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Contrary to popular imagination, a fashion industry gathering wasn't filled with bizarre or outlandish outfits.
Perhaps it was because Paris—capital of fashion—didn't chase avant-garde eccentricity the way London did. After all, the line between innovation and absurdity often came down to a designer's whim.
Here, men focused on subtle flair layered onto formalwear—small, thoughtful details. Women leaned toward elegance and composure, with minimal exposure and restrained ornamentation.
Though it wasn't yet Fashion Week, competition among designers had already begun beneath the surface. Attendees weren't wearing outdated pieces; rather, many outfits were designs that hadn't made it onto the runway due to theme mismatches.
The guest list extended beyond designers. Brand-affiliated models attended, as did actors and singers connected to the fashion world.
Some were invited by brands.
Some came seeking endorsements.
Others simply wanted to be seen.
---
Givenchy and Philippe Venet arrived early.
He made no effort to hide his association with Henry and Charlize, introducing the couple openly to his circle.
Though retired, Givenchy remained a towering figure. For someone whose currency was creativity, returning to the industry would only take a decision—whether the market accepted it was another matter.
Thus, people treated him with a peculiar mix of reverence and caution:
They feared his return.
Yet hoped to benefit from his prestige.
Still, respect prevailed.
Even celebrities and models sought his approval—none dared show hostility.
---
Henry and Charlize, however, did not receive the same courtesy.
To Henry, the otherwise ordinary cocktail party felt like a bumper car arena.
Every few minutes—
An elbow.
A trip.
A "careless" waiter nearly spilling drinks.
Each offender would apologize profusely, feigning innocence, asking if anyone was hurt.
Occasional bumps were normal in such gatherings.
But when it happened every few minutes?
That wasn't coincidence.
Fortunately, Henry's Kryptonian senses turned him into a perfect bodyguard. Charlize avoided embarrassment entirely.
He chose not to retaliate.
Because in such situations, both parties lose face—only one looks worse.
If others were willing to drag Charlize down, Henry refused to stoop to the same level.
He was here with a purpose—and with Givenchy.
Reputation mattered.
Charlize, on the other hand, nearly snapped more than once. She wasn't someone who tolerated bullying easily.
Each time, Henry quietly stopped her.
---
By now, Henry had a new understanding:
The fashion world was a battlefield.
No gunfire.
No blood.
But no less dangerous.
---
Just as he intercepted yet another "accidental" collision—this time stabilizing a waiter's tray mid-spill—
A commotion erupted outside.
Some guests rushed toward the entrance, as if expecting a spectacle.
Givenchy remained still, sipping his drink.
"She's here," he said calmly.
---
Then came laughter—bold, unapologetic.
Gasps followed.
A woman entered.
Voluminous hair split black and white.
A fur coat—despite the summer season.
A black dress.
Red lips.
Red heels.
Long crimson gloves.
The fur itself was white with black spots.
Her presence clashed violently with Parisian subtlety—loud, theatrical, impossible to ignore.
Even those who frowned couldn't help scrutinizing her outfit, searching for flaws.
She moved like a supermodel on a runway—exaggerated, deliberate, commanding attention.
Few noticed the two figures behind her:
One tall and thin.
One short and stout.
Both impeccably dressed in tailored suits and tilted bowler hats.
Individually stylish.
Collectively overshadowed.
---
She walked straight to Givenchy.
Without greeting, she extended her hand—adorned with a blue diamond ring.
Givenchy took it and performed a gentleman's hand-kiss.
"Cruella," he said, "your style is as striking as ever. Like an assault on the eyes. Spare an old man like me."
She pivoted smoothly, half leaning into his chest, gazing up with provocative ease.
"Old?" she purred. "Then marry me. I guarantee the rest of your life will be… spectacular."
"I already have a husband," Givenchy replied, gently pushing her away.
There were women who built fortunes through marriages and divorces.
Givenchy, with his particular preferences, had no intention of becoming such a target.
---
Cruella spun away effortlessly.
Her attendants moved in perfect synchronization:
One handed her an extended cigarette holder—with a cigarette already placed.
The other flicked open a Zippo—click—and lit it.
Their coordination was flawless. Practiced.
---
This was the 1990s.
Secondhand smoke was simply endured.
No smoking bans. No objections.
In France, if you disliked the smell—you masked it with stronger perfume.
Cruella's cigarette drew no protest.
In fact, a few smokers joined in. Even cigar enthusiasts took the opportunity.
---
True to form, Cruella didn't circulate or greet others.
She anchored herself in front of Givenchy.
Her presence alone created a vacuum.
Others who wished to approach him hesitated—held back by the sheer force of her personality.
The room, for a moment, belonged entirely to her.
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