Chapter 5 - The Poisoned Runway
Six weeks passed in a blur of steam, needle pricks, and high-stakes financial warfare.
While Evelyn worked tirelessly in New Orleans, transforming her mother’s classic techniques into a revolutionary, edgy sustainable collection, Dominic’s financial network was quietly tightening a noose around Adrian Mercer’s neck.
In San Diego, Mercer Renewal was hemorrhaging money.
Sloane Whitmore’s lack of technical knowledge had become a nightmare for the production teams. Without Evelyn’s precise fabric density notes, the overseas factories produced three thousand defective coats that failed basic water-resistance tests. Major retail partners—Saks, Neiman Marcus, and Bergdorf Goodman—were delaying their advance orders, citing rumors of legal instability.
Inside his corner office, Adrian looked like a ghost.
His hair was messy, his eyes bloodshot. Sloane stood in front of his desk, screaming at him while holding a tablet.
“What do you mean we can't get more credit?!” Sloane yelled, her silver nails digging into the leather edge of his desk. “The New York Fashion Week presentation is in ten days! The venue deposit is due today!”
“The banks have frozen our credit lines, Sloane!” Adrian roared, slamming his hands down. “Someone bought out our senior debt three days ago! A private equity holding firm out of Delaware called Vance Capital!”
Sloane froze. “Vance? Like... Evelyn’s maiden name?”
Adrian stared at her, his heart hammering against his ribs. “It can’t be her. She didn't have a dollar to her name. Her mother died broke in Ohio!”
“Then who is funding them?!” Sloane demanded.
Before Adrian could answer, his computer chimed. An urgent notification appeared on his screen: a press release from Vogue International.
Adrian clicked it. His blood ran cold.
“SURPRISE HEADLINER ANNOUNCED FOR NEW YORK FASHION WEEK: THE RETURN OF HOUSE OF VANCE.”
The article displayed a single teaser image: a black-and-white photograph of a stunning, high-collared coat made from recycled ocean plastic and structured silk.
The caption beneath the photograph read:
“Designed by Evelyn Vance. Creative Direction by House of Vance. Backed by Vale Global Enterprises.”
Sloane gasped, dropping her tablet onto the floor. “Vale Global... Dominic Vale? The mafia boss from New Orleans?!”
Adrian fell back into his leather chair, the room spinning around him.
Dominic Vale hadn't just watched Evelyn fall down the stairs six months ago. He had picked her up. He had taken her designs. He had taken his debt. And now, he was using her to cut Adrian’s throat on the biggest stage in the fashion world.
“Call the security team,” Adrian whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying mix of rage and desperation. “Get me a ticket to New York.”
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“What are you going to do?” Sloane asked, her face pale.
Adrian looked up, his eyes bloodshot and unhinged. “I’m going to stop her before she steps onto that stage. If she opens her mouth in front of the press... we don't just lose the company. We go to prison.”
