Chapter 159: Meeting A Legend

Minutes later, we were swept through the VIP backstage entrance into the chaotic beating heart of Regional Fashion Week. Clothes racks were flying down corridors, hair stylists were barking orders over the hum of industrial hair dryers, and models were being shoved into line by stressed-out stage managers.

We claimed our private dressing room near the main backstage area. Jean-Luc and the crew were already unloading the trunks with surgical care, laying out the garments under garment covers like sacred relics.

I tossed my jacket over a chair, turned to Benita, and clapped my hands once, drawing her eyes to mine.

"Alright," I said, my tone crisp and focused. "Hair, makeup, model fittings, final steam. You lead the floor, I handle the suits outside. Let’s get UncuT ready to walk."

Sarah stood a half-step behind my shoulder, holding a slim tablet as we surveyed the VIP lounge overlooking the main auditorium. The space was packed with the elite of the fashion world—critics in absurd sunglasses, magazine editors sipping champagne, and wealthy investors looking for the next trend to throw money at.

I didn’t need capital. The system had my bank account stacked beyond measure, and that $150M cashback payout was practically sitting in my pocket waiting for the runway lights to drop. What I needed was power. Structural, deep-rooted industry weight. I needed the kind of connections that couldn’t be bought with a wire transfer—the gatekeepers who actually dictated how fashion houses survived the long game.

"Ethan, on your left, that’s the head buyer for—" Sarah began, keeping her voice low.

"I know who he is," I cut in smoothly, my eyes already locked on a solitary figure leaning against the far mahogany bar.

He was an older man, well into his sixties, wearing a impeccably tailored, double-breasted charcoal coat that looked like a work of art in itself. He carried an air of quiet, absolute authority that made the younger designers around him look like amateurs.

"Mr. S. Rick," I murmured, a slow smile touching my lips. "The founder of Duvellion."

"You recognize him?" Sarah asked, slightly surprised.

"Who doesn’t?" I replied.

Duvellion had been the gold standard of avant-garde tailoring two decades ago before Rick retired from active designing to oversee his private empire. He didn’t make clothes anymore. Getting an original piece crafted by his hands today was practically impossible—his archival garments sold at auction for millions, hoarded by an obsessive, cult-like fanbase of collectors and industry titans. If Duvellion’s founder put his stamp of approval on a brand, it didn’t just succeed; it became legendary overnight.

"He doesn’t usually back new labels, Ethan," Sarah warned gently. "He’s notoriously cynical about modern commercial designers."

"Then it’s a good thing we aren’t presenting a commercial designer," I said, handing my glass to a passing waiter. "Stay close, Sarah. Let’s go introduce ourselves to a legend."

I straightened my jacket and strode across the lounge, cutting through the noise of the crowd toward the man who held the keys to the kingdom.

I stopped right beside him at the bar, keeping my posture relaxed, total confidence.

"Mr. Rick," I said, my voice carrying just enough weight to cut through the quiet hum of the lounge. "Ethan. A pleasure."

He slowly turned his head, sipping his drink with an unbothered, clinical eye. He looked me up and down, taking in the tailored suit, my stance, and Sarah standing a respectful pace behind me. There wasn’t a flicker of interest in his expression.

"Ethan," he repeated dryly, testing the name like a cheap wine. "Never heard of you."

"You haven’t," I replied with a cold, easy smile. "But you will soon."

He raised an eyebrow, mildly amused by the audacity, but mostly bored. "Is that so? And what brings a new face to my corner of the room?"

"We’re launching a new brand tonight. UncuT," I said, leaning one arm casually against the mahogany counter. "Raw, uncompromising couture. I know you don’t take meetings with new labels, but I’m giving you a chance to see history before the rest of the room catches on."

Rick let out a faint, dismissive snort, turning his body back toward the bar.

"UncuT," he echoed, shaking his head. "Look, kid, I’ve heard the same pitch from a thousand ambitious young men with deep pockets and big dreams. Fashion isn’t built on arrogance; it’s built on craftsmanship—something this modern generation knows nothing about."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek silver card case, and tossed a card onto the counter without even looking at me.

"I don’t have time for local debuts," he said smoothly, taking another sip of his drink. "If your show isn’t an embarrassment, have your assistant contact my PA next week. Maybe she’ll find twenty minutes for you on my schedule."

Sarah shifted behind me, but I just looked at the card on the table, then back at Rick’s turned shoulder. A slow, amused smirk spread across my face.

He thought I was just another rich boy playing dress-up. He had no idea what Benita had waiting in the wings.

"Keep the card, Mr. Rick," I said quietly, stepping back. "Just make sure you’re in your seat when the lights go down. I’d hate for you to miss the moment your legacy gets rewritten."

Rick paused mid-sip, his eyes cutting back toward me. A faint, sharp spark of interest flickered across his weathered face.

"I admire the confidence, kid," he said, reaching down and sliding the silver card back into his coat pocket with a slow nod. "We’ll see if your runway backs it up."

I didn’t say another word. I gave him a subtle nod, turned on my heel, and walked out of the lounge with Sarah, heading straight into the main auditorium to take our front-row VIP seats.

The venue was packed to capacity. The bass was already thumping through the floorboards, light rigs sweeping across the long, pristine runway as the opening acts began. I sat back, resting my chin on my knuckle as I watched the other brands’ collections roll out. Generic silhouettes, safe draping, uninspired commercial garbage. Most of these designers were trying so hard to play it safe that they forgot to make art.

Beside me, Sarah’s phone buzzed aggressively. She tapped the screen, read the message, and her entire posture went stiff.

She leaned close to my ear, her voice tight and hushed over the booming venue music. "Ethan. We have a problem backstage. Now."