Project | Runway - Season 19

The clock in the workroom had become a monster. Its tick was the heartbeat of a relentless predator. For Chloé, a 24-year-old self-taught designer from Atlanta, every second felt like a stitch pulled too tight.

“Designers, you have one day ,” Christian Siriano announced, his blazer sharper than his wit. “Make it work. Or don’t.”

When Sasha reached the end of the runway, Chloé had programmed a final reveal. The model pressed a hidden button on the hip. The mycelium threads retracted, pulled by tiny fishing-line pulleys, revealing a second layer beneath: a short, sharp cocktail dress made entirely of mirrored shards—shattered compact discs she’d salvaged and dyed a pale, ghostly yellow. It was the maggot-like center of the corpse flower, turned into a dazzling disco ball of defiance.

Meg went first. Her Middlemist Red gown was pretty. Technically flawless. The judges nodded. Nina Garcia said, “It’s elegant, but safe. Like a couture Valentine’s card.” Project Runway - Season 19

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.

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

Meg’s face, backstage, was a perfect mask of horror. The clock in the workroom had become a monster

“Oh, honey,” whispered Meg, the season’s queen bee, peeking at Chloé’s mood board. “That’s… brave. Very goth funeral chic.” Her own design, a gossamer dream inspired by the Middlemist Red camellia, was already taking shape in expensive, pre-dyed silks.

Elaine Welteroth gasped.

The silence was electric.

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.

And for the first time that season, the monster in the workroom—the ticking clock—didn’t sound like a predator. To Chloé, it sounded like a heartbeat.

Chloé said nothing. She simply ground the dried petals of her rafflesia into a foul, brownish-purple paste. The smell made the camera crew gag. But as she dipped her muslin, something miraculous happened. The color wasn't ugly. It was deep, bruised velvet—the color of a royal sunset after a plague. “Designers, you have one day ,” Christian Siriano

“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.”

Then came Chloé.