Chapter 84 Adam’s Opening Move
Adam’s POV
The air backstage is thick with the smell of hairspray and ozone from the massive LED screens. My pulse is a drum in my ears. I am standing in the dark, watching the feed on my tablet, and I can feel sweat prickle my hairline. I just saw her. I saw Brittany walk into my ballroom. She isn't hiding in the wings. She isn't waiting for her slot. She is out there on the floor, surrounded by the very press I spent six months courting. And she is wearing a gown that shouldn't exist.
It is extraordinary. I know extraordinary. I have built a career on identifying it, capturing it, and putting my own name on the tag. I have been stealing extraordinary things for five years, but this is different. It is unmistakably her voice. It is thirty years since her mother’s design language, but it has evolved into something new. Something devastating. The way the silk moves, the way the feathers catch the light, it is a direct attack on my authority.
Panic is a cold thing, but I dress it up in an expensive suit and call it power. I cannot let her present after me. If she walks that runway after the room has already seen the Sovereign Line, they will see the connection. They will see that my collection is the shadow and hers is the sun. I have to drown the room first. I have to make them fall in love with my version before her version even exists in their minds.
"Change the order," I snapped at the head of the AV team.
The man looked up from his console, his face pale in the blue light of the monitors. "Sir? The models are already lined up for the heritage segment. We’re less than five minutes out."
"I don't care about the heritage segment," I said, leaning over his shoulder. I could see the reflection of my own eyes in his screen. They looked frantic. "Move the Sovereign Line reveal to the opening slot. Everything. The digital presentation, the heavy bass track, the narration. I want the room to shake before the first girl even steps onto the wood. Do it now."
"But the lighting cues," he started to argue.
"Fix them," I barked. "I am Adam Williams. This is my show. If I want the world to end in the first three minutes, you make it happen. Do you understand me?"
He nodded quickly, his fingers flying across the board. I stepped back, adjusting my cuffs, trying to slow my breathing. I have been stealing from geniuses for fifteen years. I have outmaneuvered every talented nobody who thought their art was more important than my branding. I have won every single time. This will be no different. I will take the air out of the room. I will leave Brittany standing in a vacuum.
I walked toward the wings, my shoes clicking against the plywood floor. The models were scurrying around, their faces masks of makeup and nerves. Bianca was there, dressed in that white gown I picked for her. She looked like a doll. She looked safe. That is what the Blackwells want. They want safety. They want a brand they can trust. They don't want the fire that Brittany is carrying.
"Is it happening?" Bianca asked, grabbing my arm. Her eyes were wide. "I heard the music change. Why is the Sovereign track playing?"
"Because we are taking the lead, Bianca," I said, patting her hand without looking at her. "Go find your place. When the screens go black, you walk. Not a second before."
"Adam, you look pale," she whispered.
"I am fine," I lied. "I am perfect. Now go."
I watched her disappear into the line of girls. The music began to swell in the ballroom. I could hear the bass thumping through the floorboards. It was a heavy, industrial sound designed to command attention. It was meant to be the sound of the new Blackwell. It was meant to be my victory march.
I felt steadier once the decision was made. Action is the only cure for fear. I have the board members in the front row. I have the press in the palm of my hand. Harrison is on the balcony, watching. He expects me to handle this. He expects me to be the son who wins at any cost. I will not disappoint him. I will erase her before the first model finishes her turn at the end of the runway.
I took a deep breath, smoothing the front of my jacket. My reflection in the darkened screens looked sharp. I looked like a man in total control. I began to walk toward the stage entrance, the place where I would step out and introduce the collection that would secure my seat at the table forever. I have spent a decade and a half preparing for this moment. No girl from a trailer park is going to take it away from me. No ghost of a dead designer is going to haunt my success.
I reached the final backstage corridor. It was a narrow space, lined with equipment boxes and spare racks. It was a restricted area. Only the primary staff and the designers were supposed to be here. I felt the rush of the music, the crowd beginning to cheer on the other side of the velvet. This was it.
I passed a long, gilded mirror leaning against the wall. I stopped for one second. I didn't stop to check my tie. I didn't stop to admire the fit of my suit.
I stopped because the woman reflected in the mirror behind me, standing in the backstage corridor she should not have access to, is Daisy. She is standing perfectly still among the chaos of the stagehands. She is looking directly at me through the glass. She is holding a small document wallet against her chest. She is smiling.
He walks toward the stage entrance and passes a mirror and stops for one second, because the woman reflected in the mirror behind me — standing in the backstage corridor she should not have access to — is Daisy. Looking directly at him. Holding a small document wallet.