"Money built the opportunity to make these garments. It didn't give you ownership of my judgment."
The investor stared.
For a moment, her mouth tightened into an expression of genuine hatred.
Then she whispered, "You'll regret this."
I looked directly into her eyes.
"Maybe."
She seemed surprised.
I continued.
"But I won't regret refusing to pretend that what happened here was acceptable."
The investor turned away.
Her executives followed immediately.
I watched her move toward the private dining room, crimson satin catching the chandelier light.
For several seconds, I stood motionless.
Then my knees began trembling.
The adrenaline that had kept me calm was fading.
I reached toward the side table.
My chief operating officer noticed.
"Are you all right?"
I nodded.
"Just need a minute."
He guided me toward an empty chair.
I sat.
For a moment, the ballroom seemed distant.
The guests.
The musicians.
The cameras.
The luxurious flowers.
Everything blurred into noise.
My forearm ached.
I looked at the faint red marks left by the manager's fingers.
Then at the floor where the money had landed.
Someone had collected most of it.
One hundred-dollar bill remained beneath the edge of a tablecloth.
I stared at it.
For years, I had told myself that if I became successful enough, people would stop treating me as though I were disposable.
I had built a business.
Negotiated contracts.
Paid employees.
Helped my parents.
And created designs admired by people around the world.
Yet the moment I appeared to be an ordinary server, the investor had treated me as an object.
Not a person.
An object that could be ordered, insulted, pushed, and dismissed.
My chief operating officer crouched beside the chair.
"Do you want to leave?"
I looked at him.
For a moment, I wanted nothing more.
I wanted to go home.
Take off the gown.
Wash the makeup from my face.
Call my mother.
And let myself cry.
But the collection was still backstage.
The employees were still waiting.
And the investor was probably assembling a strategy to make me look unreasonable.
I took a slow breath.
"Not yet."
He nodded.
"What do you need?"
I looked toward the ballroom.
"Get the production supervisor, our lawyer, and the person responsible for approving the final garment inventory."
He nodded.
"Anything else?"
I hesitated.
Then looked toward the staff entrance.
"Find out whether the young servers are being paid for their full shifts."
He gave a small smile.
"Already asked."