Chapter 3

My fingers lingered pressed against the edge of the paper as I set the registration form back into the cabinet.

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

Those words cut into me like an unhealed wound.

A "clearing" meant far more than altering a single document.

It meant someone had known all along that these designs belonged to someone else, yet they chose to erase every single trace that pointed to me before the launch.

I pulled out my phone and raised the camera toward the form.

The clicking of high heels echoed on the tile behind me.

"Maeve?"

Celeste stood at the archive doorway, holding a cup of coffee.

Her eyes drifted from my raised phone to the half-open cabinet, and the polite smile drained from her face.

"This area is off-limits to lower-level staff," she said. "What are you taking photos of?"

I didn't lower my phone.

"I’m looking at my designs."

She took two steps closer, her gaze falling on the form.

As she took in the text, her brows knitted together, and she pulled out a chair beside me and sat down.

"Do you honestly believe these gowns are yours?"

"I know they are."

"Based on what?" She raised her head. "Because you’ve drawn roses before? Because you’ve used pearl buttons? Maeve, wedding designs share endless similarities. Working in an alteration shop, you should know that better than anyone."

She spoke with terrifying composure, not even rushing to call security.

That calm precision made me realize this wasn't the first time she had handled a situation like this.

"The missing stitch on the wild roses, the bias-cut shoulders, the initials hidden inside the lining—none of those are coincidences."

Celeste went quiet for a moment, reaching out to pick up the form.

When her eyes hit the handwritten note at the bottom, she paused.

"I don't know who wrote that note," she said. "All I know is that I selected this collection from the group's design vault a year ago. Every file came with internal sourcing. I had no reason to doubt they belonged to anyone else, especially someone who never existed in the company."

"I did exist," I said, staring straight at her. "Someone just didn't want you to see me."

She placed the form back on the table, her voice dropping.

"Whatever went on between you and Grant, I don't care to get involved. But right now, you’re standing in corporate archives, photographing confidential files, and claiming my collection stole your work. How do you think everyone else will see this?"

I didn't answer.

She answered for me.

"They'll think you're using a failed relationship to ruin another woman's career."

Those words hit harder than any insult, because I knew that was exactly the narrative they would spin.

Celeste pressed the call button on the wall.

Within minutes, the atelier manager and the HR director arrived.

She didn't throw a scene or scream at me; she laid out the facts with smooth efficiency: I had trespassed into restricted archives and attempted to photograph unreleased collection records.

I wanted to explain the handwritten note. I wanted to tell them those sketches originally lay on the dining table in the apartment I shared with Grant.

But I had brought no original drafts, no client records—nothing to prove I wasn't just a bitter, unhinged ex-fiancée lashing out in jealousy.

Grant arrived just before the meeting wrapped up.

He stood at the far end of the long conference table, glancing from me to Celeste.

There was no surprise in his eyes—he had known this day was coming.

"Maeve," he said, "I brought you into this company to give you a fresh start."

"You brought me in to watch Celeste claim my name."

"I asked you not to bring personal grievances into the workplace," his tone hardened. "The company cannot risk keeping an employee who accesses restricted files and tries to leak confidential data."

The atelier manager slid a termination notice across the table.

I picked it up, holding back my signature.

"You're firing me just because I looked at a registration form?"

Grant stepped closer to the edge of the table, lowering his voice so only I could hear.

"I can let this end right here. Or I can let every bridal boutique in the city know that you tried to steal unreleased designs from Vale & Vow. You're already struggling to find work, Maeve. Don't force me to strip away the last bit of dignity you have left."

I looked at him.

Three years ago, he swore he would hold up the world for me.

Today, he used my future to threaten me into silence.

I dropped the notice back onto the table and picked up my bag.

"You can fire me," I said. "But you can't delete every sketch I’ve ever drawn."

Night had fallen by the time I stepped out of Vale & Vow.

I didn't go back to the apartment. Instead, I went to my old studio.

The space had remained vacant ever since I closed up shop.

My landlord allowed me to keep my remaining fabric scraps, sketchbooks, and tools stored inside as long as I paid a small monthly fee.

Over the past three years, I had rarely unlocked that door.

Stepping inside felt like staring at the life I had surrendered with my own hands for Grant.

This time, I didn't give myself a chance to run.

I knelt before the cardboard boxes, pulling out old fitting logs one by one.

Every page bore a client’s name, fitting dates, fabric batches, and alteration notes.

Some brides had left thank-you notes in the margins, drawn smiley faces, or written: Maeve, you finally helped me see the bride I wanted to be.

When I reached the very last logbook, I found it: the wild-rose sketch.

The edges of the paper were yellowed, marked with a date in the bottom right corner: May 12th, three years ago.

On the back of the page, my own handwriting read: Leave one stitch out of the petals to spell the bride’s name.

She will know this dress was made for her and her alone.

I stared at those words for a long time before packing the fitting logs, original sketches, and preserved fabric samples into my briefcase.

These alone weren't enough.

Clients might not want to get dragged into a legal mess, and suppliers might fear crossing Vale & Vow.

Grant held the biggest name in the industry, Celeste held the runway stage, and all I had was a stack of forgotten paper, a few old photos, and a malicious rumor they had scripted in advance.

But one thing had finally become crystal clear to me:

If I kept hiding in that apartment waiting for Grant to return what he stole, I would lose even these scraps of proof.

I pulled out my phone and brought up the launch event invitation page.

Vale & Vow Annual Bridal Collection Launch: 14 Days Away.

In two weeks, Celeste would stand under the spotlights, unveiling her "original collection" to the world.

Grant would sit in the front row, watching my name be erased from every single dress.

I closed the logbook and dialed my very first client's number.

In fourteen days, I wasn't going to that show to beg them for my name back.

I was going to make sure everyone saw exactly who they had stolen those dresses from.