The absence of Manny became...conspicuous.
Someone near the front turned, whispering to a colleague.Another shook her head slightly, lips pursed.
Interesting.
Bold choice.
Smart move.
Not one person asked where he was.
That was the second sign.
By the third outfit, the narrative had already shifted.
This wasn’t aManny Lennoxshow.
This was a house proving it didn’t need him.
Backstage, a senior producer brushed past me, her expression tight but impressed.“Who made the call to proceed?”
I didn’t answer.
I didn’t need to.
Creed stood a few feet away, arms folded, posture relaxed.Not watching the runway—but watching the room.
Reading it.
Controlling it.
He hadn’t raised his voice.He hadn’t issued ultimatums publicly.He hadn’t even stayed in the fitting area long enough for gossip to take root.
But the message had landed.
Cleanly.
Decisively.
Without room for interpretation.
By the time the finale hit, the applause was thunderous.
Designers flanked the models for bows.Creative directors stepped forward.Investors rose to their feet.
One name still hadn’t been mentioned.
And that silence was louder than any scandal could have been.
As the lights came up, the conversations started in earnest.
“I heard he crossed a line.”
“No, I heard he lost his backers.”
“Apparently, he thought he was untouchable.”
“Apparently, he was wrong.”
