…where the afternoon sun caught the gold embroidery of my blazer. Vanessa finally tore her eyes away from her own reflection and blinked at me. For a second, the haughty sneer faltered, replaced by sheer confusion.
“Maya?” she scoffed, using the childhood nickname she always spat like an insult. “What on earth are you doing here? Did my father finally cut off your allowance and force you to get a job pinning hems?”
I didn’t flinch. I just looked past her to the three junior assistants who were nervously clutching their tools.
“Margot, Sylvie,” I said, my voice calm but laced with absolute authority. “Step away from the client.”
They immediately dropped their hands and backed away from Vanessa as if she had suddenly caught fire.
Vanessa’s face flushed an ugly shade of crimson. “Excuse me? Who do you think you are, talking to my fitters like that? I am paying fifty thousand euros for this fitting! I want the manager!”
Before I could say a word, Antoine, the boutique’s strict, impeccably dressed director, stepped out from the VIP lounge. He didn’t even look at Vanessa. He walked straight to me, stopped, and offered a deep, respectful bow.
“Madame Rossi,” Antoine said smoothly. “Welcome back from Milan. Shall I have security escort this… disruption… from your showroom?”
Vanessa froze. Her jaw actually dropped. “Madame Rossi?” she stammered, her eyes darting between Antoine and me. “Your showroom? But the designer is M.R. Rossi. That’s…”
“Maya Rénée Rossi,” I finished for her, taking a slow step forward until I was toe-to-toe with the velvet pedestal. “It turns out the ‘worthless little art hobby’ you and your mother constantly ridiculed actually paid off.”
“You,” Vanessa choked out, her arrogance rapidly dissolving into panic. “You’re the founder? But… I bragged to all my friends. I told my fiancé’s family I was getting the exclusive M.R. Rossi Monaco gown.”
“Not anymore,” I said lightly. “Antoine, cancel the commission. Refund her deposit in full.”
“You can’t do that!” Vanessa screeched, stepping off the pedestal so fast she nearly tripped on the imported silk pinned around her waist. “I’m your sister! You have to make my dress!”
“Step-sister,” I corrected, my tone dropping to a freezing register. “And I don’t have to do anything except protect the peace of my staff. You don’t snap your fingers at my team. You don’t disrespect the artists who pour their souls into these garments.”
“I’ll ruin you!” she shrieked, desperately grasping at her old, bullying tactics. “I’ll go to Vivienne! I’ll go to Laurent! I’ll buy a custom dress from someone who actually respects high society!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. It was a genuine, ringing laugh that echoed beautifully in the cavernous, mirrored room.
“Vanessa, the European bridal syndicate is a very small, very tight-knit circle,” I explained, pulling my phone from my pocket and tapping the screen. “And we all talk. We despise nightmare clients. By the time you reach the sidewalk, every major atelier from Paris to Milan will have your photo and a very strict ‘Do Not Serve’ order. You won’t even be able to buy off the rack at a high-end boutique in this continent.”
Antoine casually signaled the security guards by the door. Two massive men in tailored suits stepped forward.
“Take off my prototype,” I commanded. “Put your clothes back on, and get out of my house.”
For the first time in her pampered, entitled life, Vanessa had absolutely nothing to say. She retreated to the dressing room, pale and trembling. Five minutes later, she scurried out the glass doors without a backward glance, clutching her designer handbag like a shield.
I turned back to my team. They were staring at me with wide eyes, a mix of shock, relief, and pure admiration.
“Now,” I smiled, picking my purse back up. “I believe someone mentioned coffee? My treat. Let’s go over the new lace imports.”
