Chapter 2 - THE COLD CALCULUS OF BETRAYAL
The fitting room was private,
walled with mirrors that reflected every angle of our mutual loathing.
Graham stood by the door,
checking his watch as if he had more important places to be.
Sloane stripped down to her silk slip,
standing on the pedestal with an air of practiced grace.
I pulled the measuring tape taut.
"Thirty-four,"
I muttered,
noting the numbers in my mind.
"Twenty-four,"
"thirty-six."
She was the perfect sample size.
She knew it.
"Graham tells me the business has been struggling lately,"
Sloane said,
her voice airy.
"He says you spend too much on hand-embroidery."
"He thinks you've lost touch with what the market actually wants."
I moved behind her,
measuring the width of her shoulders.
"Graham understands the numbers,"
I replied calmly,
"but he has never understood the soul of a garment."
"A machine can make a dress,"
"but it cannot make a legacy."
Sloane laughed,
a short,
sharp sound.
"Legacies don't pay for yachts in Saint-Tropez, Vivian."
"Growth does."
"That's why he's bringing me in."
"My followers will buy anything I touch."
I looked at her reflection in the mirror.
"They buy your skincare,"
"which is mostly water and cheap preservatives."
"Do you think they can afford a forty-thousand-dollar gown?"
Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
"They'll buy the dream,"
she snapped.
I finished the measurements and stepped back.
"The dream is expensive, Sloane."
"And sometimes,"
"the price is higher than you can afford to pay."
Graham stepped forward then,
placing his hand on the back of her neck.
"Are we done here?"
"We have a lunch meeting at twelve."
I looked at my husband.
The man I had built this empire with.
The man who had promised to protect my vision.
"We're done for today,"
I said.
"I'll have the first sketches ready by Monday."
They left as loudly as they had arrived.
The scent of her heavy perfume lingered in the air like a stain.
I went back to my office and locked the door.
My hands were finally shaking.
I sat at my desk and opened a hidden folder on my laptop.
I had been watching the accounts for months.
Graham thought I was just a designer.
He thought I didn't see the money moving.
He had been siphoning funds from Maison Hart to launch Sloane’s "luxury" line.
He was using my sweat,
my reputation,
and my family's legacy to build a throne for his mistress.
He didn't realize I had already contacted the auditors.
He didn't realize that every time he spent a dollar of company money on her,
he was digging his own grave.
I looked at the sketches on my desk.
I began to draw.
May you like
But I wasn't designing a dress for a gala.
I was designing a shroud.
