Amelia Johnson feigned a look of utter panic.
“What? How did that happen? What should we do?”
Ethan Collins grabbed her arm, his grip tight.
“We’re leaving. Now. Through the back.”
Amelia wrenched her arm free.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“Amelia, please,” Sabrina Johnson interjected, her face a mask of feigned concern.
“I know you’re used to having your way, but this isn’t the time to be stubborn.
You’ll ruin the reputation of both our families.”
“That’s precisely why I’m staying,” Amelia countered, her voice firming.
“Running away is what would cause trouble. I need to face this.”
Ethan shot her a sharp, disgusted look.
“Can you ever stop being difficult?
Is causing scandals all you’re good for?”
“So in your eyes, I’m just a problem,” Amelia’s voice wavered slightly, the hurt this time feeling less like an act and more like a ghost of an old wound.
“Yes. Every single incident leads back to you. When will you grow up?” Ethan scoffed, gesturing toward Sabrina.
“Look at your own sister. Then look at yourself. The difference is staggering.”
Amelia turned to Sabrina, her eyes narrowing.
“Sabrina, why don’t you tell Ethan who really bought those clothes?”
“How should I know?” Sabrina shrugged, all innocence.
“Come on, let’s just go home and stop making this worse.” She felt zero anxiety; Ethan would always believe her over Amelia.
“I don’t wear fakes. I’m going to clear my name.”
Before Ethan could react, Amelia turned and strode purposefully into the main hall.
Sabrina nearly laughed aloud.
What a fool.
Amelia was happily digging her own grave without any help.
“I despise people who wear counterfeits.
It’s so tacky.”
“Absolutely.
If you can’t afford the real thing, have some dignity and don’t pretend.”
“If Damien Taylor finds out she’s a fraud, he’ll be mortified.”
“Women like her rely on cheap tricks to get attention.”
Amelia ignored them, her eyes scanning the room.
The photo was gone from the main screen; someone had shut off the projector.
She made a beeline for Damien Taylor.
She sat beside him, her voice low but steady.
“I’m sorry about the commotion.
I’ll handle it.
I won’t let this reflect poorly on you.”
“What commotion?” Damien asked, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather.
Amelia blinked.
“You…
didn’t see the photos on the screen?”
“I saw them,” he acknowledged, taking a sip of his drink.
“And?”
“And? Everyone is saying they’re fakes!” she exclaimed, baffled by his indifference.
“They simply lack an educated eye,” he replied dismissively.
She stared at him, almost choking on her surprise.
“You’re not joking?”
“I never joke,” Damien said, utterly serious.
“Alright then… Damien,” she said, using his name as instructed.
Suddenly, a hush fell over the entire hall.
A man had entered, and he was wearing the exact same unique outfit from the “counterfeit” photos.
A socialite rushed over.
“Mr. Starr! What a surprise! We rarely have the honor.” Mr. Starr was a legendary stylist to A-list celebrities and old-money elites—a veritable oracle in the world of fashion.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he said, his eyes doing a quick, professional sweep of the room.
His gaze lingered on Amelia for a fraction of a second.
Another guest approached, curiosity piqued.
“That’s a rather distinctive outfit, Mr. Starr.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Of course it is.
It cost a fortune.
And it’s one of a kind.”
“What brand is it?
I don’t recognize it,” she pressed.
It looked…
unconventional.
But this was Mr. Starr.
The idea of him in a knock-off was absurd.
A knowing smile played on his lips.
“Check the pinned post on my social media. All the details are there.”
Almost in unison, the crowd pulled out their phones.
A moment later, a wave of stunned silence washed over them as they saw the evidence for themselves.