Chapter 173: Greates Rollout Ever

The auditorium exploded into a absolute frenzy.

Hundreds of camera lenses pivoted away from the disgraced heir on the floor, locking onto Benita and our seven models in a blinding storm of flashes.

Fashion critics rushed the edge of the stage, shouting questions, frantically scribbling in their notebooks, and craning their necks to capture every intricate, flawless detail of the authentic UncuT collection.

The contrast was brutal. Oliver’s cheap, rush-manufactured knockoffs stood completely ignored on stage, while the true masterpieces radiated pure luxury under the spotlight.

Two armed federal marshals and gala security officers marched up the runway, their heavy boots echoing over the ambient noise. They produced a set of steel handcuffs, stepping directly past me toward the broken man weeping on the floor.

I leaned down close to Oliver, my voice dropping into a low, ice-cold whisper that only he could hear.

"Game over, Oliver."

The officers hauled him up by his arms, ratcheting the cuffs tight around his wrists. Oliver offered no resistance—he was completely hollowed out, staring blankly ahead as the crowd Jeered, snapping photos of his final humiliation while he was paraded off his own stage and dragged into the back of a waiting police transport.

I straightened my jacket and turned back to Benita. She was glowing, a triumphant, emotional smile breaking across her face as the entire venue rose to give UncuT a roaring standing ovation.

Down in the front row, Chloe lowered her dark shades, raising her glass toward me with a sharp, victorious smirk, while Sylvester Rick gave a slow, proud nod of approval.

The crown was officially ours. O.R. Atelier was dead, and UncuT owned the night.

Over the next hour, the high-fashion crowd swarmed the front of the stage, desperate to get a closer look at Benita’s masterpieces. Buyers were practically throwing open their checkbooks on the spot, and journalists were scrambling to cover what was already being dubbed the single greatest execution in Paris fashion history.

Benita, Chloe, and I finally made our way down the steps of the runway, stepping back onto the main floor.

Before we could even take three paces toward the exit, the snobbish critic from earlier practically tripped over himself trying to block our path. The condescending sneer he had worn all evening was completely gone, replaced by a desperate, sycophantic grin.

"Sir! Excuse me—sir!" he babbled, hurriedly wiping his sweaty palm on his trousers before extending a trembling hand toward me. "An incredible, absolute masterpiece of a launch! I—I’m guessing you must be the lead venture capital partner behind UncuT?"

I stopped, looking down at his outstretched hand with pure, unadulterated apathy.

"I’m nobody," I said coolly.

Without waiting for his response, I stepped right past his extended hand, leaving him frozen in mid-air as we walked straight out of the glittering auditorium into the fresh night air.

Waiting outside near the waiting line of luxury cars, Benita was practically glowing. Her posture was straight, her shoulders pulled back, puffing with raw, unfiltered pride as she looked up at the Parisian skyline. The girl who had almost lost her life’s work to an arrogant billionaire was now the most talked-about designer on the planet.

"We actually did it," Benita breathed, a wild, thrilled laugh escaping her lips as she looked over at me. "We completely destroyed him."

Chloe walked up beside us, sliding her dark shades up into her hair. She looked at the giant digital billboards across the boulevard, which were already flashing breaking news headlines of Oliver Rick’s arrest alongside UncuT’s striking logo.

A sharp, victorious smile spread across Chloe’s face as she wrapped her arm through mine.

"O.R. Atelier is officially bankrupt by morning," Chloe said, her voice dripping with supreme satisfaction. "UncuT isn’t just the new standard, Ethan... UncuT is officially the greatest."

The quiet hum of the van’s engine was soon swallowed by the clear, polished voice of the news anchor coming through the overhead TV display. The channel had completely abandoned its scheduled programming to cover the fallout of the Global Gala.

"...a historic scandal in haute couture as Oliver Rick was escorted out in handcuffs mid-show," the anchor reported, as high-definition clips of Sylvester’s slap and Jean-Luc’s taped confession flashed across the screen. "...meanwhile, the sudden rise of UncuT has sent shockwaves through the industry, delivering what critics are already calling the greatest, most ruthless brand rollout in modern fashion history."

Benita let out an ecstatic yell, pumping her fist in the air. "YES! That is what you get! Take that, you arrogant prick!"

She bounced in her seat, practically bursting at the seams with pure, adrenaline-fueled joy. "Where is the champagne? We need champagne right now!"

She rummaged through the van’s built-in mini-bar, pulled out a chilled bottle of Vintage Dom Pérignon, and stripped off the foil in three seconds flat. Before Chloe or I could even react, Benita jammed her thumb over the neck, shook the bottle with all her strength, and popped the cork.

FOOMP!

A foamy, pressurized geyser of fine champagne erupted across the leather interior, hitting me straight in the face and completely soaking my hair, jacket, and shirt.

Benita froze mid-spray, her mouth forming a tiny ’O’ of pure terror as she looked at me dripping wet. "Oh... oh my god, Ethan! I am so sorry! I didn’t mean to—"

Beside me, Chloe burst out into a loud, uncontrollable fit of snickering, holding her hand over her mouth as she looked at my flat, soaked hair dripping champagne onto my lapels. "You look stunning, boss. Very editorial."

I reached up, wiped the fizz from my eyes, and ran a hand through my wet hair. I looked at Benita’s panicking face, then over at Chloe’s smug, laughing expression.

A slow, dangerous grin spread across my face.

"Well," I said, leaning over and grabbing a second bottle from the ice bucket. "There’s no harm in having a little fun."

I ripped the cage off, shook the bottle like a madman, and aimed the cork straight at Chloe.

POP!

"Ethan, don’t you dare—!" Chloe shrieked, but it was too late. A massive wave of cold champagne blasted her right in the chest and face, knocking her dark shades completely askew as she gasped for air.

Within five seconds, the luxury van turned into an absolute warzone. Benita let out a battle cry and unleashed what was left of her bottle, Chloe grabbed a third one from the cooler to retaliate, and all three of us were screaming, laughing, and blasting each other with multi-hundred-dollar champagne until every inch of the leather cabin was dripping.

Ten minutes later, the war finally died down.

The van went dead silent again, save for our heavy, exhausted breathing. I leaned my head back against the leather headrest, completely soaked from head to toe, my expensive bespoke suit ruined, sticky with alcohol, and smelling like a brewery.

I wiped a trail of foam off my forehead, looked over at Chloe and Benita—who were both drenched, messy, and giggling —and let out a heavy, solemn sigh.

Instant regret.