Chapter 1 - THE THEATER OF DISRESPECT
Graham turned toward Lena.
His eyes were cold,
the color of a winter sea just before a storm.
He did not speak to her as an employee,
but as a nuisance to be cleared away.
"Do you know who I am?"
he asked,
his voice low and dangerously smooth.
Lena hesitated,
her fingers trembling against the silk of her measuring tape.
"I know you are Mr. Hart,"
she whispered,
"but the protocol for the archive collection is—"
"The protocol,"
Graham interrupted,
"is whatever I say it is."
He took a step closer to her,
towering over her smaller frame.
"This business carries my name."
"It is my name on the lease,"
"my name on the payroll,"
"and my name on the sign outside."
I felt the familiar tighten of my chest.
It was the lie he had told so often that he finally believed it.
I moved toward the spiral staircase.
The metal was cold beneath my palm.
I descended slowly,
each click of my heels echoing against the marble floor.
The silence in the room deepened.
The fashion editor from Bellweather looked up,
her eyes wide with the realization of the scandal unfolding.
Naomi Chen caught my eye,
her expression a mix of fury and concern.
I reached the bottom step.
"The name on the sign is Maison Hart, Graham,"
I said,
my voice cutting through his bravado.
"Hart is my maiden name."
"You simply adopted it when we married because your own was buried in debt."
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Graham turned to face me.
His smile did not reach his eyes.
"Vivian,"
he said,
as if greeting an old friend he found slightly boring.
"You've finally decided to join us."
Sloane Avery didn't look at me.
She kept her hand on the ivory gown,
her thumb stroking the delicate lace.
"It’s a beautiful piece, Vivian,"
she said,
still not turning around.
"But the waist is a bit... dated, don't you think?"
She finally looked over her shoulder.
The oversized sunglasses were gone,
revealing eyes that were sharp and calculating.
"I'm here because I need something special."
"Something modern."
Graham stepped to her side,
reclaiming her waist with a proprietary grip.
"Sloane is going to be the face of our new expansion,"
he announced to the room.
"And she needs a gown for the Sapphire Gala."
"A gown designed by the head of the house."
He looked at me with a challenge in his gaze.
"I want you to personally handle her fittings."
It was a public execution of my pride.
He wanted the wife to dress the mistress.
He wanted the world to see me submit.
I looked at the twelve employees watching me.
I looked at the clients who would spread this story by dinner.
I looked at Sloane,
who was smiling like she had already won.
"Fine,"
I said,
tilting my chin up.
"Let's get her measured."
"Lena,"
May you like
"get the black book."
"The one we use for clients who require... extra structural support."
