chapter 80
Elena's POV:
The spotlight found me before I found my composure.
One moment I was seated in the plush velvet chair, my fingers nervously smoothing the silk of my midnight blue dress, and the next I was standing—surprised by how steady my legs felt beneath me.
The applause that followed seemed to flow through Harrods' transformed beauty hall in gentle waves, warm and welcoming. The faces turned toward me with genuine curiosity and encouragement.
I took a breath and smoothed my dress over the gentle swell of my belly as I made my way to the podium, Marcus's presence a reassuring shadow at the edge of my vision.
The crowd parted with whispers trailing in my wake.
"Thank you," I began, my voice carrying clearer than I'd expected through the microphone. The words I'd rehearsed in my head scattered, and what emerged instead was something rawer, more honest.
"When I created Midnight Garden, I never imagined standing here, seeing how many of you have welcomed it into your lives."
The audience leaned in. I could feel their attention like silk against my skin.
"Fragrance, for me, has always been about capturing moments we can't quite put into words," I continued, finding my rhythm now. "That space between sleeping and waking, between memory and dream. I'm grateful you've allowed me to share these intimate landscapes with you."
"Thank you all for your recognition and support," I continued, finding my rhythm now. "It means more than I can express. I promise to continue working hard to create fragrances that deserve your trust and enthusiasm."
A ripple of appreciation moved through the crowd, but I caught the sharper undercurrents too. Near the back, a cluster of younger women exchanged glances, their perfectly glossed lips moving in what I recognized as the beginning of dissent.
"Of course it's selling well," one of them said, just loud enough to carry. "When Vivienne Sterling isn't here to show what real artistry looks like."
Her companion nodded eagerly. "Exactly. Without her setting the standard, any decent knock-off can—"
"Knock-off?" A woman turned around sharply, her voice cutting through. "Have you actually compared the compositions? Onyx's work has complexity Vivienne could only dream of."
"Please," the first girl scoffed. "Vivienne's been in this industry since she was sixteen. This Onyx person just appeared out of nowhere—"
"Then where is she today?" someone else interjected. "If Vivienne's so superior, why isn't she here? Not invited, or too scared to show?"
"Too scared?" The Vivienne supporter's voice pitched higher with indignation. "She probably refused to share a stage with a plagiarist. Why would she lower herself to attend the same event as someone who's clearly copying her style?"
The argument escalated, voices overlapping as more people chose sides.
The word 'plagiarist' hung in the air like a bitter perfume, and I felt something cold and determined crystallize in my chest.
This chaos, these accusations—they only reminded me that I needed to accelerate my plans to reclaim what was mine. The timeline for taking back Madame Butterfly would have to be moved up.
I drew a steadying breath and leaned toward the microphone, my voice calm but clear enough to cut through the chaos.
"For those who have doubts, I believe the work speaks for itself," I said, meeting the eyes of the dissenting group directly. "And I'm honored to announce that Master Henri Beaumont and I are collaborating on a new collection called 'Metamorphosis.' Seven fragrances that we're personally crafting and conceptualizing together. I hope you'll reserve judgment until you experience what we create."
The room fell silent for a heartbeat. Henri Beaumont's name carried weight that transcended petty rivalries.
"We look forward to sharing our vision with all of you soon," I continued, allowing myself a small smile. "Thank you again for being here tonight."
This time, the applause was thunderous, drowning out any lingering skepticism.
As I made my way back to my seat, accepting congratulations and business cards pressed into my hands, I heard the whispers shift entirely.
"God, she's gorgeous too. She could be the face of the brand herself."
"Forget the perfume, I want whatever skincare she's using."
"So eloquent too—did you hear how she handled those hecklers? Pure class."
"I entirely understand why Henri Beaumont chose her. "
"Vivienne could never—she's all artificial mystique and zero substance. "
"No wonder she's been keeping a low profile. When you look like that AND have that talent? The combination is lethal."
"Makes Vivienne look like a try-hard amateur in comparison. This is what genuine artistry looks like."
I'd barely settled back into my chair when a woman in an impeccable cream suit approached, her smile professional but eager. "Ms. Ross? I'm Susan Whitmore from Maison Lucent. We've been following your work with great interest."
Maison Lucent. My pulse quickened—I'd reached out to them months ago, hoping to collaborate on their heritage collection revival. They'd politely declined, citing existing commitments.
"We'd love to discuss a potential partnership," Susan continued, her card appearing between manicured fingers. "Your aesthetic vision aligns perfectly with our brand evolution."
"I appreciate the interest," I said carefully, accepting the card. "Though I seem to recall Maison Lucent had already selected their creative partners for this season."
A flicker of discomfort crossed her features. "Yes, well, there have been some... internal adjustments. Nothing that should concern you, of course. Perhaps we could talk more when you have a moment?"
Internal adjustments. Code for someone had fallen from grace, leaving a convenient opening.
But that wasn't my concern. This was an opportunity I'd lost once and found again. I knew they were probably eyeing the potential prestige my collaboration with Master Beaumont would bring, but I never let any opportunity slip through my fingers.
"That sounds wonderful," I said with a noncommittal smile. "I'll have my assistant contact yours."
After the event.
The reception hall was beginning to empty, guests filtering out in small groups, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings as valets scrambled to retrieve cars from the underground lot.
My phone buzzed—a message from Marcus. The parking garage was in complete gridlock, at least another twenty minutes before he could reach the pickup area.
I sighed, pulling my wrap tighter against the evening chill that swept through the grand entrance every time the doors opened.
I'd left my thick coat in the car, not anticipating this delay, and now the venue's heating seemed to dissipate with each departing guest.
"Elena?" Felix appeared beside me, immediately noticing my slight shiver. "You're freezing. Where's your car?"
"Stuck in the parking garage chaos," I admitted, unconsciously wrapping my arms around myself. "Along with my coat."
Felix shook his head with an amused smile. "Rookie mistake. For events like these, you always have your driver secure a spot on the street nearby, not in the venue parking. Less prestigious, but infinitely more practical."
He glanced toward the doors where a sleek black Bentley had just pulled up to the curb. "That's mine. Come on, let me drive you home."