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Brandt's eyebrows twitched. His beard quivered. He said nothing.

I curved my lips into a faint smile, my finger tracing a tiny flaw hidden beneath the intricate pattern, and continued.

"But the best part isn't even that. Normally, this kind of heavy hand-woven jacquard becomes brittle and stiff. But you altered the traditional gelatin formula in the sizing and setting process—if I'm not mistaken, you added a trace amount of cold-pressed olive oil emulsion, didn't you? That's why, even though this weighs four hundred grams per meter, it drapes like a deep ocean current. It's perfect for haute couture gowns that don't need boning or structured support—gowns that rely entirely on a woman's natural curves."

The moment I finished, the booth fell dead silent.

The Milan buyers' expressions shifted from amusement to shock.

Brandt stared at me, mouth open. Five full seconds passed before he slammed his palm on the table so hard the silver measuring tape jumped.

"Santa Maria!" The old man's face flushed red with excitement, his beard trembling. "Did you grow a pair of microscopes for eyes? Three days! Three entire days of so-called procurement directors in their fancy suits, and all they asked was how much discount per meter! Not one of them noticed the olive oil emulsion! Not one!"

He shoved aside the clutter on the table, carefully covered the jacquard with a special cloth, then whirled toward Marcelo and bellowed.

"Marcelo! Where the hell did you dig up this treasure? She's a thousand times better than those idiots on million-dollar salaries in your group! She actually understands fabric!"

The tight wire of tension inside me snapped all at once, replaced by a rush of euphoria that shot straight up my spine to the crown of my head.

I turned instinctively toward Marcelo.

The man who was always unreadable, untouchable, stood with both hands in his trouser pockets, leaning casually against a nearby column. The amber overhead light spilled across his sharp, handsome profile. Those deep gray-green eyes were locked on me, and beneath them burned something fierce, unguarded—pride, and heat.

He tilted his chin slightly and gave me the faintest nod of approval.

My ears burned. I looked away fast.

"Brandt, her assessment is Moretti Group's decision." Marcelo stepped forward, glanced at his watch, and returned to his businessman's composure. "My legal team will deliver the contract terms to your atelier tomorrow morning. Now—let's talk privately. About the property transfer for that dye mill in Puglia."

"Perfect! Follow me to the VIP lounge!" Brandt beamed, then turned and winked at me warmly. "Ms. Caldwell, once this deal closes, you want samples? I'll spin them for you myself!"

"Thank you, Mr. Brandt." I dipped my head slightly.

Marcelo paused beside me before following the old man into the back room. His tall frame tilted slightly, and that scent of cedarwood and faint tobacco slipped into my nose again.

"Well done, Ms. Caldwell." He lowered his voice, his lips brushing the top of my head. "Wait here for me. Fifteen minutes. Order whatever you want from the servers. Don't wander off."

"I'm not a child, Mr. Moretti," I muttered back.

A soft laugh rumbled in his throat. Then he turned and disappeared through the curtain.

I exhaled long and slow, every pore in my body buzzing with triumph. For the first time in my life, I wasn't praised for being "slim and graceful" or "pleasant." I was respected—truly respected—for the knowledge I'd fought tooth and nail to earn, on the most elite stage in the world.

I picked up a glass of alcohol-free sparkling water from a passing server's tray and headed toward a quiet corner to collect myself.

But the moment I turned into the corridor leading to the rest area, a sharp, vicious laugh shattered the stillness.

"Oh my God, look at this sow. How did she even get into the Grande Palais?"

"Maybe the service elevator for croissant deliveries was left open. Look at that cheap polyester yellow dress—it's bursting at the seams. Disgusting. She reeks of fried potatoes."

Near a Roman column in the hallway, two skeletal French models in exaggerated smoky eye makeup stood holding champagne flutes, sneering down at a young woman.

The girl looked barely twenty. Blonde. Curvy—curvier than me, even. She wore a homemade butter-yellow dress, the front and waist stained dark red where someone had clearly just spilled wine on her. She stood with her head down, clutching her skirt, shoulders shaking violently. Tears hit the marble floor like broken pearls. She didn't say a word.

The scene hit me like a sledgehammer.

I knew that scene. I'd lived it. In high school, I'd been cornered just like this. Stick-thin model wannabes hurling the ugliest insults at my body.