Behind Emilia, inside a tall glass display case, stood a red gown covered in fine gemstone embroidery. The same gown Tristan had mocked earlier. The same gown he had said someone like her would never touch.
A small plaque beneath the case carried one line of text. Designed by Emilia Porter.
Emilia turned to face Tristan. She smiled. It was not the fragile smile of the woman he had dismissed seven years earlier. It was the controlled, knowing smile of someone who had built an empire quietly and patiently while others were busy laughing.
“Seven years ago,” Emilia said, her voice carrying clearly through the silent lobby, “you told me I was not good enough for your world.”
Tristan swallowed hard. Brielle’s expression shifted from arrogance to uncertainty.
“A few minutes ago,” Emilia continued, “you told me I could never afford to touch this dress.”
She lifted her hand. At once, a staff member opened the display case. Emilia stepped forward and let her fingertips brush the red fabric with reverence and ownership. The overhead lights reflected against the gemstones, making the lobby glow as if lit by flame.