The tray of champagne flutes balanced on my palm as if it were part of me. I’d carried so many of these in the past weeks that my body moved on instinct, weaving through the glittering forest of silk gowns and tuxedos. Light from the chandeliers fractured into rainbows on the marble floor, mocking me with its beauty.

This morning I’d been hunched over a sewing machine in my cramped workshop, the fluorescent bulbs buzzing overhead, my shoulders aching from hours of work that never seemed to pay enough. I could still feel that ache as I smiled and offered champagne to people who would never know what it was like to choose between fabric and rent.

A brush of silk brushed my arm, and I froze. The red dress. My stitching. My handiwork. My rent money. The way it flowed filled me with a burst of pride that was instantly soured by the reminder of where I stood.

“Champagne?” My voice didn’t shake. Thank God.

A blonde in azure silk took a glass, her gaze flicking over me. Her painted lips curved in amusement. “I know her.”

The redhead beside her tilted her head. “Georgia Phillips, right? Didn’t you design that gown for the Morrison wedding?”

My grip tightened around the tray. “Yes. That was mine.”

The blonde’s smirk sharpened. “And now you’re serving drinks? How… resourceful.”

The humiliation sliced clean through me. Six months ago, I’d been here as a guest, showing my work to clients, daring to dream that my name might mean something one day. Now I was serving them champagne, my feet blistering in cheap shoes, trying to pretend I wasn’t breaking inside.

I straightened my spine, the way my mother had always taught me—dignity above everything. It was the only armor I had left.

And then I saw her.

Celeste Montgomery.

Even across the room she radiated power, draped in ivory silk that probably cost more than my yearly earnings. She stood in the center like a queen at court, admirers orbiting her every word. My stomach twisted at the sight. I remembered too well the way her raised brow at Fashion Week had killed three of my deals before they’d even begun. A single look, and she’d burned me alive.

I turned away. Too late. A man waved me over—standing right beside her.

My pulse stumbled. My feet dragged. I told myself it would only be a minute, then my shift would be over. I could breathe again.

“Watch it!”

The warning came too late. Another server clipped my elbow. The tray lurched. Glasses tipped.

And then time shattered.

Red wine arced through the air, splashing across Celeste’s pristine gown in a blooming stain that spread like blood on snow.

Her scream pierced the ballroom, cutting off the music, silencing every conversation. Heads turned. Phones rose like weapons.

The tray trembled in my hands as my heart slammed against my ribs.

Her eyes found mine. Recognition flared. Cruel and triumphant.

“You.” Her voice was sharp enough to split me open. “Georgia Phillips.”

The silence pressed down until I could barely breathe. My throat closed. Every eye in the room was on me.

“This gown,” Celeste drawled, manicured fingers brushing the spreading stain, “is custom Valentino.”

The number flared in my mind. More than I’d made in a year. More than I could ever repay.

Her lips curled. “I remember you. The little designer who thought she could play in our world.”

Heat burned up my neck, humiliation searing hotter than fire. Around us, whispers grew into a tide, phones recording every second of my downfall.

I opened my mouth. “I’m—”

Her raised finger silenced me instantly. Her diamonds winked under the lights as she drew out the moment, savoring my suffering.

“Tell me,” she said, her gaze raking over my uniform. “Was this really the best career move, after your collection failed?”

Laughter rippled through the ballroom, cold and sharp.

I stood rooted to the marble floor, tray in hand, drowning in the humiliation Celeste Montgomery had orchestrated to perfection.

And all I could think was: this was how my career ended. Not with a failure of design, but with spilled wine and a single cruel smile.