Fashion Design Competition

The shift in the grand hall could be felt as waves of attention rippled through in hushed reverence.

Wes and his family had arrived at L’Atelier, entering through a private aisle at the front while surrounded by staff. He walked behind his father, Romulus Ashthorne, whose presence alone dominated the room. His uncle, Caesar Ashthorne, walked at his side with the dignified yet imperious bearing often found in high society.

Behind Caesar was his wife, Rebecca Ashthorne, adorned with curated elegance and copious jewelry that spoke of tremendous affluence. Beside her were their children, Claire and Caleb Ashthorne, who moved with the natural poise of those born into privilege, but also the learned discipline of professionals in their respective fields.

And there was Wes in a tailored suit, drawing every eye and stopping every heartbeat even while just making his way to their assigned seats.

“That’s Ashthorne’s CEO and his son.”

“Mr. Cesar and his family, too.”

Camera shutters erupted in rapid-fire bursts, the sound echoing against marble, velvet, and glass.  Around them, chandeliers scattered light like liquid gold across gilded arches and windows, through which the city’s skyline gleamed like a constellation—a fancy setting forgotten at their arrival. Invited connoisseurs and VIP showgoers alike were all drawn to them, as though their presence made the place pale in comparison.

Wes took his seat. Almost at once, people gathered around him—business acquaintances, industry associates, familiar faces from premieres and photoshoots. At some point, ambassadors of luxury brands sidled up to him with an overfamiliar attitude.

One of them smiled, suggestive. “Hey, Wes. Is it true you’re seeing someone now?”

“Oh, the mystery girl! She’ll be in your new movie, right? As an extra.” The last part dripped with condescension.

“Well, she must be very lucky,” someone else added, followed by another, “Or very temporary.”

He offered a practiced, noncommittal smile—the one the public knew. 'Did they just say what I think they said?'

“Come to the after-party with us!” one woman invited while exchanging glances with her friends. “Oh, unless your girlfriend, or whoever she is, doesn’t approve.”

“Honestly, anyone who stays hidden like that probably isn’t serious or worth showing off.”

That did it for him. Whenever he found others displeasing, he would react almost instinctively—either brush it off or smooth it over, remain untouchable. But he didn’t do that this time.

Wes turned to them, completely dropping the princely act everyone was used to. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

The words landed harder than their raised voices could. Chatters paused, and laughter faltered. Even Claire and Caleb, who sat nearby, were astounded.

“You don’t know her, and you don’t get to decide her worth,” Wes continued to say with a cold, hard look.

Silence followed, and it hit them then how he was an Ashthorne. Some apologized while others returned to their seats. The surroundings cleared up in a matter of seconds.

Wes looked back at the runway, aware he’d done something reckless but unrepentant about it. As the lights fell and the music played, his thoughts drifted far. Mia’s quiet courage, relentless focus, unfiltered kindness—all of it mattered even when nobody but him saw it.

She wasn’t hidden because she’s not worthy. She’s hidden because the world hadn’t earned her.

‘That will change, and someday, I’ll be bringing her here with me.’ Wes exhaled softly, expression easing at the thought. ‘Someday.’

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” Liam Atelier appeared on stage, his slender figure illuminated by the center light. “Tonight, we present not just style, but a story—one that will tell us how fashion isn’t only worn, but also experienced!”

His speech continued, and Wes was surprised to hear there'd be a competition after the showcase. He felt his heart plummet feet below upon learning that the winner would receive a scholarship—the very thing Mia wanted. His head snapped to Claire, whose face was as impassive as ever.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he hissed.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re a model. How can you not know?”

“‘Cause no one told me!” he almost cried. “I’m not into this sort of stuff.”

“So am I.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Guys, stop fighting,” Caleb scolded them. “The show is starting. Save that for later.”

Wes was forced to sit through the whole thing with a weeping heart, all while promising in his head that he would treat Mia next time as an apology. ‘Forgive me, my love. I've failed you yet again.’

What began as an exhibit of professional artistry from L’Aterlier soon developed into a covert test with stakes. Judges took the front row, pens and papers in hand. Models appeared in less familiar clothing, each meant to impress.

‘They’re not saying the designer’s name?’ A pang of regret once again struck Wes. ‘Must’ve been one of those open-call contests, and Mia would’ve been perfect for it.’

Nearing the end, the lights dimmed the way a forest would at dusk. The audience’s curiosity thinned into anticipation.

So far, the themes were either contemporary or futuristic. This was the first time it pivoted towards something organic and timeless.

The first model stepped onto the runway, wearing a simple dress as pale as morning mist.

There were daisies, buttercups, and forget-me-nots stitched low along the hem. One fragile bloom rested at the cuff of her sleeve, small and almost shy.

Many in the audience made faces that seemed to say, ‘That’s it?’

Then again, the other collections were bolder, more ambitious. Still, the model walked on, not begging for praise like the flowers in her dress; they just existed. The second look followed, then the third and the fourth.

With each, the garden grew.

Flowers crept from hems to waists, bloomed along collars, curled around shoulders. Colors layered over one another in vibrant but careful excess. Silhouettes softened, then widened, then floated.

The progression felt intuitive for the audience, as though they were watching spring hasten. Now, people nodded and even applauded, the runway finally exuberant. This was another unique retelling of the stories they knew, of barrenness to abundance, of seed to bloom.

‘Flowers… Somehow, this reminds me of her,’ Wes thought, smiling to himself.

Then, the second-to-last model appeared.

Gasps and soft cries broke out. The dress was breathtaking, with flowers layered so densely they almost obscured the fabric beneath. But as the model drew closer, realization slowly dawned that its beauty was deceptive.

Not all flowers were alive. Some petals were curled inward, edges browned. Others sagged, their colors dulled.

The dress was stunning, but it carried weight. The model’s steps were slower, the fabric heavier. Then, the clapping, when it came, was softer.

It was time for the final look.

The music changed, elevating expectations. This one, for sure, had to be the best yet.

When the last model emerged, confusion flickered across the audience.

The dress was bare—no flowers, embroidery, or any apparent magic. It was exquisite, but almost unfinished. The model walked to the center of the runway, then stopped.

“That’s it?” someone voiced out this time.

Then, slowly, she began to do a pirouette—delicate, graceful, reminiscent of fairytale princesses. As the skirt lifted with the motion, the lights caught something beneath the layers. There were colors—flowers hidden inside the sheer fabric, intact and alive.

It's meaningfully beautiful.

The more the dress moved, the more it revealed itself in flashes of glowing petals and intertwined stems, showing a life contained rather than displayed. When the model slowed and stilled, the dress returned to its silent surface with no hints of what it held.

Nobody made a sound, which felt intentional, as understanding moved from one to another—unannounced, unexplained, just felt.

This was never about blooming more. It was about choosing when to bloom at all.

Applause rose at last, deep and sustained rather than intense and immediate, lingering even after the lights faded.

‘That was…quite something.’ Wes clapped along, entranced. ‘I’ve seen many fashion shows before, but this is definitely one of the most memorable.’

Liam strode across the stage with the microphone, and the crowd quieted. Wes tried to settle down, feeling his heart thudding for some reason. 

His mind kept gripping onto the last collection, on how familiar every fold and flourish felt. ‘It’s really like her.’

“The moment we’ve all been waiting for.” Liam paused, twirling the envelope in his hands before opening it. “The winner of this year’s competition is…Ms. Mia Rosswood!”

Wes froze.

Caleb gaped. Claire smirked.

The applause and cheers swelled around, but all Wes saw was Mia, appearing from behind the curtains in an ivory, silk dress with a crown of handcrafted blossoms perched atop her head.

Suddenly, every piece made sense—the concept, the designs, the story. His mind raced, shock blending with the thrill of pride, disbelief with a surge of admiration. He wanted to run to her, to hug her, to make sure she was real.

But for now, Wes savored the moment when the world finally knew what he'd known all along.