Her concept was radical. While others built petal-shaped trains and floral bustiers, Chloé decided to tell the truth about her flower. The rafflesia wasn’t beautiful in the way a rose was. It was beautiful because it survived by breaking down the rotten. She would make a gown of decay reborn.

“In fashion,” Christian said, placing a hand on her shoulder as the credits rolled, “everyone wants to be a rose. But the thing about roses? They get pruned. The corpse flower? You just have to stand back and watch people faint.”

Meg’s face, backstage, was a perfect mask of horror.

Elaine Welteroth gasped.

Chloé had drawn the Rafflesia arnoldii —the corpse flower. It was enormous, parasitic, and reeked of decaying meat. While the other designers romanticized the delicate Lady’s Slipper or the ghostly Franklinia, Chloé was stuck with a botanical nightmare.

The lights dimmed. A low, sub-bass drone filled the tent. Model Sasha walked out, not with a model’s glide, but with a heavy, deliberate stomp. The gown was a thundercloud. The purple was so deep it looked black, and the mycelium threads dragged behind her like a living root system. The bodice was a structural cage of twisted, dyed burlap that mimicked the flower’s mottled, fleshy texture.

Brandon Maxwell leaned forward, squinting.

Runway day. The guest judge was a legend: Iris van Herpen.