I SPENT SEVEN DAYS IN ROME WITH MY MISTRESS

Camille Arden arrived at Martin Shaw's office wearing dark sunglasses and a coat that probably cost more than Nora Reyes earned in several months.

She had requested the meeting through her attorney.

I had not spoken to her since the night she accused Isabelle of manipulating me with her surgery.

When I entered the conference room, Camille was sitting beside a woman in a navy suit.

Her hair was pulled back.

Without the elaborate styling she wore at public events, she looked younger.

She also looked exhausted.

Martin introduced everyone.

Camille removed her sunglasses.

“Hello, Gabriel.”

I sat across from her.

“Why are we here?”

Her attorney answered.

“Ms. Arden has information she believes is relevant to the Northstar investigation. She wants to understand how it may be used and what obligations she has.”

Martin nodded.

“We are prepared to receive information, but we cannot offer immunity or make promises on behalf of investigators or prosecutors.”

Camille looked down at her hands.

“I know.”

I watched her.

During our affair, I'd been impressed by her certainty.

She seemed to know exactly what she wanted.

Now she looked like someone who had discovered that wanting something and understanding its price were different things.

“Julian introduced me to Northstar,” she said.

“When?”

“Before Rome.”

“How long before?”

“About six months.”

I stared at her.

That meant Julian had been involving Camille in his plans while I was still pretending our affair was a private secret.

She continued.

“He said the company needed a younger public image. Someone who could represent the new licensing collection.”

“You were already modeling for Laurent Maison.”

“He offered me something bigger. A creative director title. An international campaign. Equity in a separate licensing venture if the project succeeded.”

“Equity?”

“In Northstar's proposed business, not Laurent Maison.”

Her attorney placed a copy of a consulting agreement on the table.

Camille had received two million dollars through her management company.

The contract described strategic branding services.

Some services had been performed.

Others appeared vague.

“Did you know Isabelle owned any of the original artwork?” Martin asked.

Camille hesitated.

“Julian said everything had been assigned to the company.”

“Did you ever speak with Isabelle about that?”

“No.”

“Did you know she was going to have surgery?”

Camille's eyes flickered toward me.

“Yes.”

I felt my chest tighten.

“When?”

“Before we left for Rome.”

A terrible silence followed.

I leaned forward.

“You knew?”

“She told me.”

I could barely understand the words.

“Isabelle told you?”

Camille nodded.

“She came to the studio one afternoon. She wanted to discuss the birthday dress.”

I remembered that dress.

The ivory silk gown she'd seen Camille wearing on her birthday.

Camille swallowed.

“She asked why I'd worn something intended for her. I told her the creative team had made the decision.”

“What else?”

“She asked whether I was involved with you.”

“And?”

“I denied it.”

I looked away.

Camille continued.

“She didn't argue. She just said she'd been having medical tests and might need an operation. She told me she wanted you home for a week.”

“Did she ask you to tell me?”

“No. She asked whether you had mentioned canceling Rome.”

I closed my eyes.

“She was trying to understand whether I had told you the truth.”

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“That you'd never cancel an important campaign.”

I looked at her.

“And you knew about the surgery.”

“I knew she was being evaluated. She said an operation was likely.”

“Did you tell Julian?”

Camille hesitated.

Her attorney touched her arm.

“You may answer truthfully,” she said.

“Yes,” Camille whispered.

“I mentioned it during a meeting about the archive agreement. Julian became interested.”

“How interested?”

“He asked whether Isabelle had already signed the documents.”

My hands went cold.

“I said I didn't know.”

Camille's voice shook.

“He told me not to worry about it.”

I turned toward the window.

The city beyond the glass was bright and indifferent.

I wanted to rage at her.

I wanted to tell her she had helped destroy something precious.

But I knew the truth.

Camille had behaved selfishly.

She had lied.

She had concealed information.

Yet I was the husband who had spent nine months having an affair.

I was the person who had dismissed Isabelle's questions.

I was the person who had decided Rome mattered more than a week at home.

Even if Camille had told me about the likely surgery, it would not erase the fact that Isabelle had already begged me to stay.

I had been given a choice.

I made it.

Martin asked the next question.

“Did Julian ever instruct you to participate in the archive transfer?”

“Not directly.”

“Did you sign anything?”

“An agreement about promotional rights and confidentiality.”

“Did you see Isabelle's signature on the assignment?”

“After Rome.”

“What happened?”

Camille took a breath.

“Julian showed me the completed paperwork. I asked whether Isabelle had agreed.”

“What did he say?”

“He said Gabriel had handled his wife.”

I felt physically sick.

The phrase sounded like something Julian would say.

It also described exactly how I had treated Isabelle.

A problem to be handled.

An inconvenience to be managed.

Not a human being whose consent mattered.

Camille removed a small flash drive from her purse.

“My attorney has reviewed the contents,” she said.

“There are emails and messages about the licensing project. I don't know whether they prove a crime. But they show what Julian and Owen told me.”

Martin accepted the drive.

He assured her attorney it would be preserved and disclosed through appropriate legal channels.

Then Camille looked at me.

“Gabriel, I need to tell you something else.”

I didn't respond.

“I knew you were married. I knew our relationship was wrong. I kept telling myself you would leave Isabelle eventually.”

I stared at the table.

“But Julian encouraged it.”

I looked up.

“What?”

“He said you needed distractions. He said if you were enjoying yourself, you wouldn't interfere with the company's future.”

For a moment, I could hear nothing but the soft hum of the office ventilation.

“He said that?”

Camille nodded.

“At first, I thought he was joking. Later, I understood he meant it.”

My throat tightened.

“You were part of his plan?”

“I was part of a relationship I chose. I won't pretend otherwise. But he used it.”

She swallowed.

“And I let him.”

It was the first honest thing I'd heard her say about the affair.

I appreciated the honesty.

I did not mistake it for innocence.

Camille began crying.

I didn't move to comfort her.

There had been a time when I would have.

A time when her tears would have made me angry at whoever upset her.

Now I understood that compassion did not require returning to a relationship built on lies.

“I hope you cooperate fully,” I told her.

“I will.”

“And Camille?”

She raised her eyes.

“Do not contact Isabelle to ask her to forgive you.”

Her expression fell.

“She deserves the choice of whether to speak with you.”

Camille nodded.

The meeting ended.

I remained behind with Martin.

He studied me carefully.

“You look terrible.”

“I feel worse.”

“Good.”

I looked at him.

He shrugged.

“Some people spend their entire lives avoiding the discomfort of understanding their own behavior. You might finally be learning something.”

I laughed once, without humor.

“She knew about the surgery.”

“Yes.”

“She could have told me.”

“Yes.”

I waited for him to agree that Camille was responsible for everything.

He didn't.

Then I said what mattered.

“But Isabelle asked me to stay. I didn't need a diagnosis to know she wanted me.”

Martin nodded.

“Exactly.”

Across Brooklyn, Isabelle was inspecting the last samples for her upcoming showcase.

The space smelled of steam, cotton, and freshly painted walls.

Nora had persuaded her brother, Mateo, to photograph the garments.

A local florist offered discounted arrangements.

Two independent retailers had agreed to attend.

Nothing about the event resembled the enormous runway shows I'd once organized.

Isabelle was happier preparing it than she'd been preparing any of mine for years.

Then Tessa arrived with serious news.

A legal complaint had been filed against Forty-Seven Atelier.

It sought restrictions concerning the use of disputed historical designs and requested an expedited hearing on a temporary injunction.

The claimant was not Laurent Maison itself.

It was Northstar Heritage Holdings.

Isabelle examined the paperwork.

“They're claiming rights under the agreement with my forged signature.”

“Among other things.”

“Can they do that?”

“They can file a claim. Whether they can establish a right to relief is another matter.”

“What happens to the showcase?”

“We prepare to defend it. The court may hear the matter quickly.”

Nora was standing near the sewing machine.

Her face had gone pale.

“Isabelle, the buyers are coming next Friday.”

“I know.”

“If there's an injunction, what happens to the orders?”

“We'll deal with the order the court actually makes, if any.”

Nora's eyes filled with tears.

“My family needs this job.”

Isabelle crossed the room.

“I know.”

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't make it about me.”

“It is about you. That's why we're fighting.”

She took Nora's hands.

“But I won't promise something I can't control. What I can promise is that you will be paid for every hour you've worked. Whatever happens.”

Nora nodded.

Isabelle turned back to Tessa.

“Tell them we are ready.”

The hearing took place four days later.

Northstar's lawyer argued that Forty-Seven's publicity and design references created a risk of commercial exploitation of disputed assets.

He displayed photographs of early Laurent Maison garments beside images of Isabelle's new collection.

The silhouettes shared certain features.

There were tailored shoulders, asymmetric closures, and clean structural lines.

They also reflected design traditions found throughout fashion.

Isabelle's attorney presented independent development records for the new collection.

Sketchbooks.

Fabric invoices.

Dated fitting photographs.

Witness declarations from Nora.

The attorney also presented evidence challenging the validity of the archive assignment.

The judge asked Northstar's lawyer whether he disputed that Isabelle had been undergoing surgery on the date her signature supposedly appeared.

The lawyer answered that the circumstances of execution were under investigation.

“Then your client has a substantial evidentiary problem,” the judge observed.

The requested broad temporary injunction was denied.

The court imposed ordinary evidence-preservation obligations and scheduled further proceedings.

It did not resolve every ownership dispute.

But Forty-Seven could proceed with its showcase.

When Isabelle stepped outside the courthouse, reporters were waiting.

One asked whether she planned to sue her husband.

Another asked whether the divorce was part of a publicity campaign.

Isabelle stopped.

She looked directly at the cameras.

“I am here because I believe my signature was used without my permission. I am also here because I have the right to make new work.”

A reporter shouted, “Do you blame Gabriel Laurent?”

She paused.

“My marriage and this transaction involve different decisions. I won't confuse them just because other people find the scandal entertaining.”

Then she walked away.

I watched the footage from my office.

For fifteen years, I had believed protecting Isabelle meant keeping her away from uncomfortable situations.

Now she was facing a courthouse full of cameras with more dignity than I'd displayed in any executive meeting.

My phone rang.

It was Margaret Ellison.

“The special committee needs to speak with you,” she said.

“When?”

“Now.”

I went upstairs.

Three directors were waiting.

So were the outside investigators.

On the conference table lay a printed email.

It was dated eighteen months before Rome.

The sender was me.

The recipient was Julian.

The subject was ORIGINAL ARCHIVE OWNERSHIP.

The message read:

Julian, I don't have time to keep dealing with old patterns and family paperwork. Get the archive arrangements finished and stop bringing these issues to me. I trust you to handle it.

I remembered writing it.

I remembered being impatient.

The words had seemed insignificant at the time.

Now they were evidence of how carelessly I'd delegated authority.

Margaret looked at me.

“Did you send this?”

“Yes.”

“Did you intend to authorize a fraudulent transfer?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you verify what was being transferred?”

“No.”

“Were you aware your wife disputed ownership of certain materials?”

I considered lying.

Instead, I told the truth.

“She had raised concerns over the years. I didn't take them seriously.”

Margaret folded her hands.

“Gabriel, your brother may have committed wrongdoing. That is for the evidence to establish. But the committee is also evaluating your oversight.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

I looked at her.

“I'm beginning to.”

She explained that the board was considering whether I should temporarily step back from executive responsibilities while the investigation continued.

The idea would once have enraged me.

I was Laurent Maison.

My name was on the buildings.

The company existed because I had created it.

Then I remembered the first garment Isabelle and I made on our apartment floor.

It wouldn't have existed without either of us.

And the company was far larger than its founder.

Thousands of employees depended on its stability.

“Do what you believe is necessary,” I said.

Margaret looked surprised.

“Gabriel—”

“I'll cooperate.”

The meeting ended without a decision.

But that night, Julian called again.

This time, I didn't answer.

He left a message.

“You think you're being noble? You think Isabelle will come back because you've become some kind of martyr? Wake up, Gabriel. You're about to lose everything, and she won't be there to save you.”

I listened once.

Then I forwarded it to Martin.

I did not respond.

An hour later, Isabelle's attorney contacted Martin with an urgent request.

A former Northstar storage employee had provided information about a private collection scheduled for transfer to an overseas buyer.

The inventory description included a walnut portfolio case.

The transfer was expected to occur within forty-eight hours.

Northstar's representatives denied that the case belonged to Isabelle.

But the physical description matched.

And the shipment documents contained a photograph of the brass clasp.

I knew that clasp.

My father had repaired it himself.