Chapter 165: We’ll Erase Him

Oliver Rick raised his crystal flute, the vintage champagne effervescing softly as he looked around his opulent corner office overlooking the city.

A cruel, victorious smile stretched across his handsome face. On the velvet-lined display tables around him lay the high-resolution blueprints, raw pattern sheets, and stolen CAD renders of UncuT’s seven flagship designs—the very crown jewels of Benita’s collection.

"Sir," his lead administrator said, stepping nervously into the room with an armful of manufacturing contracts. "UncuT officially pulled all seven disputed designs from their online launch. Their legal team conceded to our cease-and-desist without pushing to a trial."

Oliver threw his head back and laughed—a rich, condescending sound that echoed off the marble walls.

"Of course they surrendered," Oliver sneered, swirling the golden liquid in his glass. "What else could a pair of low-class nobodies do when hit with a backdated federal injunction? Ethan thought a little cash and my grandfather’s bleeding heart could buy him a seat at the big table. But in this game, paper is king."

He set his glass down on the glass desk and walked over to the draped mannequin showcasing the stolen lead piece—a breathtaking, sharp-tailored blazer with intricate, exposed metallic corset boning. He traced the lapel with a silk-gloved finger, his eyes gleaming with unbridled greed.

These pieces are going to make O.R. Atelier immortal, he thought, a rush of arrogance flooding his chest. Grandfather gave everything to those street rats. He thought that little slum girl had ’soul.’ Well, now her soul belongs to my brand. By the time I unveil these on the Paris runway, no one will even remember UncuT ever claimed them.

"Listen to me carefully," Oliver commanded, turning to his head of production with cold authority. "I want every spare factory line we have shifted to these seven pieces immediately. Reallocate our entire seasonal budget. Empty the reserve accounts if you have to."

The administrator blinked, visibly trembling. "Sir... reallocating everything? That’s nearly twelve million dollars in rush production fees, private textile orders, and high-speed overseas assembly. If we dump all our liquid capital into this one run—"

"Do I look like I’m asking for your opinion?!" Oliver snapped, his voice turning toxic as his eyes narrowed. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime execution. Once these seven pieces hit the global gala runway under the O.R. Atelier label, we will dominate the international market. The orders alone will net us ten times that investment."

He leaned over his desk, his eyes manic with the thrill of what he believed was his ultimate triumph.

"Ramp up production to max capacity. Fast-track the Italian silk shipments. Pay off the inspectors to skip the standard queue if you must," Oliver ordered, a cold, ruthless smirk twisting his lips. "I want thousands of units fully produced, tagged, and ready to ship the exact second the models step off the Paris runway."

As his team scrambled out of the office to execute his orders, Oliver poured himself another glass, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window.

He stared out at the sprawling city lights below, utterly blind to the invisible snare tightening around his throat. In his mind, Ethan was defeated, Benita was broken, and his grandfather’s empire was finally his to claim.

You played your last card, Ethan, Oliver thought, taking a slow, triumphant sip of champagne. Thanks for building my fortune for me.

---

I walked into the quiet drafting wing, my shoes clicking softly against the concrete floor until I reached the entrance of Benita’s main studio.

She was standing alone in the center of the room under a single spotlight, surrounded by seven draped mannequins—the exact seven designs we had been forced to pull from the launch. She wasn’t drawing, and she wasn’t cutting fabric. She was just staring at them, her arms tightly crossed, a heavy, suffocating silence hanging in the air.

I stepped inside and stood right beside her, looking up at the sharp, aggressive lines of her flagship blazer.

"They’re going to get released, Benita," I said softly, my voice calm and unwavering. "At the absolute perfect moment. You don’t have to worry about a thing."

Benita let out a long, ragged breath, shaking her head without taking her eyes off the metallic boning of the corset dress.

"It’s not that, Ethan," she said, her voice tight with suppressed rage. "I’m just... I’m so damn pissed. Knowing that right now, as we speak, Oliver Rick has his little hands on my blueprints. Knowing that he’s using my designs, acting like he’s some kind of visionary genius."

She clenched her fists at her sides, her shoulders tense. "It turns my stomach."

I turned my head to look at her, a low, cold smirk pulling at the corner of my lips.

"Benita, listen to me," I said, my voice dropping into that quiet, dangerous tone. "Not a single one of those pieces is ever going to be sold under his name. Not one."

She looked up at me, her dark eyes searching mine.

"I just got word from my internal sources," I continued, leaning slightly against the dress form. "Oliver fell for the bait hook, line, and sinker. He’s sinking over twelve million dollars of his own liquid capital into rush-producing those seven designs. He’s reallocated his entire seasonal budget, fast-tracking factories in Italy just to build inventory for his Paris debut."

Benita’s eyes widened slightly as the full weight of what I was saying clicked.

"We aren’t on the defensive here, Benita," I said, giving her shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze. "We’re on the offensive. We’re just waiting for the exact right moment to pounce—and when we do, we don’t just take back your designs. We erase him completely."

Benita let out a low, frustrated huff, her arms still crossed tightly against her chest. "Yeah, but still, Ethan... waiting around while he parades my stolen work through production line after production line makes my blood boil."

I stepped right up behind her, putting my hand firmly on her shoulder and turning her body so she was facing the main mannequin head-on.

"Then don’t sit here letting it burn a hole in your chest," I said, my voice smooth, low, and commanding right beside her ear. "If you’re angry, Benita, use it."

She looked sideways at me, her eyes narrowing as she listened.

"Look at those seven pieces," I continued, pointing toward the silhouette of the flagship gown under the spotlight. "When you made those, you were running on a tight deadline, pulling all-nighters, fighting against the clock to pull a full launch together. You were in a rush."

A slow, predatory smirk pulled at my lips as I gestured toward the drawing board behind us.

"Now you have time, you have absolute focus, and you have a burning grudge," I said, resting my hand on her shoulder with an encouraging squeeze. "Take that anger and funnel every drop of it into perfecting them. Redesign the structural drapes. Sharpen the cuts. Upgrade the hardware details. Elevate them to a level that hack could never replicate in a million years."

Benita stared at the mannequin, her chest rising and falling slowly as my words took root. The helplessness in her expression completely vanished, replaced by an intense, cold artist’s fire.

"Make Oliver’s rushed, mass-produced stolen versions look cheap," I whispered, stepping back. "So that when the trap springs and we release the true UncuT originals on the world stage, everyone sees his lineup for what it really is: a tacky, second-rate knockoff."