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Marcelo froze like he'd been struck by lightning.

His hand, half-raised in the air, dropped helplessly. His tall, strong frame looked almost defeated under the harsh lights.

"Okay." He closed his eyes, throat squeezing out a rough syllable. "I won't make things difficult for you again."

I didn't look at him again. Pushed past his shadow and clicked my heels into the public restroom by the elevators.

I locked the stall door, slid down against the cold metal to sit on the toilet lid, pressed my hands hard against my face, let the burning tears I'd held back too long slip through my fingers.

Not from hurt. From anger. Anger that after four years he could still mess with my emotions so easily. Anger that his guilty, pained expression made my damn heart ache.

A few minutes later I took a deep breath, wiped my tears, barely pulled myself together, and walked expressionless to the sink.

I turned on the brass faucet. Icy water splashed my face, washing away the dampness on my lashes and the heat deep in my skin.

Looking at the woman in the mirror—red-rimmed eyes, tight expression—a tempting but cowardly thought tugged hard in my chest: Withdraw.

If I withdrew, booked a one-way ticket to Marco Polo tonight, I could take Leon and completely extract myself from this suffocating past. This was Marcelo's territory. Every inch of Manhattan air was saturated with his power. Even if he promised "fairness," his gaze, his guilt, his inescapable presence—all of it was an invisible net trapping me.

But thinking of Leon's innocent, clear gray-green eyes, thinking of that production schedule in the Venice workshop delayed again and again for lack of startup capital...

Why should I be the one running?

I hadn't done anything wrong. Hadn't stolen anyone's glory. "Wild Rose" was bone and blood I'd sewn together stitch by stitch in a foreign country. If I didn't even have the courage to face him head-on, what did these four years of growth mean?

I pulled out a paper towel and wiped away the water with no expression.

The frosted door to the outer bathroom swung open. Sharp perfume smell. Three female designers in tailored suits clicked in on stilettos.

Leading them was Victoria from my group. Seeing me, she stopped short, then curved her red lips.

"Well, well, look who it is! The big designer who got Mr. Moretti's 'special concern' at the competition!"

Victoria crossed her arms, leaned against the makeup counter, looked me up and down—taking in my slightly reddened eyes—her mouth twisted with undisguised cruelty and mockery. "Tell me, Ms. Caldwell, after getting such 'deep' special treatment from Mr. Moretti onstage, why'd you run and hide in the bathroom crying? Not satisfied with the guaranteed score your sugar daddy gave you?"

The other two designers who'd followed her in snickered. "Right? We spent half a year preparing pattern data, and the head judge won't even lift an eyelid. Some people walk onstage and Mr. Moretti's asking about hardships, questioning personal techniques—might as well stamp 'PRE-SELECTED WINNER' on her forehead."

"I heard four years ago she was an IS·MA intern, then got caught climbing into bed and thrown out." Victoria snapped shut her compact with a sharp click, turned to look me up and down, eyes full of undisguised jealous hate. "Scraped by in Europe a few years, and now she actually thinks she's some noble independent designer? Playing these dirty backdoor tricks—it's disgusting."

The ugly, vicious words buzzed like poisoned flies in the small bathroom.

I pulled out a paper towel, methodically dried the cold water from between my fingers, then turned to look coldly at that blonde woman. "Victoria, if you put the energy you waste gossiping into your own draping, your third sample wouldn't have shoulder seams that don't even line up. The president of the Council of Fashion Designers sits on that judging panel. If you think the scoring's rigged, feel free to file a complaint with the organizing committee instead of squeaking like sewer rats in here."

"Who are you calling rats?" Victoria's face changed color. She stepped forward on her stilettos, finger nearly jabbing my nose. "Who the hell do you think you are, just some woman who seduces men—"

"Pardon the interruption."

A cold laugh sounded from the doorway.

Isabella strode in wearing a sharp black Dior smoking jacket, ten-centimeter Louboutin pointed-toe heels clicking. One hand casually held an iced Americano, the other toyed with designer sunglasses. That beautiful, fierce face showed zero emotion—only that cold condescension soaked through from living at the top of power and high society.

Victoria's aggression evaporated the instant she recognized who'd walked in. Her face went bloodless. "Ms... Ms. Barone? We were just discussing technical issues..."

"Discussing technique?" Isabella stopped, raised one elegant brow over those gray-green eyes. "Using your collective brains—which couldn't fill a thimble—to publicly slander competition judges and contestants? Victoria, that pathetic workshop your family runs by copying second-tier Milan brands—is it planning to be permanently banned from every major New York publication and guild starting next month?"

"No, no, Ms. Barone, we were just talking casually..." Victoria backed up repeatedly, cold sweat breaking out.

"Get out." Isabella coolly pushed her sunglasses onto her head, tone contemptuous. "Don't make me call security to sweep you out of this building like garbage. On my watch, the cheapest thing around is you idiots who can't compete so you bark instead."