The Blaque Standard

THE BLAQUE STANDARD

Chapter Eleven: Public Record

The story didn’t explode.

It spread.

Slow. Intentional. Like oil in water.

The first article hit at 9:06 a.m.

Not viral. Not dramatic. Trade press.

The kind of article pattern-makers read over coffee. The kind buyers skim between fittings.

“Maison Blaque Expands Legal Claim, Citing Structural Pattern Evidence.”

Structural.

Pattern.

Evidence.

Not emotional words. Dangerous words.

Malik was already in the studio when I walked in.

Emerald Sovereign today — but altered. Double-breasted. Shoulders broader. Waist sharper. Black shirt beneath buttoned to the throat.

He didn’t look like my brother.

He looked like a board member.

“It’s moving,” he said quietly, eyes on analytics.

“How fast?”

“Trade forums first. Pattern boards second. One of the technical designers flagged the forty-five-degree seam reference.”

Zaria didn’t look up from the cutting table.

Slate gray Sovereign, sleeves cropped tighter, gold sun pin centered and larger than before.

“They’re dissecting architecture,” she said.

Architecture.

That’s when you know it’s not gossip.

By noon, it crossed into mainstream digital fashion.

“Independent Designer Alleges Structural Misappropriation by House Noir.”

Independent.

Alleges.

By three, business outlets reframed it.

“Supplier Integrity Under Scrutiny in Expanding Fashion Dispute.”

Integrity.

That word makes investors call lawyers.

I wore bone Sovereign 2.0.

Shoulders lifted. Waist carved. Silk in muted gold beneath.

The lining flashed gold when I moved — vertical spine visible if someone looked long enough.

Not flashy. Intentional.

The phone didn’t stop vibrating.

Keisha first.

“Say the word and I will comment like a lady with teeth.”

“Don’t,” I said.

Monica next.

“Ivory today. Showing up if needed.”

Nia.

“I already drafted twelve responses. Deleted all.”

Vanessa.

Of course.

Not to me.

Under the article.

“People need to stop acting like ideas don’t overlap. She’s always taken things too far.”

Always.

Taken.

Things.

Too far.

Keisha FaceTimed immediately, deep wine Sovereign sharp at the hip, sleeves pushed up, hoops glinting.

“She playing in your name.”

“I know.”

“She always do this when you about to win.”

Monica texted again.

“Silence is louder.”

She was right.

Vanessa didn’t want truth.

She wanted reaction.

Then she went Live.

Soft lighting. Measured voice.

“I love her, but sometimes she turns things into bigger battles than necessary.”

Fashion ain’t that serious.

That part hurt less than I thought it would.

Because this wasn’t about fashion.

This was about structure.

And she’d never respected that.

At 8:47 p.m., the settlement offer arrived.

Thick paper. Seven figures. Licensing opportunity. Collaborative capsule. Non-disclosure agreement.

Simone read it standing.

Matte black Sovereign longer cut today. Corset integrated so cleanly it looked skeletal. Hair pulled tight. No jewelry. No softness.

“They want this buried,” she said.

Malik leaned against the rack.

“They nervous.”

“They’re calculating,” Simone corrected.

“What happens if I sign?” I asked.

“You get paid,” Simone said evenly. “They retain credibility.”

“And if I don’t?”

“We continue.”

Zaria finally spoke.

“They think this about money.”

It wasn’t.

“I don’t want hush money,” I said.

Simone’s eyes sharpened.

“What do you want?”

“Precedent.”

The room stilled.

Malik nodded once.

“Good.”

Simone folded the offer.

“I’ll decline.”

Two days later, the manufacturer cracked.

They always do.

Subpoena pressure smells like liability.

Supplemental disclosure arrived with a quiet email from their counsel.

Simone opened it without ceremony.

Then turned the laptop toward us.

Highlighted line.

“Understood. Use their internal seam logic. Adjust exterior silhouette.”

Use their internal seam logic.

My seam logic.

Forty-five-degree reinforcement angle. Concealed shoulder stabilization. Waist tension hold.

Not visible. Not trendy. Structural.

“They kept the spine,” Zaria whispered.

Simone nodded.

“They didn’t alter architecture. They altered aesthetics.”

Malik’s jaw flexed.

“They thought small meant disposable.”

“They thought small meant unprotected,” Simone corrected.

I didn’t yell.

I walked to the rack.

Bone. Black. Emerald.

Gold spine catching light.

“They didn’t understand foundation,” I said quietly.

“No,” Simone replied.

“They understood acceleration.”

The second court appearance drew media.

Real media.

Cameras. Reporters. Bloggers pretending not to stare.

We did not rush.

We arrived aligned.

I wore Sovereign 2.0 in bone again, sharper than before. Gold silk beneath. Hair slicked low. Minimal makeup. Defined lip. No necklace.

Simone in matte black armor.

Malik in deep emerald double-breasted, black shirt immaculate.

Zaria in slate gray, gold sun pin deliberate and bold.

Monica in ivory with subtle gold piping along lapel — soft strength.

Keisha in deep wine, hemline razor precise.

Nia in midnight blue double-breasted, collarbone exposed, gold chain resting clean.

Different colors.

Same structure.

House Noir arrived in charcoal, navy, steel gray.

Expensive. Corporate. Controlled.

Their founder in charcoal three-piece. Patterned tie. Cufflinks understated. Shoes polished mirror-clean.

He nodded at me once.

Professional.

Composed.

Judge Margaret Hale entered.

Seventies. Silver hair cropped short. No nonsense in posture.

Her robe pressed. Her gaze sharp. No performative sternness.

Just control.

“Counsel,” she said.

Low. Measured. Enough.

Simone stood.

“Your Honor, supplemental discovery confirms defendant retained plaintiff’s internal structural architecture despite knowledge of origin.”

She placed the printed email forward.

Judge Hale read.

Once. Twice.

No expression.

House Noir’s counsel stood.

“Comparative reference is standard in manufacturing ecosystems.”

Judge Hale did not look up.

“Is retention of proprietary internal seam logic standard?” she asked evenly.

Silence.

Simone projected the patterns side by side.

Internal seam angle magnified.

Forty-five degrees. Exact.

Judge Hale leaned forward slightly.

The founder stood.

Composed.

“Comparative inspiration is part of development,” he said.

“Inspiration does not include utilization of prior structural drafts obtained without authorization,” Judge Hale replied.

Simone stepped forward.

“Did you instruct the subcontractor to use plaintiff’s internal seam logic?”

Small pause.

“Yes.”

Not loud.

Not cracked.

Just admitted.

“And did you adjust exterior aesthetics while retaining interior architecture?”

Longer pause.

“Yes.”

That was it.

The crack wasn’t visible in sweat.

It was visible in time.

Judge Hale removed her glasses.

“Independent development does not incorporate proprietary internal structure. Court finds sufficient evidence of misappropriation. Injunction granted. Damages to follow. Defendant to cease production pending review.”

Cease production.

That is not symbolic.

That is revenue stopping.

House Noir’s founder remained standing.

But his shoulders lowered.

Just slightly.

The tie that looked perfect now looked tight.

Simone sat without triumph.

We did not celebrate in the courtroom.

Outside, cameras flashed.

“How does it feel?”

“Is this a win for small designers?”

“Will you settle now?”

I stopped once.

Bone Sovereign catching sunlight. Gold spine visible.

“Structure matters,” I said.

And walked.

Malik leaned close.

“They thought you was new.”

Zaria touched the gold sun pin.

“They misunderstood origin.”

Monica exhaled.

Keisha smirked.

Nia squeezed my shoulder.

Vanessa posted nothing that day.

And for once—

Silence wasn’t dismissal.

It was recognition.
Chapter Twelve

The Standard

New York Fashion Week does not care about your background.

It cares about how well you’ve prepared.

The room inside Pier 59 was dimmed just enough to make the models glow. Editors lined the front row in impeccable black, holding their pens with authority. Buyers from Paris and Milan whispered to each other, pausing only when the lights hit the runway. Photographers, usually the most frantic creatures, waited, silent and calculating.

And then?

We stepped out.

Backstage, the buzz of the monitors and the quiet hiss of steam from fabric marked the calm before the storm. The space wasn’t chaos. It was execution.

Malik stood with his headset on, his expression unreadable as he watched the models line up. His charcoal gray Sovereign suit, relaxed and sharp, told the world he wasn’t here to play games.

“You good?” he asked, glancing at me.

“Always,” I said, the confidence in my voice steady.

Zaria moved between the racks, her fingers running along the fabric, checking everything twice. Her outfit, storm-slate cropped blazer and pants, mirrored the cool focus of someone who had long stopped being nervous about new things. She was ahead of the game, and she knew it.

Monica stood calmly in honey-gold, sculpted blazer waistline sharp, clipboard in hand. Her calm demeanor wasn’t just for show. She had been here before, and this time, we were about to show everyone that Maison Blaque wasn’t just about fashion—it was about ownership.

Keisha adjusted her deep merlot corset jacket, eyeing the model’s posture. There was a sharpness in the way she moved—she could spot a crooked seam or a hem that wouldn’t hold before anyone else. She was as dangerous as she was stylish.

And Nia? She owned the room with her midnight cobalt blazer, no shirt underneath, shoulders squared, and eyes set on the lighting crew like they owed her something. She commanded every single step and move, setting the tone for the entire show.

And me?

I wore turquoise and black—two-tone corset, structured with sharp lines. The black served as a foundation, the turquoise a layer of energy and elevation. Together, they created something unshakable. Something disruptive.

Malik’s voice crackled through the headset.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” I said, looking at the team. This was the moment we’d been waiting for.

Lance, in custom black Sovereign, walked up, adjusting his cufflinks. He exuded calm. A man who understood both the weight of luxury and the quiet power of understatement. He looked at me.

“You ready?” he asked.

“I was born ready.”

He smiled slightly. “They won’t be.”

The music started low—controlled, rhythmic. There was no frantic beat, just a pulse that matched the energy of the room.

The first model emerged, a vision in bone, with obsidian seam mapping. Clean, architectural. The crowd leaned forward. The applause wasn’t immediate, but it was sure.

Then came the burnished copper, then the midnight jade, the smoked quartz, and finally, the deep plum. Each model wearing something designed by choice. Each one different. No repetition. This was a world where singularity was luxury.

Halfway through, the screen behind the runway illuminated.

ONE & DONE

The voice-over was mine.

“Luxury isn’t ownership. It’s singularity.”

The models emerged in corsets—some dramatic, some soft, some sculptural, others minimal. Each piece unique, designed by one of four minds: Dakota. Monica. Keisha. Nia.

This was how it worked: when a client selected a designer, that pattern locked. Archived. It was theirs. No duplication. No replication. Once it was built, it was finished. No one else could wear that same thing.

The audience was rapt. Not just interested, but captivated.

In the front row, an editor from The Global Cut whispered to a colleague.

“She’s not following the rules. She’s rewriting them.”

A buyer from Paris leaned toward another.

“If she can prove the archive technology is real, it changes everything.”

And when the final model stepped off the runway, the applause wasn’t just a few claps. It was sustained. Measured. Standing.

The room had recognized something.

Not just a new collection. Not just a designer. A standard.

Backstage, Malik removed his headset slowly.

“Archive everything,” he said, his tone direct.

Zaria tapped away at her tablet.

“Locked.”

Keisha rolled her shoulders, then gave me a sideways smile. “Told you they wouldn’t be ready.”

Nia adjusted the lighting, keeping her eyes focused on the next sequence. She wasn’t smiling, but the pride was there.

Lance had already made his way backstage. His phone was a blur of activity.

“Private showings,” he said. “Buyers want to move forward. Investors are already calling.”

“You’re not surprised,” I said, watching him work the room.

“Never am.”

The phone buzzed in my pocket.

Simone Ellis.

I smiled to myself and answered.

“We did it,” I said simply.

“Not yet,” Simone replied coolly. “But you’re about to.”

Later that Evening: Industry Dinner

We didn’t go to any of the after parties.

No press junkets.

We went to Carbone. Private room. The best bottle of wine they had, because we deserved it.

Keisha kicked back in her chair, merlot corset still perfectly sharp, her phone buzzing from an inbox full of congratulatory texts. “So what now?”

Malik settled into his seat with an easy smirk. “Now? You keep them on their toes.”

Monica sipped her wine, already planning the next move. “We’ve just proved we’re not playing anymore.”

Simone leaned back, her custom black Sovereign still pristine. “Don’t get comfortable. They’re going to try again.”

“Let them,” I said. “Maison is the foundation. Everything else is noise.”

We laughed, but it was quiet. Solid.

The conversation moved to the future, not the past. Investors. Expansion. Legal negotiations.

This wasn’t about a runway show anymore. It was about setting the foundation for the next chapter. For real estate. For brand ambassadors. For technology partnerships.

For the world.

The Talk Shows

The talk shows started rolling in the next day.

The Arden Cole Show had me sitting on her velvet couch, her smile too bright, her questions too rehearsed.

“What makes Maison Blaque different?” she asked, her eyes glinting.

I crossed my legs slowly, turquoise catching the light.

“Documentation,” I said with finality. “Luxury is singular. Each piece is unique.”

Arden raised a brow. “You don’t have a ‘signature piece’ then?”

“I do,” I replied. “The signature is exclusivity.”

The audience was silent for a beat. Then the applause came, softer, more intrigued than loud.

Next stop, Late Night with Julian Cross.

“You’ve taken on the whole industry,” Julian said, grinning, his energy turning electric. “How does it feel to redefine what luxury means?”

“It feels like we’re just getting started,” I said. “And we’re not asking for permission.”

Back Home

Vanessa and Tasha

Meanwhile, back at home, Vanessa and Tasha watched from the living room.

Vanessa’s arms were folded, her face unreadable as she stared at the screen. Tasha’s phone buzzed next to her.

“They still watching?” Tasha asked, not bothering to look up from her phone.

Vanessa flicked the TV off. “I don’t need to see it.”

Tasha snorted. “Liar.”

Vanessa’s jaw clenched. “It’s not about the show. It’s about what comes next.”

Tasha raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Vanessa said, eyes cold, “they won’t stop until they’ve taken it all.”

Tasha shook her head. “She built something we couldn’t break. And you? You helped.”

Vanessa turned away. "Not the point."

Private Meeting — Simone Ellis

The dinner ended loud.

The meeting did not.

Two hours after the last glass clinked and the girls dispersed to their respective corners of celebration, I was back at the studio.

Turquoise and black still sharp. Lipstick slightly faded. Energy steady.

Simone arrived without announcement.

Matte black Sovereign. Custom corset beneath it. No jewelry except a thin gold ring on her right hand.

She never dressed accidentally.

Malik was already there, leaning against the conference table, arms folded. Zaria sat at the far end, tablet open, quiet as a witness.

Simone placed a slim leather portfolio on the table.

“I didn’t want to do this at dinner,” she said.

I nodded. “Good.”

She opened the portfolio.

Inside: documents.

Filed. Stamped. Sealed.

“The injunction is permanent,” she said calmly. “House Noir cannot reproduce, market, distribute, or license anything resembling Sovereign architecture.”

Malik didn’t move.

“And the manufacturers?” I asked.

“Two settled. One folded publicly this afternoon.”

Zaria looked up. “Folded how?”

“Statement released,” Simone replied. “Admitted contractual breach. Claimed ‘miscommunication.’”

Keisha would’ve laughed at that word.

I did not.

“And the appeal?” I asked.

Simone slid another paper across the table.

“Dismissed with prejudice.”

The room went quiet.

Not celebratory quiet.

Strategic quiet.

Malik finally spoke.

“So this is over?”

Simone looked at him.

“No.”

I appreciated her honesty.

She turned to me.

“This phase is over. The next phase begins now.”

“And that is?” I asked.

She closed the portfolio.

“Protection scaling.”

She began listing calmly.

• Trademark expansion — international.
• Technology patent filing for the One & Done archive system.
• Trade dress registration for Sovereign shoulder architecture.
• Digital watermarking integration for pattern blueprints.

Malik’s eyes sharpened at that.

“They won’t touch us again,” he said.

Simone corrected him gently.

“They will try.”

She looked directly at me.

The difference is — now they know what happens.”

I leaned back slightly.

“What happens?” I asked.

Her expression did not change.

“They lose.”

Silence again.

She reached into the portfolio one last time and removed a single-page document.

“This,” she said, placing it in front of me, “is the final settlement acknowledgment.”

I looked at it.

Signed.

Stamped.

Filed.

Public record.

House Noir’s chief legal counsel signature at the bottom.

Malik exhaled through his nose.

Zaria’s tablet chimed softly — live update confirmed.

I didn’t smile.

I didn’t gloat.

I simply placed my hand flat on the paper.

Ten years of building. One year of war. One night of recognition.

Simone stood.

“One more thing,” she said.

I looked up.

“You don’t celebrate until the infrastructure matches the visibility.”

I nodded.

“It does.”

She studied me for a second — measuring.

Then:

“Good.”

She adjusted her Sovereign cuff.

“I’ll see you in Paris.”

She left as quietly as she arrived.

The door shut.

Malik looked at me.

“You okay?”

I looked down at the signature again.

“I’m not defending anymore,” I said.

Zaria closed her tablet.

“No,” she replied. “You’re defining.”

And that —

was the shift.
Rooftop Reflection

Later that night, I stood alone on the rooftop of the studio building. The city stretched beneath me, vast and buzzing, a thousand different lives carrying on.

I ran my fingers over the gold spine lining of my jacket.

This wasn’t just about fashion.

It wasn’t just about proving anyone wrong.

It was about structure.

It was about building something that couldn’t be undone.

I wasn’t reacting anymore.

I wasn’t defending.

I was simply standing.

And that was the real win.

As the city lights flickered below, I smiled to myself.

The fight wasn’t over.

But tonight?

We were winning.

EPILOGUE

Crowns Are Heavy

Success is loud in public.

It is quiet at night.

The studio was dark except for the emergency lights running low along the baseboards. Racks stood in clean lines. Garments covered in protective canvas. Machines powered down.

Structure resting.

New York had clapped. Paris had called. London had requested private viewings.

Awards sat on a shelf I didn’t ask for.

Press photos circulated. Clips replayed. Headlines misquoted.

They called it a comeback. They called it disruption. They called it genius. They called it revenge.

They were wrong.

It was foundation.

I walked the length of the studio slowly, heels soft against concrete. Turquoise and black replaced with something simpler tonight — oversized bone Sovereign thrown over silk. Hair down. No cameras.

Just breath.

There is a difference between building something and becoming something.

I had done both.

The injunction was permanent. The archive was protected. The architecture was legally mine.

But the real shift wasn’t legal.

It was internal.

For years I was defending.

From family. From industry. From assumption. From erasure.

Defense is exhausting.

Sovereignty is quiet.

I stopped in front of the original Sovereign prototype — the first one Zaria and I sketched with uneven lines and ambition too large for the room we were in.

It looked smaller now.

Not weaker.

Smaller.

Because the room had grown.

I ran my fingers along the gold spine lining.

Still intact.

Still deliberate.

Still warm.

Structure is not control.

It is memory reinforced.

It is loss redirected.

It is love disciplined.

It is grief refined into architecture.

Outside, the city moved without asking permission.

Inside, I no longer needed it.

My phone buzzed on the cutting table.

A message from Malik.

You sleep?

I smiled.

No.

Three dots appeared.

Then:

Good. This next level won’t.

I set the phone down.

He wasn’t wrong.

Success doesn’t slow things down.

It sharpens them.

There would be more expansion. More negotiation. More eyes. More tests.

But I was no longer the only axis of this story.

I wasn’t the only one carrying the name.

Legacy is heavier than ambition.

And ambition? Ambition is light.

It moves.

I turned off the final light and let the room fall into shadow.

In the dark, you can hear truth clearer.

This was never about fashion.

It was about standard.

And standards do not belong to one generation.

They echo.

They adapt.

They outlive the rooms they were questioned in.

The world thought it witnessed a woman win.

It didn’t.

It witnessed a lineage stabilize.

The camera is widening now.

And crowns?

Crowns are heavy.

But we were built for weight.

MEET THE HOUSE

Maison Blaque


---

Dakota Blaque

Founder. Vision Architect. Standard Setter.

Dakota does not design clothing.
She designs structure.

From Studio Blaque to Maison Blaque, her evolution was never about trend — it was about ownership. Tailored silhouettes. Gold spine lining. One & Done construction. Documentation over ego.

She is strategic in business, selective in intimacy, disciplined in execution.

Her strength is vision.

Her flaw is control.

She built the house.

Now she has to protect it.


---

Monica Hale

Head of Production & Fit. Co-Designer, Intimates.

If Dakota dreams it, Monica makes it fit.

Construction, proportion, silhouette balance — Monica understands how structure moves on real bodies. Mother of identical twin boys. Wife to the architect who built every Blazer Boutique location.

Calm in chaos. Unshakeable in loyalty.

She doesn’t chase attention.

She enforces precision.

Keisha Turner

Creative Director. Brand Pulse.

Keisha understands instinct.

Campaign tone. Editorial energy. Audience psychology. When the world speaks, she hears it first.

Divorced. Rebuilt. Protective. Outside.

She turns emotion into messaging.

And she does not tolerate disrespect — online or off.


---

Nia Santiago

Lighting & Logistics Director. Atmosphere Control.

Nia does not just light runways.

She controls mood.

Production flow. Show timing. Visual discipline. Backstage execution. If the spotlight hits at the right second, that’s her.

Stable in love. Ruthless in organization.

Without her, the show doesn’t happen.


---

Zion Blaque

Chief Financial Strategist. Numbers Authority.

Math prodigy. Elite athlete. Financial gatekeeper.

Nothing leaves Maison Blaque’s account without logic.

Disciplined. Focused. Funny when he chooses to be.

He understands something most people don’t:

Power isn’t loud. It’s controlled.

Judge Raven Sky

Cybersecurity Architect. Legal Mind.

Youngest Black female judge in her state.

Specialized in criminal and family law. Certified in cybersecurity.

She built Maison Blaque’s digital lock system herself.

Calm. Composed. Observant.

She protects the system quietly.


---

Malik

IP Archivist. Documentation Strategist.

Silent partner.

Keeper of proof.

The reason history cannot be rewritten.

He believes in evidence over argument.

And he has never lost a receipt.


---

Zaria

Design Evolution Lead. Golden Sun Innovator.

Artist. Architect of emotion.

Zaria does not replicate — she reimagines.

Her Golden Sun motif became the internal signature of Maison Blaque.

Where others see fabric, she sees legacy.

Lance

Brand Ambassador & Communications Director.

Amplification without dilution.

Luxury positioning. Media strategy. Investor alignment.

He saw Maison Blaque before the world did.

And he made sure the world saw it correctly.




Simone Ellis

Legal Counsel. Precedent Builder.

Precise. Strategic. Unmoved by noise.

She does not argue loudly.

She wins quietly.

And she understands that intellectual property is not paperwork.

It is identity.




This is not a team.

It is a house.

Structured. Documented. Designed.

This is Maison Blaque.

BOOK TWO

THE PERSPECTIVE

You watched her win.

You saw the runway. The verdict. The interviews. The applause.

You saw the headline.

You saw Dakota Blaque.

But you did not see what it looked like from everywhere else.

You did not see:

The judge watching the crowd and calculating risk.

The athlete tracking investors instead of models.

The mother holding structure together backstage while texting home.

The lighting director controlling silence before applause.

The creative mind deciding which comments to respond to — and which to bury.

The archivist who never stopped documenting.

The artist redesigning grief into gold.

The sister watching from a living room, rewriting history in her own mind.

The man who understood the brand before it was luxury.

Power looks different depending on where you’re standing.

Book Two shifts the lens.

Every voice. Every angle. Every truth.

Because elevation does not just change the woman at the center.

It changes the orbit around her.

Maison Blaque is no longer building.

It is being watched.

And when the world watches, it does not just admire.

It measures.

It negotiates.

It plots.

The runway was not the end.

It was the introduction.

Book Two: The Perspective

Coming Soon.