Chapter 171: Stolen But Praised

Before the snobbish critic could say another word, a heavy, imposing shadow fell across our section of the front row.

An elderly man in a flawless, bespoke charcoal tuxedo walked slowly down the aisle, his silver hair perfectly styled, carrying an antique gold-headed cane. His presence immediately commanded the entire room, radiating the kind of old-money authority that couldn’t be bought or faked.

The two fashion critics beside us practically jumped out of their seats, their faces lighting up with sycophantic eagerness.

"Mr. Rick! Sylvester!" the snobbish one gasped, stumbling over his words as he reached out a hand. "Sir, it’s an honor! We were just discussing the house’s direction tonight—"

Sylvester Rick didn’t even glance at them. He brushed right past their extended hands as if they were made of glass, completely ignoring their existence.

Instead, the legendary founder of the fashion empire walked straight up to my seat. A rare, approving smirk touched his weathered face as he looked down at me and Chloe.

"Ethan," Sylvester said, his deep, gravelly voice carrying effortlessly. "Mind if I join you?"

"Always a pleasure, Sylvester," I said, gesturing to the empty chair right beside mine.

The two critics stood there with their mouths hanging wide open, completely paralyzed with shock. Their eyes darted rapidly between me—the "nobody" they had just snubbed—and Sylvester Rick, the undisputed titan of global fashion sitting comfortably next to me like an old friend.

Sylvester settled into his seat, resting both hands on his cane as he stared bitterly toward the backstage curtain, where his foolish grandson, Oliver, was preparing to step into the ultimate trap.

Sylvester shook his head, a low, quiet scoff leaving his chest. "To think that boy carries my name... using stolen work and bankrupting the atelier just to feed his pathetic ego. He’s a disgrace to everything I built."

Chloe tilted her shades down slightly, flashing Sylvester a sharp, respectful nod. "The paperwork is ready, Mr. Rick. By the time the final look hits the runway, Oliver won’t even own the rights to his own name."

Sylvester looked over at Chloe, a grim, satisfied glint in his eyes. "Good. Burn it all down, my dear. Cut the rot out before he ruins my legacy completely."

Beside us, the snobbish critic slowly shrank back into his chair, sweating profusely, suddenly looking like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

I turned slightly toward Sylvester, a dark, brilliant thought striking me right as the house lights began to dim.

I leaned across to Chloe, reaching over to her leather briefcase. "Chloe, hand me the official federal indictment and injunction files."

Chloe raised an eyebrow behind her dark shades, but without a second thought, she pulled the heavy, wax-sealed folder from her bag and handed it to me.

I took the file and held it out across my lap, offering it directly to the old mogul sitting beside me.

"Sylvester," I said softly, my voice dripping with cold, calculated amusement. "Would you do us the ultimate honor? Deliver this directly to Oliver yourself... right when he steps out onto the runway to take his final bow."

Sylvester froze, his hands gripping the gold head of his cane tightly. He stared down at the crisp white legal documents stamped with federal seals, processing the sheer, poetic brutality of what I was asking. To disown his grandson publicly, in front of every major buyer, editor, and camera crew on the planet, by personally handing him his financial and legal death warrant.

For two heavy seconds, he hesitated, his brow furrowed in quiet contemplation.

Then, his shoulders began to shake, and a low, dry chuckle rumbled deep in his chest.

Sylvester looked up at me, a wild, sharp glint in his weathered eyes. "Your confidence is on another level, Ethan. Absolutely cold-blooded."

He reached out, his long fingers closing firmly around the legal folder, pulling it into his coat pocket.

"Consider it done," Sylvester murmured, resting his cane back on the floor as the stage spotlights suddenly ignited. "I’ve waited a long time to put that arrogant boy in his place."

Beside me, Chloe let out a quiet, thrilled breath, slipping her hand into mine and squeezing tightly under the front-row ledge.

The music swelled, a heavy bassline vibrating through the floorboards, and the grand velvet curtains parted. Oliver Rick’s stolen, collection was officially stepping onto the runway.

The music built to a thumping, dramatic crescendo as the models strutted out onto the runway one by one.

To the untrained eye of the crowd, it was a triumph. Flashbulbs exploded in relentless bursts, casting blinding white light across the runway as buyers, influencers, and critics cheered and applauded. Oliver’s cheap, mass-produced copies—rushed together on stolen schematics—looked shiny enough under the heavy theatrical spotlights to fool the uninformed mass.

When the finale hit, all the models marched out together, forming a sleek, rigid line at the front of the stage. The audience erupted into a standing ovation, cameras snapping furiously to capture what they believed was the peak of haute couture.

In the entire front row, only three people remained dead silent, hands folded, completely unmoving: me, Chloe, and Sylvester.

We didn’t clap. We didn’t cheer. We just watched the artificial hype with absolute, ice-cold patience.

Because what the crowd didn’t know was that hidden among the audience, seven of UncuT’s top models were sitting incognito in heavy dark cloaks, holding their breath, waiting for the signal to throw them off and reveal Benita’s original masterpieces. And right backstage, standing in the shadows of the wings with her hand on the lighting override, was Benita herself, waiting for the exact split second to execute the shift.

Then, the host announced his name over the speakers, and Oliver Rick stepped out onto the center of the runway.

He was beaming, his chin raised in arrogant victory, waving to the roaring crowd with both arms outstretched, completely soaking in what he thought was his absolute crowning achievement.

Beside me, the air shifted.

Sylvester Rick pushed off his gold-headed cane, rising slowly from his chair. His face was a mask of stone as he pulled the thick legal folder from his jacket pocket, took a firm step onto the edge of the illuminated runway, and began walking straight toward his oblivious grandson.