Chapter 172: Full Unveiling Of UncuT Forbidden ’7’

The entire hall gasped, the roaring applause dying instantly as every eye locked onto the runway.

When the audience saw the legendary titan Sylvester Rick step up onto the stage, a sudden ripple of excitement washed over the front rows. Whispers spread like wildfire—people fully believed they were about to witness a historic fashion moment: the great founder publicly endorsing his grandson and blessing the next generation of O.R. Atelier.

Oliver saw him coming, his chest puffing out even further. A cocky, triumphant grin stretched across his face as he turned to face his grandfather, opening his arms wide to embrace the old man in front of hundreds of flashing cameras.

Sylvester stopped right in front of him. He didn’t offer a hug. He didn’t offer a handshake.

Instead, Sylvester wound his right arm back and delivered a brutal, thunderous backhand slap right across Oliver’s face.

CRACK.

The sickening sound echoed through the high-end audio speakers, cutting through the ambient music like a gunshot.

Oliver’s head snapped violently to the side, his body spinning back a half-step as his designer jacket whipped around him. He clutched his instantly reddening cheek, his eyes wide with pure, unadulterated shock, his mouth hanging open in complete paralysis.

The entire Global Gala went pin-drop silent.

Not a single camera clicked. Not a single person breathed. The high-profile critics, the elite international buyers, the celebrity guests—everyone sat completely frozen in their seats, their jaw on the floor, staring at the center of the runway in absolute horror and utter confusion.

"What... what is happening?" someone whispered in the third row, their voice trembling through the dead silence.

Oliver stumbled back, clutching his face, his voice cracking with humiliation. "G-Grandfather?! What are you doing?!"

Sylvester didn’t say a word. He stood tall, towering over his trembling grandson like a judge on the bench, his eyes burning with disgust as he slowly raised the heavy, wax-sealed legal folder in his other hand.

Sylvester slammed the thick, wax-sealed file directly against Oliver’s chest with enough force to make him stagger back.

I tapped my earpiece, speaking low and fast into the comms. "Sarah, can you tap into the stage clip mic? Connect Sylvester’s audio straight to the main house speakers."

"Give me one second..." Sarah’s voice clicked through my earpiece, followed by a faint hum of interference. "You’re live."

Sylvester’s deep, booming voice cut through the silent auditorium like thunder, echoing off every wall through the grand speakers.

"That is a federal injunction and lawsuit for corporate theft, fraud, and stealing another designer’s life’s work!" Sylvester declared, his voice trembling with fierce, righteous anger. "You are an absolute disgrace to the Rick family name, Oliver. I disown you—and I disown every cheap, stolen garment on this stage!"

Sylvester turned on his heel and walked away, his gold-headed cane clicking firmly against the wooden floorboards as he left Oliver standing alone, clutching the heavy legal folder to his chest, trembling in total humiliation while the entire crowd sat in stunned, breathless chaos.

Then, I raised my right hand and snapped my fingers.

In seven different sections of the auditorium, our undercover models stood up simultaneously. With one fluid motion, they tossed off their heavy black cloaks, stepping into the aisle spotlights.

The crowd gasped. The real Seven Forbidden Designs caught the house lights—the hyper-detailed architectural cuts, the rich charcoal silk, the flawless, high-grade metallic boning. Next to Benita’s true masterpieces, the designs worn by Oliver’s models on stage suddenly looked like cheap, rushed, hollow knockoffs.

Oliver snapped. His eyes went wild, bloodshot with desperation as he glared at the aisle and screamed into his clip mic, his voice echoing frantically across the hall.

"Security! Arrest them!" Oliver barked, his face red and distorted. "Those are my copyrighted designs! I registered them first! I’ll sue you into the dirt! You stole from O.R. Atelier! You stole from me!"

He thought he still had the upper hand, completely ignorant of Jean-Luc’s confession, the wire transfers, and the legal trap that had just snapped shut around his neck.

I smoothed down the front of my suit jacket, stood up slowly from my front-row seat, and stepped up onto the elevated runway, with Benita’s seven models following right behind me.

The flashbulbs erupted into a blinding storm as I walked straight down the center aisle, stopping just inches from Oliver.

I looked down at him, a cold, effortless smile spreading across my face as I met his terrified, manic gaze.

"We meet again, Oliver."

Oliver’s face twisted into a snarl, though his hands were trembling as he clutched the lawsuit to his chest. "You think walking up here changes anything, Ethan? I filed the copyright first! You have zero proof, and Jean-Luc is on a plane to Europe right now. Good luck getting a single word out of him!"

I chuckled softly, reaching into my inner jacket pocket and pulling out a small remote control.

"Jean-Luc isn’t in Europe, Oliver," I said, my voice carrying coolly over the muted hum of the crowd. "He’s in a federal holding facility right down the street. And before he went, he gave us a very detailed, very comprehensive taped confession."

Oliver’s eyes went wide, the color draining from his face. "You’re lying... you’re bluffing!"

I didn’t answer him. I just raised the remote and pressed the center button.

Behind us, the massive, three-story LED screen—the one meant to display O.R. Atelier’s victory visuals—instantly flickered and went dark. A second later, Jean-Luc’s face filled the giant display in crystal-clear high definition.

He was sitting in an interrogation room, holding a ice pack to his bruised jaw, crying softly as he held up the bank statements.

"Oliver Rick paid me five hundred thousand dollars..." Jean-Luc’s recorded voice boomed through every speaker in the arena. "He forced me to leak Benita’s original schematics from UncuT’s secure server... every single design on his runway tonight is a stolen, cheap knockoff..."

The auditorium blew up into sheer madness. Reporters began screaming questions, flashbulbs turned into a blinding wave of light, and the fashion critics sat in absolute horror.

Oliver stared up at the giant screen, his jaw working silently, his mind completely shattering in real time as the entire global fashion industry watched his crime laid bare.

"Turn it off..." Oliver whimpered, his arrogant posture completely collapsing. He dropped to his knees right on the runway floor, clutching his head, tears streaming down his face as he looked up at me. "Ethan, please! Turn it off! Turn it off, I’m begging you!"

I stood over him, completely unbothered, letting every single second of the video play out until the tape ended.

As the recording cut to black, I stepped to the edge of the runway, raising my voice for the entire room to hear.

"Oliver Rick didn’t design a single stitch of what you saw tonight," I announced, my voice steady and commanding. "The true genius behind these masterworks—and the sole creative force of this collection—is standing right behind that curtain."

I turned, gesturing toward the stage wings. "Ladies and gentlemen... meet the real designer. Benita."

The heavy velvet curtains parted, and Benita stepped out into the blinding spotlights.

She looked absolutely stunning. She was wearing a custom, structured charcoal gown from her own line, walking with her chin held high and pure, victorious fire in her eyes.

As she stepped to the center of the stage beside me, the massive screen behind us lit up once more, wiping away Oliver’s name and replacing it with a towering, sharp, metallic logo that illuminated the entire arena:

UncuT