Chapter 1

As I lifted the train of her gown, I saw it: the subtle, custom stitching I had sketched in my notebook three years ago.

A second later, the door to the bridal boutique pushed open.

In walked my fiancé—the same man whose failed event-studio venture had left him with a $300,000 loan, and whose repayment plan I had co-signed when the bank refused to give him more time.

"Sorry I'm late, Celeste. Traffic was a nightmare." Grant Vale leaned down and kissed the woman standing on the fitting pedestal. "That dress looks even more breathtaking on you than I imagined."

My fingers froze against the edge of her hemline.

The intricate beadwork bit into my skin.

Celeste stood before the mirror.

The ivory gown cascaded down her frame, cinch-waisted and flawless.

But what stole the air right out of my lungs was the silver embroidery running from her left ribs down to the hem—a trail of wild roses, broken apart and stitched back together.

My mother had taught me that exact embroidery technique.

Every single blossom was missing a stitch.

From a distance, it looked like a flowing vine of silver; up close, the gaps lined up to spell out a name.

I had never given this design to any store.

Three years ago, when I sketched the very first draft, Grant was sitting right beside me at our tiny apartment table.

He held my hand and swore that one day I’d have my own bridal label—that every bride would know the woman who made the most important gown of her life.

Back then, I believed him.

I had even spread the sketch out in front of him, asking him to help me choose which lace suited the hem best.

Now, that gown was on another woman.

And Grant stood behind her, smoothing her veil with practiced ease—like he had done it a hundred times before.

"Maeve?" Celeste looked at me through the mirror. "How much longer with the hem? I have a charity gala tonight. I can't be late."

I bowed my head, forcing myself to secure the final pearl.

"Ten minutes."

"Good." She let out a light laugh. "My boyfriend hates waiting. He always says time is the most expensive thing anyone owns."

Grant finally raised his eyes to me.

He wore a tailored charcoal-grey suit, a platinum watch peeking from his cuff.

I recognized that watch.

I had seen it on a subway billboard last month—it cost enough to clear the debt that was supposedly "crushing us to death."

His gaze landed on my faded work apron, and his brow twitched.

That apron was washed out to a pale grey, its pockets stuffed with needles, thread, a measuring tape, and a few folded bills I’d opened over and over again.

Just that morning, I had been dividing next week’s rent from the payment due on the loan I had signed beside him, wondering whether two extra rush alterations could cover both.

Grant had once taken my hands and looked at my calloused, cracked knuckles with unbearable heartache.

He had told me: "Once I get back on my feet, you’ll never have to alter dresses for anyone else again."

Now, he stood there as if he had never spoken those words.

Celeste clearly caught the uneasy silence between us.

She turned around, her eyes flitting back and forth between Grant and me.

"Do you two know each other?"

Grant answered instantly.

"We've met a few times."

Those words humiliated me far worse than an outright denial.

I had spent three years paying off his debts, moved four times with him, and shared the cheapest takeout late at night.

When he had a burning fever, he leaned on my shoulder and cried that I was the only person in the world who didn't care that he had nothing.

In the end, I was just someone he’d "met a few times."

Celeste didn't pry further.

Her face wasn't naively clueless; it carried a cool, calculated calm.

She raised her hand, admiring her newly acquired diamond bracelet.

"This seamstress has remarkable skill," she said to Grant. "The embroidery on the hem is so unique. I thought it was a one-of-a-kind design the brand made just for me."

Grant’s gaze fell onto the silver wild roses. An unreadable flicker crossed his eyes.

"Of course it's exclusive," he said.

I looked up at him.

He knew it was my design.

And he knew I knew.

Celeste stepped down from the pedestal, her high heels gliding over the edge of the carpet.

She stood close to me, smelling of expensive perfume and fresh roses.

"What's your name?"

"Maeve."

"Maeve," she repeated, as if testing whether the name was worth remembering. "How long have you been in this line of work?"

“Eleven years. Three of them in my own studio before I closed it.”

Ruth Bell, the owner of the boutique, had once sent brides to me whenever they wanted something no catalogue could offer.

Before Grant’s debt swallowed my savings, she had seen my name on the labels of gowns I designed from the first sketch to the final stitch.

She raised an eyebrow. "Then you should know better than anyone that in the bridal industry, skill isn't what matters most. It’s making people believe you’re worthy of the gown they’re wearing."

She didn't say it maliciously—it almost sounded like genuine advice.

But she was wearing my work, standing beside Grant, while I stood frozen, holding my sewing kit.

It suddenly hit me that she didn't know the full truth.

At the very least, she didn't know these flowers were drawn line by line, stitch by stitch, by me.

Grant draped a coat over her shoulders, his hand resting naturally on her back. Right before leaving, he glanced back at me.

"Maeve, go home tonight."

He spoke in a tone so calm it felt like we were still a normal couple—like he hadn't just handed my design to another woman, like he hadn't erased me from his life right in front of her.

Celeste turned back and offered me a polite smile.

"Thank you, Maeve. See you at the runway show next week."

The boutique door shut behind them.

I stood there alone, the silver thread still clenched tightly in my hand.

It cut deep into my palm, leaving a thin, angry red mark.

Next week’s runway show.

I knew what that was.

The Vale & Vow Annual Bridal Collection Launch.

Every wealthy bride-to-be, buyer, and media outlet in the city would be there.

Celeste would wear that wild-rose gown, standing under the spotlight, soaking in everyone's praise for "her exclusive design."

And to think, I used to believe Grant was just a man who needed me to pull him out of the mud.

When I returned to the apartment that evening, Grant was already sitting at the dining table.

On the table sat my favorite pasta and a bouquet of white roses.

Grant took off his suit jacket, looking exhausted, and even pulled out a chair for me just like he used to.

"Rough day," he said. "Eat first."

I didn't sit down.

"Who designed that dress?"

Grant looked up. After a moment of silence, he picked up his wine glass.

"Why are you still holding onto those old sketches, Maeve?"

He didn't answer my question.

But in that exact moment, I realized—what he had stolen from me was far more than just a wedding dress.