[Monday, September 18, 2000 | New York Fashion Week - Day 5 | Monday, September 18, 2000]
Maya james black Maybach glided to a stop outside Bryant Park, joining the procession of town cars and SUVs disgorging fashion's elite onto the sidewalk. Xavier stepped out first, holding the door open for his mother and sister like the gentleman she raised. The late afternoon sun caught the charcoal of his tailored suit—an Eléanor original, naturally, because the woman wouldn't hesitate to judge his dress style if it happened to irk her.
He turned, offering his hand to his mother, and Maya emerged with grace that made photographers crane their necks, even if they didn't know who she was yet. Her light olive skin glowed against the deep burgundy of her dress, a vintage Valentino she'd pulled from her closet. Her dark curls were swept back, revealing the diamond studs her late husband had given her last Christmas.
"Careful, Zo," Maya said, reaching back into the car. Zoe took her mother's hand, blinking against the sudden brightness of camera flashes, but it didn't take her long. She'd chosen a simple black dress with a white collar, an elegant dress from Eléanor's black line a few years back.
"Stay close," Xavier murmured, placing a protective hand on his sister's shoulder, letting his mother hold onto his elbow for support as they navigated down the red carpet placed at the entrance. They posed briefly at the designated spots, but left quickly, letting the socialites bask in the attention of photographers shouting directions as they peacocked.
"Xavier James!" A photographer called out. "Who are you wearing?"
"Eléanor," he replied without breaking stride, giving a short smile to the man.
"Is that your girlfriend?" Xavier didn't dignify that with a response, wondering who the clueless guy was. Yes, he was famous in recent months, but his mother wasn't unknown, especially with the tabloids that had been writing snipes about their family.
They reached the entrance where Eleanor's assistant—a rail-thin woman with severe black hair and an iPad—checked them off the list with a knowing smile. "Mr James, Mrs James, Miss James. Eleanor will be so pleased you made it. Your seats are front row centre. Please, follow me."
The tent interior was already buzzing with energy. The runway stretched before them, stark white against the black walls, lit by carefully positioned spots that created an almost cathedral-like atmosphere. The scent of expensive perfume mixed with the underlying chemical tang of dry ice. Xavier recognised faces as they passed—Anna Wintour holding court in her signature sunglasses, some European buyers he'd seen at previous shows, a couple of actresses whose names he should probably remember.
Their seats were exactly where promised: front row, dead centre, three chairs with small engraved placards bearing their names. Maya settled in first, Zoe beside her, and Xavier took the aisle seat, his height making him grateful for the elevated runway that wouldn't hinder the people behind him too much.
"This is incredible," Zoe whispered, her eyes wide as she took in the setup. "I've never seen anything like this."
"Eleanor doesn't do anything halfway," Xavier replied, scanning the program handed to him by another assistant. "Women in Power: A Collection by Eleanor Lively." He flipped it open, but there were no sketches, no spoilers—just a single quote in elegant script: "Power is not given. It is taken, worn, and wielded."
Maya leaned over to read it, a slight smile playing at her lips. "That sounds like Eleanor."
Around them, the tent continued to fill. Xavier noticed John Mara and his wife, Janice, three rows back, caught the older man's nod of acknowledgement. There were buyers from Bergdorf's, Barneys, and Saks. He realised this wasn't just a show for the woman—it was Eleanor staking her claim at the crown of NY fashion for the next decade.
Before he could think further, the house lights dimmed, conversations died to whispers, then silence. A single spotlight hit the entrance to the runway, and Eleanor herself emerged—not a model, but the designer, commanding the space. Eleanor wore black, severe and elegant, her hair swept back, her posture strong of a woman who'd fought for every inch of recognition in an industry that didn't make space for women easily.
"Good evening," Eleanor's voice carried without amplification, trained and confident. "For forty years, I've watched women navigate a world that tells them to be powerful but not too powerful. To lead but not threaten. To succeed but remain palatable."
She paused, her gaze sweeping the audience. "This collection is not palatable. Women in Power is a declaration—that we take up space, that we command attention, that we wear our ambition like armour and our femininity like a weapon. Thank you for being here to witness it."
She turned on her heel and disappeared backstage amid a roaring round of applause from the audience, mainly the women, who made up 70%. The lights went black again, then—music not the expected electronic beats or pop remixes seen all week, but something orchestral with an edge, contemporary classical that built slowly, strings creating tension. A single beam of light hit the runway entrance, creating an almost walkway of light.
Carolyn Murphy emerged first, and Xavier heard his mother's sharp intake of breath. The opening look was audacious in its simplicity—a floor-length ivory coat with architectural shoulders that extended past the natural line, creating a silhouette that was part sculpture, part armour. The deep V at the front revealed a geometric cutout that drew the eye down, held together by a single jewelled clasp at the waist.
Murphy's hair was severely slicked back, her red lip the only concession to colour. She moved with predatory grace, the coat's fabric catching the light, revealing subtle texture as she owned every inch of the runway. "My God," a few voices whispered as the music built, strings layering over each other, and Naomi Campbell appeared next.
She commanded attention in her ivory blazer, with exaggerated proportions and a cut that nipped at the waist. At the same time, the shoulders remained impossibly strong, paired with wide-leg trousers that moved like liquid silk. She carried herself differently than Murphy—hands in pockets, chin up, an unapologetic smirk playing at her lips.
Liya Kebede followed, statuesque and serene in an oversized white blazer paired with a cream pencil skirt and a sheer black top underneath. The contrast was provocative against her deep brown skin, and the camera loved her flashing constantly, buyers already making notes. Then came the greys, a beautiful transition that rippled through the audience.
Devon Aoki appeared in dove grey suiting with clean lines, her hair in a sleek low ponytail, her angular features creating sharp shadows under the lights. She moved with geometric precision, each step exuding youthful power, ready to conquer cooperative life. Zoe was transfixed entirely, her lips slightly parted, watching someone only four years her senior exuding that kind of aura.
Natasha Poly strode out next in heathered grey, the blazer cut long and lean, paired with matching wide-leg trousers that moved like water. Her pale skin created a ghostly effect against the neutral tones, making the clothes themselves the story. The crowd loved every minute, each person turning to a French fashion expert, making elaborate comments, trying to outdo the next person.
Around the middle of the show, the tempo changed — strings giving way to something with a more contemporary edge. Adriana Lima emerged, and the energy in the tent shifted palpably. She wore an ivory suit with a champagne sheen, the blazer belted at the waist, paired with relaxed trousers.
"She's playing with masculinity," a nearby fashion critic commented loudly. Taking the elements that traditionally signified male power—the suit, the strong shoulder—and completely recontextualising them. Making them ours."
'It's just a suit.' Xavier felt the urge to say, but he had enough sense to know that he would only become a sinner around these people. Plus, the way his mother and sisters stared at Lima, he could tell he wouldn't survive if he ruined the moment.
Alessandra Ambrosio followed in white on white—a cropped blazer over high-waisted pants, with a dramatic white fedora that cast shadows across her face. She walked elegantly, commanding the space and as she paused at the end of the runway, tilted the hat just slightly, eliciting several audible gasps.
Then came Song Hye-kyo, wearing a stunning cream turtleneck coat that wrapped her small frame entirely. The collar rising to frame her delicate features, a belt cinching at the waist to create shape, a thigh-high slit revealing leg and movement. Xavier straightened in his seat curiously as she walked, wanting to see how the model he had helped vouch for would perform in her international debut.
The Korean actress moved down the runway, the cream fabric contrasted beautifully with her porcelain skin, and the way she moved brought a different cultural interpretation of power to Eleanor's American narrative. "Who is that?" Zoe whispered, leaning forward, and she wasn't the only one curious about the fresh face, as there weren't a lot of asian faces. Song reached the end of the runway, paused with perfect stillness, then turned—the coat's fabric catching air, creating a moment of pure visual drama.
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To Be Continued...