"Trying to hold your breath through the entire show."
I laughed nervously.
She smiled.
"The clothes are good."
I nodded.
"I know."
She raised one eyebrow.
"Then stop looking like someone's about to arrest them."
I burst into laughter.
For a moment, the tension broke.
Then the final model appeared.
She wore the new version of First Light.
Pale-butter-yellow fabric.
A softly twisted sweetheart bodice.
Careful ruching at the waist.
And a flowing skirt that moved beautifully with every step.
The dress was based on the sketch I'd made after a terrible restaurant shift seven years earlier.
But it wasn't identical.
I had refined the fit.
Improved the construction.
And adjusted the internal structure to make the garment more comfortable and versatile.
It had become the most personal piece in the collection.
The model reached the end of the runway.
Paused.
Then turned.
The audience began applauding.
Not politely.
Not because a host told them to.
The applause grew naturally as the model returned toward the entrance.
My eyes filled.
For years, I had imagined showing that dress to people who appreciated its construction.
Now it had finally happened.
And it happened without surrendering control to someone who believed money made her judgment superior to everyone else's.
I pressed one hand against my mouth.
The head pattern maker touched my shoulder.
"Ready?"
I looked toward her.
For a moment, I didn't understand.
Then I remembered.
My turn.
I had agreed that this would be the evening AVERY's designer finally appeared publicly.
The mystery would end.
Not as a punishment.
Not as a publicity stunt.
But because I no longer wanted secrecy to be the only way to hear how people treated those they perceived as powerless.
I took a slow breath.
"Ready."
The audience was still applauding when I stepped onto the runway.
I wore the original pale-yellow gown.
The one from the gala.
My platinum-blonde hair fell in long waves over my shoulders.
My diamond necklace caught the light.
And beneath the fabric, close to my heart, was the strip my parents had embroidered.
No one is beneath your respect.
For a moment, the audience didn't understand what they were seeing.
Some recognized me immediately.
Others stared.
Then a murmur spread through the gallery.
The woman from the video.
The waitress.
The blonde woman who made the phone call.
I walked slowly to the center of the runway.
Behind me, the models waited.
The production team stood near the entrance.
And my parents sat in the front row.
My mother was already crying.
My father looked as though he were trying very hard not to.