CHAPTER 32
Celeste’s POV
Gasps rippled through the crowd like a stone breaking still water.
For a moment, the flashes of camera phones slowed, like even the press didn’t know what to do with what they were seeing
1 caught glimpses of expressions–wide eyes, parted lips, frozen smiles.
“Is that her? Isn’t she the scandalous ex–wife?”
“Wait, she looks… stunning. But why is she here and why is he with her?”
“I hate to say it, but… damn. That dress is a showstopper. Did a designer actually choose her to debut that look?”
“Why would a dress like that be lent to her?”
The whispers struck like arrows, each one trying to slice through the calm I wore like armor.
But I kept walking
I felt Theo beside me like a steady force. He didn’t flinch beneath the attention, didn’t falter under the weight of our spectacle.
But the looks weren’t for him. They were for us.
Because in the eyes of the elite, in the minds of those who only understand currency in power and status, how you arrive–and with whom–was the loudest message of all
And right now, we were speaking volumes.
I could feel it rising–hostility from the crowd. A tinge of something sharp clung to the air. Judgments whispered behind manicured hands. Some looked at Theo like he was out of place. Others looked at me like I had no business being beside him.
I opened my mouth to say something–to apologize maybe, to offer him a chance to walk ahead.
Hut before I could speak, Theo’s hand tightened around mine.
And then he leaned in.
His lips brushed the shell of my ear, his voice low and deliberate–meant for me alone. “Let them stare,” he murmured. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation… And one of these days, they’ll see you for the amazing woman that you really are..
His fingers tightened ever so slightly around mine. “Just like how I see you. Because you were never meant to hide, Celeste. You
were meant to be seen.”
I stood frozen, my heart thundering in my chest. A shiver rolled down my spine.
His words didn’t just linger. They settled–in the hollow parts of me I thought I’d buried..
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I looked ahead, my hand still in his.
Let them watch. Let them whisper,
Tonight, I’m not hiding or running anymore,
We stepped into the banquet hall together, my heart pounding for reasons I couldn’t begin to count. The room buzzed with movement blurred faces, muffled voices–all of it melting into background noise. Still, I stood tall, grounding myself with
every breath.
And then, there he was–the illustrious Sebastian Moreau, the man the world called the king of fashion… and the one I had admired for as long as I could remember. Tall and effortlessly poised, he stood with that signature silver–streaked hair and sharp, discerning eyes that missed nothing.
Oh, my god. I can’t believe it’s really him!
The man whose sketches once filled my dorm wall, whose designs I had studied like scripture.
My heart leapt, then stilled in my chest. I should’ve been thrilled–but instead, a twist of anxiety coiled in my stomach.
Oh, shit. Will he recognize me from the scandals? Or perhaps assume the worst about me? But I still have to try to talk to him… I didn’t come all this way just to shrink into the background.
I was rehearsing the perfect opening line in my head when a voice rang out, sharp and clear, slicing through the music like a spotlight snapping on.
“Well, well. Look who clawed her way out of hiding,”
I turned, and immediately recognized the wornan
man as Gracie Ellis.
She was one of Genevieve’s sycophantic friends, draped in gold lamé and fake concern. She stood by the bar with a half–empty champagne flute and a sneer she didn’t bother to hide.
“You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” she continued, voice sweet and cruel all at once. “I mean, did you get lost on your way to one of those influencer discount racks? Or are you just here hoping someone mistakes you for a server?”
A few people nearby paused, sensing the tension. Gracie’s eyes raked over me, glittering with malice
“Or wait,” she added, laughing under her breath, “don’t tell me this little number is supposed to be couture. What’d you do to get it? Flash someone your sob story–or used your body again to acquire an expensive dress?”
The implication was clear. The
The venom laced in her tone was deliberate.
I gave her a sweet, unbothered smile. “Shocking, right? That someone like me could actually design something worth staring
at?”
I let my gaze sweep over her, deliberately slow.
“Every stitch, every seam–you’re looking at my work. But please, by all means… keep thinking I bought it, or horrowed it, or-
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what was it? Slept my way into it?”
I stepped forward, voice low but laced with ice. “Just make sure you’re still watching when it walks circles around everything you
thought you understood about fashion.”
Gracie blinked at first, clearly thrown. But then, her expression changed.
“You? Designed that?” Gracie said with a snort, her voice dripping with disbelief. “Let’s be real–no one’s buying that story. A gown like that doesn’t come from scandal–stained hands. I, for one, won’t be foolish enough to believe that.”
I turned to her, my voice calm. “You don’t have to believe it, Gracie. The right people will. And that’s all that matters.”
Gracie’s smirk twitched. But before she could strike back, a soft hush rippled through the air like a held breath.
Someone important had suddenly approached them. All eyes turned, and I followed their gaze. As soon as I saw Sebastian Moreau, I gasped.
It was the legendary couturier himself, dressed in trademark black velvet sult, exuding elegance with every step. His presence was magnetic, impossible to ignore. My heart dropped as he stared at me.
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His gaze swept over my dress, lingering on the details with the eye of a master. Slowly, deliberately, he smiled.
“This piece,” he said, his deep, accented voice carrying effortlessly through the air, “is exquisite.”
He stepped forward, eyes still fixed on the gown I wore. “I have attended every major fashion show this season, and yet–I have
never seen this on any runway, nor associated with any house or brand Ik
smile tugging at his lips. “It seems… I may have overlooked a genius.”
Gasps rippled through the room. Gracie paled.
“It’s yours?” Sebastian asked me then.
I nodded, eyes wide, unable to speak.
“What is your name?” His curiosity was apparent.
“Uh, Celeste. Celeste Monroe.”
He paused, then turned to the crowd, a curious
He turned slightly, addressing the quieted crowd, but his gaze returned to me–warm, discerning.
“There is something rare,” he said thoughtfully, “about a plece that speaks before the wearer does. It tells me the hands that made it were not just skilled–but unafraid.”
He let the words settle, then offered a slight nod of admiration. “You didn’t just design a gown, Mademoiselle Monroe, You told a story. And I, for one, am listening.”
The silence cracked. And then came the camera flashes, the eager whispers, the sudden shift in energy.
Gracie took a step back, her confidence dissolving into something brittle.
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“This has to be some kind of setup,” she muttered, voice rising just enough for people nearby to hear. “I mean, come on. As if
someone like her could impress Sebastian Moreau–unless he was in on it.”
A hush swept over the nearby crowd. A few gasps. A few stifled chuckles.
Sebastian raised an eyebrow, utterly unamused. “Are you suggesting I lend my name to petty collusion?” His voice was cool, but the edge in it was unmistakable.
Gracie’s mouth opened, then shut again. “I… I was only joking”
He didn’t even look at her. “How unfortunate. I don’t find mediocrity amusing
The laughter this time wasn’t stifled.
Red–faced and flustered, Gracie turned sharply on her heel and hurried away, heels clacking against the marble floor as the murmurs followed her like shadows.
Part of me wanted to laugh, to revel in the moment. But I couldn’t. The shock was still too fresh, too surreal to celebrate. Sebastian turned back to me, gently adjusting the shoulder of my gown as if claiming it–and me–as something worth protecting.
Sebastian offered me a knowing smile, then reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
“This,” he said, handing me a sleek, ivory card embossed with gold lettering, “is not the last time we’ll speak.”
His eyes held mine for a beat longer. “I look forward to seeing more of your work, mademoiselle.”
Then, with effortless grace, he turned and walked away–leaving behind a room full of whispers and one stunned, breathless
designer.
