pinning fluid gold fabric with cold, instinctual violence.

Jean-Luc was standing a few feet back, his arms crossed over his chest. For the first time since I’d hired the notoriously ruthless French master tailor, he looked completely stunned. He wasn’t giving orders. He wasn’t adjusting seams. He was just watching her, holding a pair of tailoring chalks he had forgotten to use.

As I stepped closer, Jean-Luc caught my eye and slowly shook his head, his jaw slightly slack.

"Mon dieu, Ethan," he whispered in his thick, breathless French accent, gesturing with a trembling hand toward the gown taking shape on the mannequin. "I tried to step in two hours ago to correct the hemline... but she pushed my hand away. And now? C’est un chef-d’œuvre... This is actually a masterpiece!"

I stopped beside him, folding my arms as I looked at the creation. The dress wasn’t just clothing; it was an architectural assault on the senses. Raw, sharp edges mixed with impossibly soft, cascading draping—unforgiving, electric, and completely unique.

UncuT.

A slow, satisfied grin spread across my face as I watched her work.

"Benita," I said softly over the hum of the air conditioning.

She didn’t stop her hands, but a tired, triumphant smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.

"Don’t talk to me, Ethan," she mumbled through the pins in her mouth, her eyes never leaving the fabric. "I’m in the middle of making history."

I let out a low laugh, shaking my head as I leaned back against the edge of the heavy oak cutting table.

"Fair enough," I said. "Carry on, genius."

As she kept flying through the silk, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and unlocked the screen. The confidential system interface blinked to life, flashing green as it updated the ledger in real time.

My eyes ran down the digital line items, calculating the true weight of what we were building here.

Initial Capital Investment: $1,000,000

Archival Vintage Pieces & Inspiration Lineup: $400,000

58th-Floor Atelier Setup & Specialized Equipment: $100,000

Total Spent: $1,500,000

Right beneath the total, a shimmering, locked counter glowed in deep violet text:

[PENDING REWARD]

100x Active Cashback Multiplier

Status: LOCKED

Unlock Condition: Benita’s complete transformation and debut at Regional Fashion Week.

Potential Yield: $150,000,000

One point five million dollars burned through in a flash—and every single cent of it was sitting on that mannequin, being shaped by Benita’s tired, brilliant hands.

The system was holding back a staggering $150M payday, waiting on one thing: for Benita to step onto that runway, completely transformed, and claim the crown that belonged to her.

I tucked the phone back into my tailored jacket, watching her pin the final fold of the golden gown with absolute, ruthless perfection.

Let them mock the newcomer, I thought, a quiet smirk playing on my lips. In just a few weeks, we aren’t just going to crash Regional Fashion Week. We’re going to own it.

The morning light hit the city skyline in sharp, metallic rays as my matte-black SUV pulled up to the venue. The perimeter was already a zoo—security guards holding back ropes, camera flashes popping like strobe lights, and fashion press crowding the red carpet trying to catch a glimpse of the early arrivals.

Inside the back seat, Benita sat stiffly next to me, her fingers tightly laced in her lap. The dark circles under her eyes from a week of non-stop work were hidden under flawless, understated makeup, but I could feel the nervous energy radiating off her like an electric charge.

"Breathe," I said calmly, glancing down at her. "The hard part is done. Today, you just execute."

She let out a shaky exhaled breath, forcing a small smile. "Easy for you to say, Ethan. My entire life is sitting in garment bags in the trunk."

"And those garment bags are going to rewrite the industry," I replied smoothly as the tinted window rolled down for security clearance.