Chapter 2

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

Grant held his wine glass, his voice even, as if he were asking where I’d put my winter coat.

I stared at him, a cold, suffocating fury creeping up my chest.

"Because they’re mine," I said, slinging my bag over the back of a chair without sitting down. "The wild roses on the hem, the cut of the waist, the row of pearl buttons down the back of that dress Celeste wore today—they all came straight from my sketchpad. What you should be asking is: how dare you take them?"

Grant set his glass down, finally dropping the pretense.

“The loan was mine before you ever met me,” he said. “I opened a small event studio under my own name because I wanted one thing in my life that had nothing to do with my family. It failed. By the time we met, the bank had already stopped giving me extensions.”

“And when they asked for a co-signer, I signed beside you.”

“You offered,” Grant said. “You said we were building a life together. I told you that you did not have to take that risk.”

“You told me you would lose the apartment if I didn’t.” My voice tightened. “You showed me every overdue notice. You let me close my studio, take extra alterations, and shape my whole life around keeping your payments current.”

Grant looked away for the first time.

“When I returned to Vale, I could have cleared the balance with one call,” he said. “I didn’t, because I wanted to know whether you chose me for me, or for what my name could give you.”

I stared at him. “The moment you saw me sacrifice my studio, the test was over. You had your answer. You kept it going because you liked being the man I was willing to save.”

His jaw tightened. “You are twisting this.”

“No. I am finally seeing it clearly.”

Grant’s voice cooled. “As for the sketches, what good did it do letting them rot in a drawer? Vale & Vow has the best atelier, the best clients, and the biggest runway shows. Celeste understands the market. She knows how to sell those designs.”

"She knows how to erase someone else's name."

"She hasn't taken anything yet," Grant's voice went cold. "The collection hasn't officially launched, and the credits aren't finalized. What you should do right now is refrain from making a scene you can't undo."

I understood completely.

He wasn't asking for my forgiveness. He was reminding me that he held all the power.

Grant pulled a business card from his inner jacket pocket and placed it on the dining table.

Black cardstock with gold lettering, stamped with the Vale & Vow logo and address.

"Report to headquarters tomorrow at nine a.m. You don't need to stay at that tiny shop altering clothes anymore. I'm offering you a stable job. The salary will cover your loan payments and let you live comfortably."

I didn't touch the card.

"What job?"

"Assistant in the bridal atelier," he said. "Celeste is preparing for the runway show and needs someone who actually knows how to construct a garment."

I saw.

He wanted me inside his company, watching Celeste step onto the stage in my creations, while I smoothed her hem and adjusted her veil.

I wanted to tear that card to shreds and demand to know what he truly took me for.

But the figures on my bills flashed in my mind.

Next week's rent wouldn't disappear just because I was angry, nor would my landlord delay collection out of sympathy for my heartbreak.

More importantly, there was a high chance Vale & Vow had more than just one of my designs.

When Grant asked why I still kept those old sketches, it meant he knew I had more.

He was never afraid of hurting me—he was afraid I remembered what those dresses were supposed to look like.

I looked up.

"Fine," I said. "I'll do it."

The tension in Grant's face relaxed slightly. He probably thought I was the same woman I’d always been—that as long as he threw me a little security, I’d swallow my hurt and fall in line.

He didn't know that agreeing to enter Vale & Vow wasn't because he offered me a job.

I wanted to see with my own eyes just how much he had stolen from me.

The next morning, I walked into the Vale & Vow headquarters with my newly issued employee badge.

Several wedding dresses were displayed inside glass cases across the lobby, the overhead lights casting a sheen over the skirts as if putting a price tag on every inch of fabric.

The receptionist led me to the twenty-third floor.

"Miss Celeste is waiting for you," she said. "You'll be reporting directly to her from now on."

When the office door opened, Celeste was sitting at the far end of a long table, flipping through photos for the upcoming show.

She had changed into a cream-colored suit, her hair styled flawlessly.

Seeing me, she froze for a fraction of a second before offering a polite smile.

"Maeve. So you're the new assistant Grant mentioned."

I placed my folder on the table. "I just found out myself."

She studied me for a few seconds, showing no triumphant arrogance.

Instead, it was like she was evaluating a new tool that had just been handed to her.

"I spoke with the boutique manager yesterday. Your alteration skills are impressive," she said, closing the photo album. "The launch is right around the corner, and the sample garments still need a detail-oriented eye. Work hard, and I'll make sure you're taken care of."

"Who designed the wild-rose gown?"

Her fingers paused against the cover.

"It's part of my collection, of course," she replied smoothly. "Inspired by my grandmother's rose garden. Why do you ask?"

No hesitation, no dodging.

In that moment, I realized Grant hadn't told her the truth, either.

He had fed her a complete lie, making her believe she was simply blessed with a brilliant design team—or perhaps that those sketches belonged to Vale & Vow all along.

Celeste raised her eyes to me, her tone softening slightly.

"I know you and Grant go back a long way. But now that you're with the company, it's best to leave personal feelings at the door. People here don't step aside just because someone feels wronged."

It was harsh, but it wasn't wrong.

She had clawed her way up with sheer ambition and wouldn't easily trust a seamstress who appeared out of nowhere.

If I wanted my name back, Celeste wasn't going to be my only obstacle.

That afternoon, I was assigned to organize the sample garment logs in the atelier.

I pulled the dresses from their garment bags one by one, each tagged with a different collection code.

When I reached the third one, my breath hitched once more.

It was an unreleased satin gown with a bias-cut shoulder line and delicate micro-pleats along the waist.

I had sketched it during a bout of insomnia, scribbling in the corner of the page: For the bride who refuses to be bound by tradition.

Now, the tag read:

Celeste Rowan Collection / Original Design

My palms went ice-cold.

Before leaving work, I used the excuse of returning sample logs to slip into the archive room.

The file cabinet at the back was unlocked, holding several pending design registration forms.

I flipped to one of the pages and found the filing paperwork for the wild-rose gown.

Design Name: After the Rain.

Lead Designer: Celeste Rowan.

The submission date, however, was three years ago—the exact week I had laid my first draft out in front of Grant.

And at the bottom right corner of the form was a handwritten note:

Original source of creation to be confirmed. Ensure all paper trails are cleared prior to the runway show.