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I stepped forward, set up my sample board on the display stand, and clicked on the laser pointer.

"Good morning, judges. I'm independent designer Ruby Caldwell. Today's preliminary collection is called 'Breaking Cocoon,' focusing on plus-size body reshaping and bias-cut load distribution—"

The conference room's heavy double doors swung open without warning. Two black-suited bodyguards with earpieces pushed them from outside.

A cold, sharp chill rushed in with the outside air.

The three judges, who'd been marking scores with heads down, looked up reflexively. The next moment, the conference room fell silent.

Marcelo strode in wearing an impeccably tailored charcoal three-piece suit, smoke-gray silk tie knotted precisely, his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed sharp and clean. Left hand in his pocket, he walked with purpose, that black-and-gold signet ring on his right ring finger—the one with the coiled snake—catching the overhead lights.

God.

I closed my eyes, unwilling to believe what I was seeing.

Marcelo glanced at me standing onstage. Didn't interrupt. Just raised his hand slightly to signal Richard not to bother with formalities, then walked straight to that center high-backed leather chair and sat down.

His posture was upright, hands folded on the mahogany table, those gray-green eyes settling on me. His expression held none of last night's superiority—instead carried something extremely restrained, focused, almost cautiously watchful.

Last night I'd humiliated him, and he still came.

I forced down the wild pounding in my chest and the tremor in my fingertips, took a deep breath, and made myself look back at the projection screen. "'Wild Rose's' core narrative breaks traditional constraints, using silk stretch velvet and internal boning to create interlocking tension, giving full curves their most powerful expression..."

For the next ten minutes, I completed my presentation with the most rigorous pattern data and seam stress analysis.

Richard nodded approvingly, about to mark his score, when Marcelo in the center seat sat up slightly, opened the thick stack of my design drafts.

"Ms. Caldwell," his low, rough voice filled the quiet conference room, tone unexpectedly gentle, deliberately softening that usually suffocating authority, "I've reviewed your collection concept. 'Breaking Cocoon' is an extremely vital idea."

My fingers tightened on the laser pointer. I responded with professional detachment. "Thank you, Mr. Moretti."

"In your third sample design, you extensively use crimson and forest green silk velvet in collision, keeping hand-stitched embroidery at the neckline." Marcelo turned pages, those gray-green eyes lifting to mine, voice carrying some undisguised probing familiarity. "If I'm not mistaken, this complex straight-bias double-insertion stitch technique is exclusive to traditional Sicilian Palermo ateliers. Where... did you encounter this craft?"

The two older judges shifted slightly, assuming this was professional discussion about high-end fabrics and traditional techniques.

But my heartbeat skipped.

Palermo hand-stitching. Four years ago on a Paris business trip, he'd held my hands in an old Italian tailor's workshop, personally teaching me how to recognize these patterns.

"A master craftsman I met while freelancing in Europe taught me, Mr. Moretti," I answered expressionlessly, trying to pull this back to business. "It's simply to increase structural support at the fabric edge."

Something soft and nostalgic flashed in Marcelo's eyes, but hearing my cold response, that flicker dimmed again.

He didn't give up. He looked down at the brand founding brief, his voice taking on an almost personal concern and probing. "In your work statement, you mention that in the brand's first year four years ago, you faced a yearlong supply chain collapse. For a young independent creator, holding up an entire workshop alone... must have been extremely difficult."

"That's part of every startup brand's journey. Not worth mentioning."

"But you didn't have to push yourself to the breaking point." His voice dropped lower, carrying something almost like a sigh, those gray-green eyes clearly reflecting my tense face. "If back then... you'd been willing to seek a little help from available resources, even just one phone call, you wouldn't have had to bear all that alone. Now you're in Venice still juggling workshop daily operations and life logistics, your energy severely scattered, even forced to waste time hunting down small-batch fabric suppliers... doesn't that really drain your creative talent?"

The conference room atmosphere shifted subtly.

The other four waiting contestants exchanged glances, carefully watching Marcelo's face, trying to read his intentions.

But nobody could understand what he meant. Except me.

He was fishing around about how I'd spent these four years.

He was using this gentle approach to tell me that if I'd just turn around, he'd pave every path for me.