Threads of Deception

At the Green Bird design competition finals, the spotlight suddenly brightened, casting a warm white glow over the "Mist Realm" series gowns I had designed. The layered tulle of the skirt billowed like morning mist caught in the wind, yet my fingers clutching its hem trembled uncontrollably. This was my first time stepping onto such a grand stage with my own design. The fabric carried the mist from my grandmother's hometown hills, the seventeen drafts I stayed up all night to sketch, and my most profound hopes for design. Then the man at the very center of the judges' panel spoke, his cold, piercing voice like an ice-forged needle instantly shattering the passion in my chest. "The piled-up lace and impractical skirt offer nothing but a visual gimmick, devoid of any commercial value." He didn't look up as he spoke, his fingertips casually gliding over the score sheet. When he finally lifted his eyes to meet mine, the sharp shadows cast by his brow under the light made the disdain in his gaze almost palpable. I clenched my fists tightly, my nails biting into my palms, nearly instinctively ready to retort. "Judge Gabriel, design is not a cold commodity; every layer of the 'Mist Realm' veil reflects the morning fog at my grandmother's house, from pale gray to milky white. It is a memory full of warmth, not a mere gimmick." Suddenly, murmurs erupted throughout the room, and someone in the back row stifled a laugh. I could feel my cheeks flush, yet I held his gaze steadily. He abruptly paused, his fingertips tapping twice softly on the edge of the score sheet, producing a faint 'tap tap' sound. Then he fell silent, simply continuing to leaf through the documents in his hand. After the competition ended, I was backstage tidying my sketches, the edges of the cardstock worn and frayed from constant flipping. My chest still ached with the weight of the earlier indignity. Suddenly, someone handed me a gold-embossed business card; the warmth of their fingertips transmitted through the paper. "Wendy Scott, ten o'clock tomorrow morning, city south old villa." I looked up and met Yale Gabriel's eyes. He was softer than he had been on stage, his tie neatly knotted at the collar, lacking the sharp edge from before. I stared at the three characters 'Yale Gabriel' on the business card, the ink rich and bold, with delicate patterns embossed along the edges. I furrowed my brow in confusion—he had just rated my design as worthless, so why was he now seeking me out? Yet, as if by some strange impulse, I still slipped the card into my pocket and nodded. The next day, I arrived ten minutes early at the old mansion in the city south. The branches and leaves of the Phoenix Tree at the door drooped down, shading half the doorway, while the wall was covered in dark green ivy that rustled softly in the breeze. Pushing open the door, I caught a faint scent of coffee. Yale Gabriel was leaning against the railing on the second floor, reviewing documents. Hearing footsteps, he looked up and smiled at me. "You came rather early." He led me into the studio on the second floor. By the floor-to-ceiling window stood a brand-new industrial sewing machine, its silver body gleaming in the sunlight. On the nearby table lay a stack of sketch papers and several boxes of colored pencils. Various fabric samples hung on the coat rack in the corner. "This will be yours from now on." He leaned against the doorframe, his tone light: "I have reviewed all your sketches for competition. You have the ability to sew 'memory' into your designs, which is exactly what L Group needs now." I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the Phoenix Tree outside. Sunlight warmed the back of my hand, unsettling my heart. Suddenly, it felt like a dream—yesterday, I was harshly criticized as worthless; today, I have a studio of my own. In the days that followed, we were together almost from dawn until dusk. I'm used to staying up late revising my design sketches. Often, at two or three in the morning, I'd hear a soft sound at the door, and when I looked up, Yale Gabriel would be walking in with a cup of warm milk, droplets of condensation clinging to its surface. He always placed the cup beside my hand. "Don't stay up too late; milk tastes bad when it's cold." When he returned late from meetings, I would leave a small warm yellow lamp on in the living room. On the table, porridge was kept in a thermal container—his stomach was weak, and drinking on an empty stomach caused him pain. He taught me to incorporate commercial elements into my designs, like shortening a gown's hem to make it more suitable for everyday wear and simplifying embroidery patterns into motifs that could be mass-produced. I sat beside him taking notes, the sound of my pen scratching the paper mingling with his voice, a soothing harmony.