Chapter 2

The red pickup's engine roared to life, leaving the grand yet icy Vance estate far behind in our dust.

I leaned against the passenger window, watching the massive mansion shrink down into a tiny, blurred dot in the side mirror.

The crushing boulder that had weighed on my chest for sixteen years finally lifted off."Hell yes! That was insane!"

Maeve slammed her palm against the steering wheel, laughing with absolute glee.

"Carly, when you hurled that key on the floor, your entitled jerk of a brother and your selfish mom turned totally pale. I swear to God, that was the coolest kiss-off I've ever seen in my life!"

I turned my head to look at this girl with her high ponytail and a smile as bright as summer sunlight, unable to stop my own mouth from curling into a subtle smile.

Maeve was my only true friend at the local community school. Her mother, Mrs. Miller, was a night-shift nurse who single-handedly raised two kids. Money was tight in their household, but their home was always brimming with laughter and joy.

She was the person who taught me that "family" didn't have to mean icy exploitation and favoritism.

"So, where to next?" Maeve stepped on the gas, glancing at me.

"The old downtown theater," I said softly, pulling out a neatly folded hiring flyer from my jacket.

It was a recruitment poster for the St. Louis Vintage Arts Theatre downtown—they were hiring a wardrobe repair assistant.

The pay was modest, but it came with room and board. More importantly, it housed the richest archive of vintage fabrics and antique garment techniques in the whole city.

Maeve froze for a second, her eyes lighting up with genuine admiration. "You planned all this out way in advance?"

"Ever since I was fourteen, the day Evelyn stole my hard-earned $1,500, I started prepping for today."

I held out my hands, staring at my fingers, which bore faint calluses from holding needles and threads over the years.

Evelyn thought stealing my savings would clip my wings, chaining me to that household forever.

What she didn't know was that during those two years of humiliating submission, I hadn't just mastered high-end tailoring and design using thrifted clothes from the flea market—I had also held onto an ultimate ace up my sleeve.

I unzipped my old suitcase, reached into the deepest compartment, and ran my fingers over a hard-cover black journal.

It wasn't a teenage girl's diary of secret crushes.

Inside were meticulous records of every fraudulent expense Evelyn had filed under minor Carly's name over the years, copies of high-interest loan agreements Richard took out with shady lenders to maintain his "elite" image, and exact dates for every single medical insurance claim the Vance family scammed using my name.

They thought they were raising a clueless, helpless puppet. They didn't realize the puppet was holding a Sword of Damocles over their heads all along.

……

Half an hour later, backstage at the old downtown theater.

The theater backstage was utter chaos.

The lead actress's primary vintage court gown had its delicate waist lace accidentally snagged and torn by an awkward prop guy during dress rehearsals, leaving a huge, hideous gap.

"Damn it! Where the hell are we supposed to find authentic century-old French gold-thread lace to replace this?!"

The stage manager was sweating bullets, shouting furiously at the seamstresses backstage.

"The city's top elite are showing up tonight! If opening night gets ruined, every single one of you is fired!"

The veteran seamstresses shrank back, exchanging nervous glances. Nobody dared touch this hot potato.

Restoring an antique gown required insanely precise technique. One wrong move on the delicate fabric, and nobody could afford to pay for the damage.

"Sir, the flyer says any assistant who passes the trial can start immediately, right?"

A clear, steady voice suddenly cut through the noisy room.

Everyone snapped their heads around.

Standing there was a young girl wearing faded denim jeans, holding an old suitcase.

The manager sized me up and said impatiently, "Kid, don't mess around! We're running around with our hair on fire here!"

Instead of backing off, I walked straight up to the damaged, expensive dress hanging on the mannequin, lightly feeling the texture of the fabric.

"This is classic late Victorian tailoring from the end of the 19th century. Although the lace on the waist is torn, the underlying fabric base is still intact."

I looked up, my eyes gleaming with intensity.

"If I secure the backing using a blind-stitch technique and embroider a subtle iris pattern over it using three layers of pale gold thread, it won't just completely hide the tear—it'll actually give it more dimension than the original flat lace. Give me thirty minutes. If I fail, I'll walk out the door immediately."

The old seamstresses stared at me in shock, and the manager was stunned too.

He looked into my calm, focused eyes and gritted his teeth hard. "Fine! But if you ruin it, you don't get a single penny!"

Thirty minutes later.

When the mended court dress was placed back under the bright stage lights, gasps echoed across the entire backstage.

The damage was completely gone. In its place was a breathtaking, lifelike vintage iris embroidery that radiated a soft, antique gold shimmer.

Far from looking like a cover-up, it looked like the most brilliant stroke of genius in the original design!

"My God..." The manager gently touched the embroidery with trembling hands, his look toward me changing completely.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Carly," I smiled slightly, straightening my messy sleeves.

"Carly Vance."

That night, the theater's premiere was a massive triumph.

And I secured my very first official job in this city: Lead Wardrobe Assistant for the theater, along with a cozy little top-floor loft featuring its own private skylight.