Chapter 2 - The Dress With My Name Buried Inside It
My lawyer's office was dark when I arrived.
Only one light remained on in the conference room.
Evelyn Hart stood beside the window with her arms folded.
She was forty-six, calm, brutally practical, and one of the few people in my life who had never once asked me to forgive Dominic.
She had asked me a different question months earlier.
“What happens when you're finally done?”
Tonight, I had an answer.
“I am done.”
Evelyn looked at the mark on my face.
Her eyes hardened.
“What happened?”
“He slapped me.”
Her expression went still.
“Why?”
“Because he believed Vanessa.”
Evelyn closed her eyes briefly.
“Of course he did.”
I put the flash drive on the table.
“It's time.”
She plugged it into her laptop.
Folders opened.
DESIGNS.
CONTRACTS.
CARUSO.
VANESSA.
FINANCIAL.
MOTHER.
Evelyn frowned.
“Mother?”
“I didn't label that folder.”
She opened it.
Inside was a scanned letter.
The first sentence read:
Nora, if you are reading this, I did not get a chance to tell you the truth.
I stopped breathing.
My mother's handwriting.
My mother had died seven years earlier.
I sat down.
“What is that?”
“I don't know.”
Evelyn opened the letter.
I read it over her shoulder.
My mother wrote about the Caruso family.
About Dominic's father, Matteo.
About a real-estate development on the Connecticut coast.
About a design archive.
And about a legal agreement that could explain why my early sketches had ended up inside Caruso Design.
There was a line that made my hands shake.
Your father and Matteo Caruso made a promise before you were born.
I looked up.
“My father knew his family?”
“Apparently.”
“My parents barely spoke about the Carusos.”
Evelyn continued reading.
The final paragraph was worse.
If Dominic ever asks you to sign away your designs, do not trust the reason he gives you. He may believe he is protecting you. He may also believe he has no choice.
I stared at the page.
“Why didn't she tell me?”
“Maybe she planned to.”
“Then why didn't she?”
Evelyn looked at the date.
The letter had been written three days before my mother's death.
A car accident.
At the time, police had called it a tragic loss of control on a wet road.
I had never questioned it.
Now I felt cold.
Evelyn copied the files onto an isolated system.
“We need to move carefully.”
“I don't want money.”
She looked at me.
“You don't understand.”
“I want my name back.”
“That may cost you more than money.”
“I know.”
I told her everything.
The stolen dress.
The gala.
Vanessa.
The slap.
The flash drive.
But there was one thing I had not mentioned.
A conversation I had overheard six months earlier.
I had been in the Caruso Design archive looking for an old pregnancy insurance document.
I had heard Dominic and Vanessa speaking behind a closed door.
Vanessa had asked, “When are you going to tell her?”
Dominic had answered, “When everything is transferred.”
I had assumed they meant the design company.
Now, watching my mother's letter on a screen, I wondered whether they had meant something else.
Evelyn leaned back.
“We need more than the design theft.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you're going after Caruso Design, we can file for copyright infringement and breach of fiduciary duty.”
“I know.”
“But if you're going after Dominic personally, we need to know what he has hidden.”
“He has hidden a lot.”
“Then start remembering.”
I did.
I remembered invoices.
Meetings.
Contracts.
Unusual transfers.
A charity gala six months before our wedding.
Vanessa appearing at Dominic's office during a business trip.
A private account he refused to explain.
And one name that had appeared repeatedly in old paperwork.
Silas Moretti.
Vanessa's father.
Evelyn looked at the name.
“That's interesting.”
“Why?”
“He was listed as an external consultant to Caruso Design.”
“And?”
“He died two years ago.”
I frowned.
“Why is he connected to payments made this year?”
We both stared at the screen.
There were monthly transfers.
Amounts between $80,000 and $160,000.
All paid to a dormant company.
One that had been registered under Silas Moretti's name.
Evelyn's voice changed.
“Nora, this isn't just about a dress.”
“I know.”
“No. You don't.”
She turned the laptop toward me.
“This could be fraud.”
I looked at the figures.
“Whose money?”
“That is what we have to find out.”
My phone rang.
Dominic.
I answered.
“What?”
His voice was low.
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere you can't control.”
“Nora…”
“No.”
“Please come home.”
I almost laughed.
“Home?”
“Yes.”
“That house stopped being home when you slapped me in front of two hundred people.”
He exhaled.
“I was wrong.”
“No. You were certain.”
“I was angry.”
“You were cruel.”
Silence.
Then he said, “Vanessa told me you threatened her.”
I looked at Evelyn.
“She lied.”
“I know.”
My pulse changed.
“What?”
“I know.”
“Then why did you hit me?”
“I don't have an excuse.”
At least he admitted it.
But his next words destroyed whatever sympathy I had left.
“The important thing is what happens next.”
I closed my eyes.
“What happens next?”
“The press will find out.”
“Let them.”
“They'll destroy you too.”
“Dominic.”
“What?”
“You think I'm afraid of being destroyed by the man who just humiliated me?”
Silence.
Then I said the sentence I had rehearsed for six months.
“You should be more worried about what happens when people learn what you did before you slapped me.”
His breathing stopped.
He understood.
“The drive.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
“Nora…”
“I'll see you in court.”
I ended the call.
Evelyn stared at me.
“You knew he would panic.”
“I was hoping.”
She smiled faintly.
“Good.”
Three hours later, we had enough to begin.
But just before dawn, an email arrived from an anonymous account.
Subject: You Don't Know the Whole Story.
The attachment contained a photograph.
Dominic.
Vanessa.
And a third person.
My father.
Alive.
Standing with them eighteen months before I had ever seen the photograph.
May you like
I stared at the screen.
My father had supposedly been dead for eleven years.
