For a moment, I felt overwhelmed by gratitude.
I reached for his hand.
"Thank you."
He squeezed mine.
Then stood.
"I'll take care of it."
He walked away.
And for the first time that evening, I let one tear slip down my cheek.
I wiped it quickly.
Not because I was ashamed.
Because there was still work to do.
The backstage area looked like a beautiful disaster.
Garment racks filled the corridor.
Makeup artists packed brushes.
Models sat beneath bright lights, still wearing carefully styled hair and elaborate makeup.
A production coordinator stood beside a table covered in radios, schedules, and half-empty water bottles.
Several people were crying.
Others looked furious.
One young model was speaking into her phone, explaining that the show had been canceled and she didn't know whether she'd be paid.
A hairstylist was arguing with an assistant about unpaid overtime.
And near the far wall, three seamstresses sat beside industrial machines, quietly removing pins from garments that might never appear on the runway.
When I entered, most people ignored me.
They saw a blonde woman in a yellow gown.
Perhaps a guest.
Perhaps a model.
Perhaps another worker trying to understand what happened.
I walked toward the seamstresses.
One of them looked up.
She was a white American woman in her late fifties, with short brown hair and thick glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.
"Can I help you?"
I smiled.
"I'm here about the garments."
She sighed.
"Join the club."
I glanced toward the dress on her table.
It was one of my designs.
A structured evening gown with a softly draped neckline and carefully engineered waist.
But something about it looked wrong.
The fabric wasn't falling properly.
I stepped closer.
"May I see the interior?"
The seamstress frowned.
"Are you with quality control?"
"Yes."
That was true.
I had final creative and quality approval for the collection.
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
I carefully turned part of the garment.
The lining had been attached differently from the approved specification.
A small internal support was missing.
And the fabric near the side seam showed signs of being repeatedly altered.
I felt my stomach tighten.
"Who changed this?"
The seamstress gave a bitter laugh.
"Who didn't?"
I looked toward her.
She continued.
"We got the garments from another facility four days ago. Half the pieces needed correcting."
I went still.
"Another facility?"
She nodded.
"That's what the shipping documents said."
I took a breath.
"Was it on the approved production list?"
She looked confused.
"I don't know."
I examined the construction again.