Chapter 22 #2
Creed twisted his arm. Controlled. Precise.
Manny gasped, folding forward as Creed stepped in close, his mouth near Manny’s ear.
“I know your history,” Creed said calmly.
The color drained from Manny’s face. “You don’t know a damn thing about—”
“Milan,” Creed said softly. “Paris. And the assistant who signed an NDA so airtight she still shakes when she hears your name.”
Silence.
“I know how often people clean up after you,” Creed continued. “And I know exactly what you were doing when I walked in.”
Manny straightened, bristling. “You can’t prove anything.”
Creed’s mouth curved—not a smile.
A warning.
“I don’t need to.”
Manny lashed out. “Fine. I’ll pull my designs. Let’s see how your magazine survives without me.”
Creed didn’t blink.
“If you remove a single garment from this building,” he said quietly, “no fashion house will touch your work again. No investors. No buyers. No international shows.”
Manny laughed—too loud. “You don’t have that reach.”
Creed finally turned his head, just enough for Manny to see his eyes.
“I own three of the firms underwriting your expansion,” Creed said evenly. “The other two answer my calls.”
The room went hollow.
Manny’s bravado collapsed in on itself.
Creed’s grip tightened.
I saw the line then—not crossed, but right there. His knuckles white. His breathing too steady.
This wasn’t about protection anymore.
This was about erasure.
“Creed.”
My voice cut through—soft, but sharp.
His name landed. I saw the pause. The fraction of a second where his eyes flicked toward me, blazing, reminding himself who he was standing beside.
He leaned in, voice dropping even lower. “You will leave. Now. The designs stay. And if your name ever touches hers again—”
Footsteps approached outside the door.
Creed straightened and called out, “Gentlemen.”
Two security officers stood there.
“Manny,” Creed said calmly. “You’re done.”
Manny shot me one last look—angry, humiliated—then stormed out. The guards followed.
The door shut.
Silence rushed in.
Creed turned to me, the edge softening instantly. His hand lifted, stopping just short of my arm.
“Did he touch you?”
“No,” I whispered. “But... he scared me.”
Creed’s jaw flexed. His fists curled, then opened.
“You’re safe,” he said. “He won’t come near you again.”
My breath finally broke free.
“Sorry I’m late. I should’ve been here sooner,” he added quietly.
“You came when it mattered.”
His gaze held mine, dark and unshakeable. “I always will.”
* * *
THE SHOW WENT ON.
That alone felt surreal.
No frantic whispers. No last-minute cancellations. No public meltdown from a designer storming out in a blaze of ego. Just a quiet recalibration behind the scenes that most of the audience would never know had happened.
But the industry did.
I felt it the moment I stepped into the wings. The energy had shifted.
Models moved with purpose, not panic. Stylists whispered in tighter circles. Assistants checked clipboards twice, then nodded like decisions had already been made somewhere above their pay grade.
Manny’s name wasn’t spoken.
That was the first sign.
In this world, scandals exploded loudly—unless someone powerful enough decided they wouldn’t.
The lights dimmed.
Music rolled through the convention center, deep and pulsing. When the first model stepped onto the runway wearing a Manny Lennox design, the crowd leaned forward instinctively.
The dress was breathtaking.
Architectural. Bold. Impeccably tailored. The kind of piece that didn’t need a designer attached to it to command attention.
Applause followed. Real applause.
Not polite. Not obligatory.
Earned.
I exhaled slowly, my shoulders easing for the first time since the fitting room.
The next look followed. Then the next.
Each one hit harder than the last.
I scanned the audience, watching IWM’s marketing team exchange looks. Buyers leaned toward one another, murmuring behind raised programs. Phones appeared discreetly in hands, quick photos taken—not of the models, but of the garments themselves.
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 a Manny Lennox show.
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.”
No one said Creed’s name either.
They didn’t have to.
In this industry, consequences didn’t always come with headlines. Sometimes they came with closed doors. Unreturned calls. Invitations that quietly stopped arriving.
I found Creed near the edge of the floor as people surged forward, congratulating everyone except the man who wasn’t there.
“The show was a success,” I said softly.
His gaze flicked to me. “I know.”
“You didn’t even watch half of it.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I didn’t need to.”
I hesitated. “They’re already talking.”
“They will,” he said calmly. “For about a week.”
“And Manny?”
His eyes hardened—just a fraction. “He’ll blame everyone but himself.”
“What happens next?”
Creed leaned closer, his voice low enough that only I could hear it. “He keeps his designs. He loses his access.”
My pulse skipped. “That’s it?”
“That’s everything.”
I understood then.
Creed hadn’t destroyed him.
He’d removed him.
From rooms that mattered.
From deals that built careers.
From spaces where power circulated quietly among people who remembered who made their lives easier—and who made them harder.
As the crowd buzzed around us, I realized something else.
The industry wasn’t shocked by Manny’s absence. They were relieved. And that told me everything I needed to know.
Because men like Manny Lennox didn’t fall because of one mistake. They fell because someone finally decided not to protect them anymore.
And Creed hadn’t protected him at all.
He’d protected me.
And tonight, the entire fashion world had felt the ripple of that choice—whether they understood it or not.