I SPENT SEVEN DAYS IN ROME WITH MY MISTRESS

My father had never understood fashion.

Lucien Laurent believed men should build businesses involving machinery, land, or something solid enough to survive a fire.

He had spent most of his working life operating a small garment-supply warehouse in New Jersey.

He could identify a cheap zipper from across a room.

But he couldn't understand why anyone would pay thousands of dollars for a dress.

When I told him I wanted to become a designer, he asked whether I intended to spend my life playing with women's clothes.

We barely spoke for two years.

Isabelle changed that.

She visited him without telling me.

She brought a coat she'd repaired using fabric he had once sold.

She asked him questions about manufacturing and listened as though every answer mattered.

By the time we married, my father had developed an affection for her that neither of us had expected.

The walnut portfolio case was his wedding gift.

He told Isabelle it had belonged to a patternmaker who worked with him decades earlier.

“Good work shouldn't be thrown away because the world gets impatient,” he said.

Isabelle treasured those words.

After my father died, she kept the case near her sewing table.

I remembered all this while searching old photographs for evidence of its contents.

Martin had advised me not to contact Julian.

The independent investigators were reviewing the archive transfer.

But my patience was eroding.

Every hour that passed gave someone another opportunity to conceal evidence.

The investigators had discovered that the transfer manifest contained a handwritten notation.

One additional item had been released for executive review.

The signature authorizing the release belonged to Julian.

The recipient line was blank.

That omission mattered.

An ordinary archive movement should have identified who accepted custody and where the object was taken.

Instead, the notation created a gap.

Martin explained that a gap was not proof of theft.

But it was something investigators could pursue.

He also told me that Isabelle's attorneys were preparing an application to preserve disputed property and prevent further disposition of the materials.

“Does she have a strong case?” I asked.

“She has evidence of personal ownership and a serious question about the assignment's validity. The court will consider the specifics.”

“Can we recover the case?”

“Perhaps. But we need to locate it first.”

I returned home and searched through the old photographs Isabelle had left behind.

At the back of one album, I found a picture taken in our apartment in 2013.

Isabelle was sitting cross-legged beside the walnut case.

A thin stack of papers lay on the floor.

One page was visible enough to read the heading.

PERSONAL CREATIVE ARCHIVE — CUSTODY INVENTORY.

My pulse quickened.

I enlarged the image.

The document appeared to list drawings and original patterns deposited with Laurent Maison for safekeeping.

At the bottom, I could make out three signatures.

Isabelle's.

Mine.

And Julian's.

I remembered signing something like it.

Back then, our archive was little more than a locked cabinet in a rented office.

We wanted to protect fragile original drawings from damage.

Isabelle insisted the company should record exactly what belonged to her personally.

I had agreed without thinking much about it.

Julian had witnessed the inventory because he was arranging the storage.

The case itself might contain the signed original.

If it did, Julian knew that some materials had been entrusted to the company rather than sold to it.

The distinction wouldn't automatically resolve every ownership question, but it could be important evidence.

I sent the photograph to Martin.

He called ten minutes later.

“Do you have the original inventory?”

“No.”

“Any copies?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then we need to determine whether it was retained in the company's records.”

He hesitated.

“Gabriel, there's one more thing.”

“What?”

“Your brother's attorneys have asked the committee to complete its review before the licensing sale closes. They're arguing that delay will cause significant financial harm.”

“How soon is the closing?”

“Six weeks.”

I looked toward the city.

Six weeks.

That was all the time Julian believed he needed.

The proposed transaction would transfer a controlling stake in Laurent Maison's international licensing operation to a consortium called Aster Global Partners.

It would not sell the entire company.

But the licensing division controlled enormously valuable agreements and long-term commercial rights.

The potential proceeds were significant.

Julian had described the deal as a way to strengthen our financial position.

Now I wondered whether Northstar's archive rights had been positioned to benefit from the sale through undisclosed arrangements.

The investigators were examining that possibility.

I could no longer pretend the affair and the corporate problems were unrelated.

While I'd been distracted in Rome, people around me had exercised authority I'd handed them.

Some of that authority might have been abused.

The following Monday, I requested a meeting with the company's senior archivist, Daphne Cho.

Daphne was fifty-two, precise, and known for refusing to lend rare materials to executives without proper paperwork.

Her department managed thousands of samples, drawings, photographs, and records.

She had once denied me access to a vintage piece because the humidity in my office was too high.

I respected her for that.

She arrived carrying a folder.

“Mr. Laurent, I understand you want to discuss the June transfer.”

“Yes.”

“The investigators asked us to preserve everything.”

“I know. I want to understand the process.”

Daphne sat carefully.

“The instructions were unusual.”

“How?”

“The shipment was scheduled as a temporary examination of early creative materials. But the receiving company requested permanent archival transfer forms.”

“Who approved that?”

“Mr. Mercer sent the request. Mr. Julian Laurent authorized the release.”

“And the walnut case?”

She opened her folder.

“It was not packed by my team.”

“Then who removed it?”

“An executive security officer arrived with a separate authorization.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Daniel Price.”

I recognized it.

Price had worked in corporate security for eight years.

He was competent and discreet.

He'd accompanied me on international trips.

“Where is he now?”

“He resigned in July.”

A month after Rome.

I stared at Daphne.

“Did anyone question the transfer?”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

She looked uncomfortable.

“I was told the founder's family had approved the archive review. When I asked for a signed property acknowledgment, Mr. Mercer said the documents were confidential.”

“Did you believe him?”

“No.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Daphne considered her answer.

“I tried.”

She removed a printed email.

The message was addressed to my executive office.

Its subject line read URGENT: ARCHIVE CUSTODY EXCEPTION.

The date was June 10.

Two days before Isabelle's surgery.

Daphne had asked for clarification before releasing privately owned materials.

My chief executive assistant had forwarded the message to Julian's office.

A reply followed.

Mr. Laurent has delegated all archive matters to the COO. No further action required.

I stared at the reply.

It came from my office.

I hadn't written it.

My assistant had acted according to a longstanding instruction that operational issues should be handled by Julian.

An instruction I had given.

Daphne watched me.

“I assumed you knew,” she said.

“So did everyone.”

It was not an accusation.

That made it worse.

After our meeting, I requested a detailed review of the delegation procedures.

I also asked the investigators to interview Price through appropriate channels.

I did not want company security trying to find him or pressure him.

We needed evidence, not intimidation.

Meanwhile, Isabelle was preparing for her first public appearance as an independent designer.

A nonprofit organization had invited her to speak at a small event about fashion entrepreneurship.

Originally, the organizers wanted a familiar story.

The billionaire designer's wife finding a creative outlet.

Isabelle rejected the proposed introduction.

She asked them to describe her simply as a designer and co-creator of early Laurent Maison work.

The organizers agreed.

On the morning of the event, Nora arrived carrying two garment bags.

One contained a dark green coat.

The other held a simple white dress with a structured waist.

“Which one are you wearing?” Nora asked.

“The coat.”

“Good. You made that collar beautifully.”

“We made that collar.”

Nora grinned.

“You're learning.”

Isabelle laughed.

But the mood changed when Tessa arrived.

She had received another communication from attorneys associated with the heritage licensing division.

This time, the letter identified specific drawings and alleged that Forty-Seven Atelier was drawing upon protected company materials.

It requested that Isabelle preserve her records and refrain from exploiting disputed archive content.

The letter also threatened litigation if unresolved issues continued.

Isabelle read it quietly.

“How much of this is Julian?” she asked.

“We don't know yet,” Tessa answered.

“The committee froze the archive transfer.”

“That doesn't automatically prevent a lawyer from making a claim.”

Nora looked frightened.

“Could they shut us down?”

“They can try,” Tessa said. “Whether they have a legal basis is another question.”

Isabelle handed the letter back.

“Then we'll answer it properly.”

She straightened her coat.

“And we're going to the event.”

The auditorium was small.

Perhaps eighty people attended.

Most were students, independent makers, and people working in local garment businesses.

Isabelle stood behind a lectern and looked at the audience.

For a moment, she felt the familiar urge to minimize herself.

To thank Gabriel.

To explain that she had only helped with the early collections.

To describe herself as someone who had been fortunate enough to witness a great man's success.

Then she thought about the seven boxes.

She thought about the operating room.

She thought about Nora, working beside her every day.

And she decided to tell the truth.

“When I was twenty-four,” Isabelle began, “my husband and I moved to New York with almost nothing.”

She described the apartment.

The leaking ceiling.

The forty-seven dollars.

She told them how she developed patterns and constructed garments while Gabriel sold their work.

“I was proud of him,” she said. “And I still believe he had extraordinary talent.”

The audience listened.

“But somewhere along the way, my contribution became a footnote. I helped make that happen by staying quiet when I should have spoken.”

She looked toward Nora.

“I used to think being useful was the same thing as being valued.”

Her voice remained steady.

“It isn't.”

She spoke about fair pay.

She spoke about recognizing the people who cut, sew, fit, finish, and repair the garments celebrated on runways.

She explained that Forty-Seven Atelier would publish credits for every major contributor to each collection.

Then someone near the back raised a hand.

“Are you doing this because of your divorce?”

A murmur moved through the room.

Isabelle took a moment before answering.

“My divorce made me reconsider some things. But I've been a designer much longer than I've been separated.”

A few people applauded.

“I'm not building a company to punish my former partner. I'm building one because I still have work I want to do.”

The applause grew.

For the first time in years, Isabelle stood before an audience that was listening to her rather than looking for me.

And she discovered she liked the feeling.

Unfortunately, someone else was listening too.

The following morning, a short video from the event spread across fashion social media.

Most reactions were supportive.

Several writers praised her discussion of invisible labor.

But a handful of accounts began circulating allegations that she intended to exploit Laurent Maison designs for personal gain.

An entertainment website published a headline suggesting she was using our divorce to launch a competing brand.

The article quoted an unnamed source close to company leadership.

I read it in my office.

I knew Julian's language.

The phrasing was almost identical to his recent complaints about Isabelle.

I called our public relations director.

“Did anyone from this company authorize statements about my wife?”

“Not through our office.”

“Find out whether another executive supplied information, and preserve the records.”

“Are you asking us to issue a denial?”

“I'm asking you to stop anyone using this company to intimidate an independent designer.”

She hesitated.

“Mr. Laurent, there are concerns about conflicts.”

“Then refer the matter to the special committee.”

I understood the problem.

I was not a neutral party.

My wife was involved.

My brother was under scrutiny.

My past mistakes made my motives suspect.

The company's independent directors needed to handle company decisions.

I could support an investigation.

I could provide evidence.

I couldn't simply issue commands because I felt guilty.

For the first time, I was learning the difference.

Two days later, Martin called with news.

Daniel Price had been located.

He was living in Pennsylvania and had agreed to speak with the independent investigators through his attorney.

According to his initial account, Julian had personally instructed him to retrieve the walnut case and deliver it to a private storage suite rented through Northstar.

Price claimed he had never opened the case.

He also said he'd been paid a substantial separation package after leaving Laurent Maison.

The money came from an account controlled by Owen Mercer's department.

“Can we get the case back?” I asked.

“The investigators are pursuing its current location. Isabelle's counsel is considering additional legal remedies.”

“Did Price give them an address?”

“He gave them the building where he delivered it.”

I felt a surge of hope.

Then Martin continued.

“But Northstar vacated that suite in August.”

“Where did the contents go?”

“We don't know yet.”

The hope disappeared.

That evening, I received a call from Julian.

He sounded almost cheerful.

“Gabriel, we need to talk.”

“About what?”

“Your wife.”

“My wife has a name.”

“Fine. Isabelle.”

I waited.

“She has been making public statements that could affect our business.”

“She spoke about her work.”

“She's positioning herself as a victim.”

“She is a person whose signature may have been forged.”

Julian sighed.

“You really don't understand what's happening, do you?”

“Then explain it.”

“Your marriage collapsed. The brand is under pressure. Investors are nervous. And you're helping Isabelle turn a private divorce into an attack on your own company.”

I felt my old temper stirring.

Then I remembered Martin's advice.

“I won't discuss the investigation with you.”

“Perhaps you'd prefer to discuss your removal.”

I went still.

Julian continued.

“The board is concerned about your judgment. Your affair, your absence, your emotional instability. Do you think investors want a founder who can't manage his own household?”

I gripped the phone.

“Are you threatening me?”

“I'm telling you to think about your future.”

The call ended.

I stood motionless beside my desk.

Then I did something I would once have considered humiliating.

I sent the recording and a contemporaneous account of the conversation to Martin and the special committee.

I didn't hide it.

I didn't retaliate.

I put it in the hands of people whose responsibility was to determine what mattered.

An hour later, my assistant brought me an envelope.

It had been delivered by courier.