Chapter 160: The Problem Backstage

I didn’t ask questions. I stood up immediately and followed her through the side exit, cutting through the dark, frantic corridors until we reached the UncuT dressing room.

The atmosphere inside was suffocating. Jean-Luc was muttering furiously under his breath in French, pacing the floor with his hands buried in his hair. The models were lined up and dressed, looking stunning, but in the center of the room, Benita stood completely frozen before the final showstopper piece—the central gown meant to close the entire lineup.

A jagged, massive tear ran right down the side seam of the structural corset, exposing the inner boning.

"How?" I demanded, my voice turning to pure ice as I stepped into the center of the room. "That fabric is reinforced silk-blend with custom weave. It doesn’t just ’rip naturally’."

"That’s what I’m telling you, Ethan!" Benita said, her voice trembling with a mixture of rage and sheer panic as she looked up at me, her fingers shaking. "It was completely fine ten minutes ago when we prepped the model! I went to check the headpieces, came back, and found it like this. It’s a clean structural split. Fabric like this doesn’t shear on its own unless someone put stress on it... or sabotaged it."

"Sabotage or stress, it doesn’t matter right now," Jean-Luc groaned, checking his watch with wide eyes. "Ethan, we are on in four minutes! Four minutes! The floor manager is already outside calling for UncuT!"

Every eyes in the room snapped to me. The clock on the wall was ticking down, and our entire $1.5M setup—and the $150M payday waiting on that runway—was hanging by a thread.

I didn’t panic. Panic was for people who didn’t have a plan.

I scanned the chaos on the table, reached past Jean-Luc, and picked up Benita’s basic sewing kit—just a steel needle, a heavy spool of black silk thread, and a pair of sharp, unadorned shears.

I stepped right up to her, grabbing her attention, and pressed the kit firmly into her hand.

"Fix it," I said, my voice dead calm as I pressed the kit firmly into her hand. "Take this damage, and turn it into something creatively insane."

Benita blinked, her mouth opening slightly. "What... what does that even mean, Ethan?! The seam is blown!"

"Mon dieu!" Jean-Luc clutched his forehead in pure drama, throwing his hands up. "Ethan, we are two minutes from disaster! Fini!"

"Quiet, Jean-Luc," I commanded, keeping my focus entirely on Benita.

"Benita," I said, leaning in. "UncuT isn’t about soft perfection. It’s about being raw and ruthless. You didn’t design a ruined dress—you designed a piece that survived."

She stared down at the jagged rip, then at the steel shears in her hand. Her breathing slowed. The panic in her eyes flickered, shifted, and melted away into pure, cold focus.

"I don’t even know what you’re talking about..." she whispered, her voice dropping to a razor-thin quiet. "...but somehow, I know exactly what I have to do."

She didn’t try to neatly repair the seam. With a swift, aggressive motion, Benita jammed the shears into the edge of the rip and slashed the tear even wider down the hip. Jean-Luc let out a strangled, breathless squeak, but she ignored him completely.

Threading the needle in one fluid motion, she began binding the gaping split with wide, exposed black silk thread, cross-hatching the torn edges together like a battle scar. She ripped a strip of gold organza from the hem, threaded it through the corset boning, and tied it off in a rough, violent knot.

It was raw. It was dangerous. It transformed a pristine gown into a lethal, punk-couture masterpiece.

"Thirty seconds to UncuT!" the stage manager shouted, kicking open the dressing room door.

Benita tied off the last knot with her teeth, spat the excess thread onto the floor, and gave the model a sharp nod. "Go."

Jean-Luc stared at the resurrected piece, completely stunned. "Magnifique..." he breathed softly, shaking his head in total disbelief.

I caught Benita’s eye and gave her a slow smirk.

"Now," I said, stepping toward the curtain as the bass began to shake the floorboards. "Let’s go show them what UncuT means."

I led Sarah back into the dark wing of the auditorium just as the venue lights slammed down into a pitch-black silence.

Then, the bass dropped—a heavy, subterranean pulse that rattled the stadium seating—and the first spotlight cut through the darkness like a blade.

When our lead model stepped out onto the runway in that slashed, cross-stitched golden gown, the atmosphere in the entire arena shifted instantly. The usual muted chatter of phone cameras and polite applause vanished. A sharp, collective gasp rippled through the front row.

She walked with a predatory, unbothered rhythm. The metallic fabric caught the strobe lights, exposing the raw, deliberate battle scar along her hip—the heavy black silk stitches and jagged organza look like raw art pinned straight to her skin. It wasn’t just fashion; it was an aggressive statement. Bold, dangerous, and unapologetically loud.

People sat up in their seats. Critics leaned forward, pulling their sunglasses down past their eyes just to stare. Photographers at the end of the pit went wild, continuous camera flashes turning the runway into a blinding white wall. Nobody was looking at their phones anymore. Nobody was whispering to their neighbors. All eyes were locked onto the runway.

As the second and third models flooded out, showcasing the rest of the UncuT collection—sharp silhouettes, exposed structural boning, and raw-edged luxury—the energy in the auditorium peaked.

I glanced across the center aisle toward the VIP row.

Mr. S. Rick was standing up. The old master of Duvellion wasn’t just watching; he was leaning over the velvet barrier, his eyes wide, completely mesmerized as UncuT tore the rulebook to pieces.

Beside me, Sarah let out a long, silent breath. I just leaned back against the backstage wall, a slow, cold smirk spreading across my face as my phone buzzed in my pocket—the system timer locking in on its final seconds.

My phone buzzed against my chest—a heavy, prolonged vibration.

I pulled it out and tapped the screen. The confidential system interface flashed a brilliant violet across the dark screen, locking in the completed condition:

[REWARD UNLOCKED]

100x Active Cashback Multiplier Claimed

Payout: +$150,000,000.00

Updated Balance: $950,000,000.00