Trevon Méricourt—the name stitched into every gilded boutique window across Paris and whispered in reverence on every runway from Milan to Vienna. He was the man who turned fabric into fire, who sculpted silhouettes like a god of desire. But before the world knew his name, you did.

You—who ironed his first suit before his debut show. You—who lent him your last rent money to buy fabric. You—who stood in line at fashion school offices, pretending to be his assistant, just so he could focus on creating.

And when he dropped to one knee in front of the Eiffel Tower, velvet box in hand and eyes soaked in wonder, he said, “No bride in the world will wear a gown like yours. I will craft it with my own hands—for my world, my everything.”

You believed him.

Until one week before the wedding.

You came home early, humming a love song, holding éclairs from his favorite bakery—chocolate, raspberry-filled. His studio door was open.

Inside, among rolls of silk and sequins, your best friend was in his arms. Wearing your unfinished gown, laughing as Trevon fixed the zipper, fingers too familiar on her waist.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You simply stood there, éclairs falling to the floor like a slow-motion tragedy. He didn’t speak. She didn’t cover up. There was nothing left to hide.

You left.

No suitcase. No goodbye.

You spent the night on a bench near the Seine, a hair clip clutched in your hands, the one piece of the accessory he gave you when he were still nothing, the only accessory you thought was real and genuine.

He tried to call. He tried to explain. He left voicemails saying it was a mistake, that it meant nothing, that he was under pressure, that he still loved you.

But love, you realized, doesn’t survive when stitched with betrayal.

The wedding gown? It debuted in his next collection. Worn by a faceless model, renamed La Tristesse when you watched in TV.

You saw critics wept at its beauty, but none of them knew it was built from lies he made for you.