Page 133 of Cashmere Ruin

When the model passes me by, she makes a wide bow, as if to spread leaves all over the crowd. Her arm brushes right past me, andthere.

The stitching is wrong.

When I was making my version of this dress, I made sure to hold the needle at a certain angle, widening my stance with each foot of fabric. I wanted the stitching to reflect Daphne’s transformation: the movement, the change. It’s the only part that wasn’t in the sketches and notes. I came up with it in the moment.

It’s not just that, either. Looking at it, I can tell it wasn’t the work of one artist, but a hired équipe that didn’t fully understand theconcept they were bringing to life. When I was crafting my gown, I poured everything I had into it: not just blood, sweat, and tears, but a vision. I wanted whoever wore it to feel seconds away from their own metamorphosis, trapped and freed at the same time. And the spectators—I wanted them to feel it, too.

So I researched sculptors. Not just Bernini, but all the big names: Donatello, Canova, Wildt. Back then, a quote by Michelangelo stuck with me:

“The sculpture is already complete within the marble block.”

Now, I’m not so presumptuous to think I’ve actually managed that. He was freaking Michelangelo—I’m just little old me. Still, I tried. I treated the fabric with respect, working to reveal the potential that was already there. I did it with my own two hands.

Here, it’s like thousands of hands passed this piece back and forth between them, treating the fabric as a simple tool. Like an assignment they had to complete. Like…

Like it has no soul.

I feel a pang of pain for my creation. Stolen or not, it deserved better than that.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts, I almost don’t notice the tenth model walking out. Gasps rise from the crowd, a thousand murmurs at once.

“Is the dress torn on purpose?”

“What a strange bodice!”

“My God, are those…guns?”

I lift my gaze, and there it is.

Ripped hems. Pure white tulle. Pitch black Kevlar.

And two Kalashnikovs poised to strike.

The model is a slim thing, blonde and petite—the closest thing I’ve seen tonight to a Petra-like figure. It’s uncanny—almost like theyknew.

But they didn’t. If I had to guess, I’d say they picked the most innocent-looking model of the bunch to maximize contrast with the veritable armory she’s currently carrying. It’s a brilliant choice—she has the kind of dollface that wouldn’t look out of place in a group of Girl Scouts, like she’s never had a single bad thought. Her arms are so delicate, they look like they might break from the strain.

Except that they don’t. The model keeps marching on, threatening the crowd with her huge props, as if to say:Look at me. I’m ready to go to war.

God, I really hope they’re props.

“That’s…”

“Your dress,” Matvey whispers in my ear. “Good job.”

I melt all over. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Name it.”

“Pinch me. Like, right n—ow!”

Unsurprisingly, the pain sparks from my ass. Of course he’d aim there. “Feeling awake yet?” Matvey teases.

I stare at my dress strutting down a world-class runway, the tenth of ten finalists. I listen to the crowd go wild. I watch themodel carry that mountain of torn tulle like a princess answering a call to arms halfway through the happiest day of her life.

“Yeah,” I murmur in a daze. “Yeah, I think I am.”

And I’m never going back to sleep.

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