Chapter 2 - The Dress I Stole Without Knowing
For twenty-four hours after Isabelle walked away, I did not leave my apartment.
Not the mansion.
I had stopped sleeping there.
Three weeks after she left, I moved into a two-bedroom apartment downtown because every room of the house contained evidence of a marriage I had treated as permanent furniture.
The apartment cost more per month than our first place cost in an entire year.
It still felt small.
I placed Isabelle’s copyright registration on the kitchen table and stared at it until sunrise.
The Laurent No. 1 Evening Dress.
The beginning.
Every documentary about my career mentioned it.
Every profile.
Every retrospective.
There was even a photograph of me beside the original dress hanging in the Laurent archive.
My quote appeared beneath it:
“I was trying to create something that looked like confidence without armor.”
I suddenly remembered where that sentence came from.
Isabelle.
Not word for word.
But close.
Fifteen years earlier, she had stood over a length of midnight-blue silk and said, “A woman should be able to look powerful without dressing like she needs armor.”
I had loved the sentence.
Apparently enough to absorb it.
Then forget its source.
That realization made me physically sick.
At eight in the morning, I called Celeste Marchand.
Celeste was seventy-one, French, terrifying, and one of the first buyers who ever took a chance on us.
She answered with, “If this is about a gala, I’m too old to pretend celebrities are interesting.”
“It isn’t.”
A pause.
“You sound terrible.”
“I need to ask about the first collection.”
Silence.
Then:
“Ah.”
One syllable.
That was all.
My stomach dropped.
“You know.”
“I know many things.”
“Celeste.”
“Yes, Gabriel.”
“Did Isabelle design the first dress?”
Celeste sighed.
“Come for lunch.”
“I need an answer.”
“No. You need lunch.”
“Celeste—”
“One o’clock.”
She hung up.
At twelve-forty, I arrived at her townhouse on the Upper East Side.
Celeste served soup.
I did not touch it.
She watched me for several minutes.
“You finally found the registration.”
“Isabelle showed me.”
“And?”
“It says she designed Laurent No. 1.”
“She did.”
The directness hurt more than uncertainty.
“How much?”
Celeste placed down her spoon.
“Of the first collection?”
“Yes.”
“Conceptually?”
“Yes.”
“Half.”
I stared.
“Half?”
“Perhaps more.”
“That isn’t possible.”
“Why? Because you remember differently?”
The same sentence Isabelle had implied.
I leaned back.
Celeste studied me without sympathy.
“You were very talented.”
“Were?”
“You still are. Don’t become childish.”
I said nothing.
“You had instinct. Drama. Shape. Branding. Isabelle understood women.”
“I understand women.”
Celeste laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Your recent personal life suggests otherwise.”
I ignored that.
“What do you mean?”
“Your early work was beautiful because the two of you corrected each other. You liked spectacle. Isabelle removed vanity. You wanted a shoulder. She wanted movement. You wanted photographs. She wanted the woman wearing the dress to breathe.”
Memories surfaced.
Late nights.
Arguments over hems.
Her pencil crossing through mine.
My hand changing hers.
“Why did nobody tell me?”
Celeste’s expression hardened.
“We did.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Repeatedly.”
I shook my head.
“You congratulated me.”
“I congratulated both of you.”
“The articles were about me.”
“And Isabelle told reporters she preferred privacy.”
“So she chose it.”
“For a while.”
The final words mattered.
I looked at Celeste.
“For a while?”
She leaned back.
“Do you remember the Marseille collection?”
“Of course.”
It had been our fourth major line.
The collection that moved Laurent from promising to internationally important.
“Isabelle designed the silver coat.”
“I designed the silver coat.”
“No.”
My stomach tightened.
“She sketched it in my kitchen.”
I stared.
“That’s not true.”
Celeste stood.
She left the room.
Returned carrying an old leather portfolio.
She placed it in front of me.
“Open it.”
Inside were photographs.
Early fittings.
Fabric samples.
Then a sketch.
The silver coat.
Isabelle’s handwriting.
Date.
Signature.
My hands became cold.
Celeste said, “You modified the collar.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
“I gave interviews—”
“Yes.”
“I said—”
“I know what you said.”
“Why didn’t she stop me?”
Celeste’s eyes flashed.
“Why was that her job?”
I looked up.
“You were her husband.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t want to know.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“No?”
She sat again.
“Do you remember when Isabelle asked to be listed as creative consultant?”
I searched my memory.
Nothing.
Celeste continued.
“Eight years ago. She told you she wanted formal credit.”
A fragment returned.
Our old office.
Isabelle sitting across from my desk.
A contract.
I had been on the phone.
“What did I say?”
Celeste looked disgusted.
“You said titles would complicate the brand narrative.”
I closed my eyes.
God.
I remembered.
Not the whole conversation.
Enough.
Laurent was becoming global.
Investors wanted a single creative figure.
A face.
Gabriel Laurent.
Isabelle had asked whether her role could be recognized internally.
I told her everyone already knew she mattered.
Then I took a call.
And forgot.
Celeste’s voice softened.
“The affair is not why Isabelle finally left.”
“I know.”
“No, you are beginning to know.”
That was worse.
I opened another sketch.
Then another.
Isabelle everywhere.
Not every piece.
Not even most pieces in later years.
But enough that the mythology of Gabriel Laurent, solitary genius, became obscene.
“How many people know?”
“Old people.”
I almost laughed.
“Meaning?”
“Anyone who was there at the beginning.”
“Why did nobody say anything publicly?”
“Because Isabelle never asked us to.”
“Why?”
Celeste looked at me.
“Because she loved you.”
That was the ugliest answer.
Not blackmail.
Not fear.
Love.
I left Celeste’s townhouse carrying copies of twelve early designs.
At Laurent headquarters, I went directly to the archive.
My staff looked nervous when I entered.
Since the separation became public, everyone treated me like damaged crystal.
I hated it.
“Bring me every original sketch from the first six collections.”
My archivist hesitated.
“That will take—”
“Today.”
Boxes arrived.
Hundreds of pages.
I began comparing handwriting.
Mine.
Isabelle’s.
Shared notes.
Initials.
I stayed until midnight.
Then two.
Then four.
By sunrise, I had identified thirty-seven major pieces containing substantial design work by Isabelle.
Nine were almost entirely hers.
Three were iconic.
Laurent No. 1.
The Marseille Silver Coat.
The Bellamy Evening Gown.
Bellamy.
Her maiden name.
I stared at the title.
How had I never understood?
My phone rang.
Camille.
I rejected it.
She called again.
Then texted.
WE NEED TO TALK BEFORE THE BOARD MEETING.
I had forgotten about the board meeting.
For the first time in my career, I didn’t care.
I called my general counsel instead.
“James.”
“You’re awake early.”
“I never slept.”
“That’s unhealthy.”
“I need a full intellectual property audit.”
Silence.
“Of what?”
“Every Laurent collection from the company’s first ten years.”
“Why?”
“To determine authorship.”
Another pause.
“Gabriel.”
“Don’t.”
“What happened?”
“Isabelle designed more than our records reflect.”
James went silent.
“How much more?”
“I don’t know.”
“That could create exposure.”
“I know.”
“Did she make a claim?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps we should avoid creating one.”
The sentence made my blood run cold.
“What?”
“I’m speaking legally.”
“So am I.”
“Gabriel, if Isabelle has not asserted ownership—”
“She shouldn’t have to.”
Silence.
“Begin the audit.”
“Board approval may be required.”
“Then get it.”
“You understand what this could do to the brand?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Isabelle’s sketch.
“I’m finally beginning to.”
The board did not react well.
Twelve people around a glass table.
Revenue projections.
Expansion plans.
A crisis communications team already struggling with my affair.
Now I told them we might have misattributed foundational designs.
Our chairman, Richard Voss, removed his glasses.
“Isabelle is divorcing you.”
“Yes.”
“Has she threatened litigation?”
“No.”
“Has counsel?”
“No.”
“Then why are we discussing this?”
I stared at him.
“Because the work may be hers.”
Richard looked genuinely confused.
“That is a moral issue.”
“Yes.”
“We are a corporation.”
“I’m aware.”
“Our obligation is to shareholders.”
“My name is on the building.”
“Which is why you should be the last person inviting questions about authorship.”
Another director leaned forward.
“Gabriel, the public already believes you cheated on your wife.”
“I did.”
No one enjoyed how directly I said it.
“If this becomes a story about stealing her work as well—”
“I may have.”
Richard slammed a hand onto the table.
“Stop saying that.”
“Why?”
“Because words have legal consequences.”
“So do actions.”
The room became silent.
For years, these people applauded my decisiveness.
Now they realized decisiveness could turn against them.
I said, “Audit everything.”
Richard stared.
“If the board refuses?”
“I’ll fund an independent audit personally.”
“You cannot make decisions like this while emotionally compromised.”
I almost laughed.
“Emotionally compromised?”
“You’ve just been abandoned by your wife.”
I stood.
“No.”
They watched.
“I abandoned her years before she left.”
Then I walked out.
That evening, I received a message from Isabelle.
YOU CONTACTED CELESTE.
Not a question.
I replied:
Yes.
Three minutes.
Then:
WHY?
Because I wanted the truth.
Her response came immediately.
NO. YOU WANTED A NUMBER.
I stared.
She was right.
I called.
She answered after several rings.
“What?”
“You said I should know.”
“I gave you one document.”
“You knew I’d investigate.”
“I hoped you’d think.”
“I am thinking.”
“No. You’re auditing.”
“That’s what I know how to do.”
“Exactly.”
I walked to the windows overlooking Manhattan.
“What do you want from me?”
Silence.
Then she said, “That question is still about you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You keep asking what action will fix your discomfort.”
“I’m trying to make this right.”
“You can’t make fifteen years right with a spreadsheet.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I closed my eyes.
“What would you have wanted?”
Her voice became quiet.
“Back then?”
“Yes.”
“You to say my name.”
The simplicity hurt.
“At interviews?”
“Sometimes.”
“At shows?”
“Yes.”
“In meetings?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you demand it?”
“I did.”
I had no defense.
She continued.
“Then I stopped.”
“Why?”
“Because begging your husband to remember you helped him become himself is humiliating.”
My throat tightened.
“Isabelle.”
“I have to go.”
“Where?”
She laughed softly.
“You don’t get to ask that anymore.”
The line went dead.
Three days later, I learned where she was.
Not through investigators.
Through Vogue.
A short online article appeared at 7:05 a.m.
WHO IS ISABELLE BELLAMY?
FORMER WIFE OF GABRIEL LAURENT QUIETLY REGISTERS INDEPENDENT ATELIER IN BROOKLYN.
There was one photograph.
Isabelle stood inside a converted warehouse.
A sewing machine behind her.
Fabric rolls along the wall.
She was smiling.
Not at a camera.
At a young woman holding a dress pattern.
Below the photograph:
Bellamy Studio will produce a limited debut collection next spring.
I read the paragraph three times.
She had used her maiden name.
Not Laurent.
Bellamy.
For the first time in fifteen years, Isabelle was building something with no connection to my name.
My first reaction was pride.
My second was fear.
My third shamed me.
What if she was better than me?
I sat with that thought for several minutes.
Then realized the question itself proved how much work remained.
Because if Isabelle was better than me, I should have wanted the world to know fifteen years ago.
My assistant entered.
“Camille Arden is downstairs.”
“I don’t want to see her.”
“She says it concerns Isabelle.”
I looked up.
“What about Isabelle?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
Five minutes later, Camille entered my office wearing sunglasses despite the rain.
She looked furious.
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“Probably.”
“You’re investigating your own company because Isabelle showed you some old drawing?”
“Get to the point.”
Camille removed her glasses.
“You need to stop her.”
“From what?”
“Launching Bellamy.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“Because people are already saying she was the real talent.”
My jaw tightened.
“Maybe she was.”
Camille laughed.
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“She finally got to you.”
“Get out.”
“No. Listen to me.”
She stepped closer.
“You think Isabelle is innocent?”
“Yes.”
“You really shouldn’t.”
“What does that mean?”
Camille reached into her bag.
Placed a folder on my desk.
Inside were photographs of unreleased Laurent designs.
Recent designs.
From the upcoming collection.
Beside them were photographs taken through Bellamy Studio’s windows.
Garments on mannequins.
Similar silhouettes.
Similar structures.
My stomach tightened.
Camille smiled.
“Your wife isn’t just leaving you, Gabriel.”
She tapped the photographs.
“She’s stealing from you.”
I looked at her.
Then at the images.
For half a second, the old Gabriel returned.
Suspicion.
Ownership.
Anger.
Then I remembered fifteen years of assuming the work belonged to me because my name was larger.
I closed the folder.
“No.”
Camille blinked.
“No?”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You’re looking at proof.”
“I’m looking at photographs you brought me.”
Her expression changed.
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“No. You’re trying to keep me angry at her.”
“Why would I—”
“Because if I understand what I did to Isabelle, then I understand what being with you represented.”
Her face hardened.
“You used me too.”
“Yes.”
The admission stopped her.
I stood.
“I lied to you about my marriage. I let you believe I was leaving her.”
“You said you were unhappy.”
“I was selfish. That isn’t the same thing.”
“Don’t suddenly turn me into the villain.”
“I’m not.”
I looked at her.
“I’m finally refusing to turn Isabelle into one.”
Camille’s eyes became cold.
“You’ll regret humiliating me.”
“I already regret enough.”
She picked up the folder.
At the door, she turned.
“You think Bellamy Studio is some sweet little healing project?”
“What are you saying?”
Camille smiled.
“You really have no idea who financed it, do you?”
I went still.
She left.
Within an hour, my lawyers discovered Bellamy Studio had received a $12 million investment.
The investor was anonymous through a private fund.
By evening, we identified the controlling company.
Arden Capital.
Camille’s family.
And suddenly I understood.
Camille had not come to warn me Isabelle was stealing from Laurent.
May you like
Someone connected to Camille was financing Isabelle.
The question was why.
