Read Chapter 24: The Public Confession

The room was a pressure cooker. Three dozen journalists, cameras clicking like insects, sat before a small dais where a single microphone waited. It had taken Meiling forty minutes to arrange this, working through Claude's contacts, burning every favor she had left. The board had agreed only because Antoine had forced them—threatening to go public himself if they didn't allow him to speak first.

She stood at the back of the room, arms crossed, watching Antoine ascend the stage. He wore a simple black suit, no tie, his jaw set. He looked like a man walking toward his own execution.

That was exactly what this was.

“Thank you for coming,” Antoine said, voice steady. He gripped the edges of the podium, knuckles white. “I am Antoine Lumière, and I am the acting head of Maison Lumière. I asked you here because I owe you—and the public—an apology.”

The room settled, cameras trained on him.

“For years, this house has sold you a story. The story of a family. Of craft. Of Parisian tradition that could only exist within these walls.” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “That story was true. And then it wasn't.”

Meiling watched the journalists lean forward.

“When our finances began to fail, I made a decision I am not proud of. I pursued a path that would have outsourced production overseas. I kept it hidden—from my artisans, from our clients, and from the woman who is the true descendent of this house's founder.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

“I am here to correct the record.” Antoine lifted his chin. “Maison Lumière was founded by my great-great-great-grandfather, Henri Lumière. But the woman who inspired it—who poured her soul into its earliest designs—was named Isabelle Marchand. She was his muse. His collaborator. And his first love.”

Cameras flashed.

“Her story was erased. Her name was scrubbed from our archives. And her great-granddaughter, Léa Marchand, has spent her career watching this house from the outside, unable to claim what is rightfully hers.”

Meiling’s throat tightened. She hadn't expected him to go this far. She had only asked for an apology and an announcement about the collection. But Antoine was giving them everything.

“Léa is here,” he continued, gesturing toward the side door. Léa emerged, hesitant, wearing a simple cream dress with a blue scarf draped over her shoulders—Isabelle's scarf. She stopped beside Antoine, her expression guarded.

“Léa has spent the last month helping us rediscover what Made Maison Lumière worth saving,” Antoine said. “Not the myth of a single great man. But the collective story of every hand that has touched these garments. Including her grandmother's.”

He turned to face the journalists directly. “I lied to you about our production plans. I lied to you about our future. But I am done with lies. We are presenting our new capsule collection at Paris Fashion Week—made entirely by hand, in Paris, by our artisans, who have pledged their unpaid overtime to see it through.”

A journalist called out, “What about your debt? There are reports of a sale.”

“There were talks,” Antoine said. “They are over. This house is not for sale. Not while a single artisan is willing to stand with us.”

Another voice: “And the exclusivity agreement violations? The leaks from your board meetings?”

“We are investigating,” Meiling stepped forward, unable to watch from the wings any longer. She moved to stand beside Antoine and Léa. “And when we find who leaked proprietary information to our competitors, they will face legal consequences. But that is an internal matter.”

“Who leaked the outsourcing plans?” a journalist pressed.

“We believe it was a coordinated effort by a rival firm's consultants to destabilize us,” Meiling said, careful with her words. “We have legal counsel engaged. That is all I can say.”

The questions kept coming—about finances, about timelines, about Léa's claim. Antoine answered each one with growing confidence, his voice firming as he described the new direction of the house. Transparency, he promised. Public archives. A foundation to honor Isabelle's legacy.

Léa spoke too, her voice quiet but clear. “My great-grandmother believed fashion was not about extravagance. It was about memory. About carrying the people you love with you in the stitches. Maison Lumière has forgotten that. We intend to remember.”

It was good. It was better than good—it was exactly the narrative Meiling had hoped for. She could see the shift in the room, the softening of skeptical faces, the rise of sympathetic murmurs.

But then a man in the second row raised his hand, a reporter from a financial paper Meiling didn't recognize. His question was slow, deliberate, and devastating.

“Mademoiselle Lin, you have publicly accused your employer, Devereux & Partners, of orchestrating the leak against Maison Lumière. Given that you are also under investigation for missing deliverables on other accounts, isn't it true that you've fabricated this 'external sabotage' narrative to obscure your own failures?”

The room went silent.

Meiling felt the floor dip beneath her.

“We have received documents,” the reporter continued, pulling a folder from his bag, “that appear to be internal Devereux communications. They say you were aware of the outsourcing plans long before you arrived in Paris. That you were the one who suggested them.”

"Who gave you those?" Meiling's voice came out sharper than she intended.

"A whistleblower within Devereux," the reporter said. "Would you care to respond?"