Chapter 3 - The Woman Behind My Name
Camille Arden had spent nine months in my bed.
I knew how she took her coffee.
I knew she hated thunderstorms.
I knew she slept with the television on when she stayed alone in hotels.
Apparently I did not know her family owned a private investment fund that had quietly placed twelve million dollars into my wife’s new company.
That fact was not impossible to discover.
I had simply never been curious enough about Camille beyond the role she played in my life.
Beautiful.
Available.
Admiring.
Easy.
For a man who built a career around details, I had become astonishingly incurious about women.
Arden Capital belonged primarily to Camille’s father, Étienne Arden, a French-American luxury investor who had spent two decades buying struggling fashion houses and turning them into profitable brands.
He and I had never liked each other.
Three years earlier, he tried buying a fifteen-percent stake in Laurent Group.
I refused.
He called me sentimental.
I called him a grave robber.
Apparently his money now sat inside Bellamy Studio.
My first instinct was to call Isabelle.
I stopped.
Old Gabriel would have demanded an explanation.
New Gabriel—or whatever unfinished version I was attempting to become—called my attorney instead.
“Is the investment legal?”
“Yes.”
“Any connection to Laurent trade secrets?”
“None we can establish.”
“Then leave it.”
James sounded surprised.
“You don’t want to know why Arden invested?”
“I want to know.”
“And?”
“I don’t have the right to demand Isabelle tell me.”
I almost laughed hearing myself say it.
Growth sounded unnatural in my mouth.
The next morning, another surprise arrived.
My independent intellectual-property audit produced its first findings.
Seventy-two early Laurent designs required reassessment.
Seventy-two.
Twenty-three contained clear evidence of joint authorship.
Eleven appeared primarily Isabelle’s.
The rest contained ambiguous notes impossible to assign with certainty.
I sat in the archive room surrounded by my own mythology.
Every piece had a story.
The Seraphina gown.
The Marseille coat.
The first Laurent trench.
The ivory staircase dress worn by an actress at the Oscars.
I remembered designing them.
That was the frightening part.
Memory had not exactly lied.
It had edited.
In my version, Isabelle stood beside me.
In reality, sometimes I stood beside her.
There was one sketch that made me stop.
A red evening dress from our third collection.
The hem curved upward on one side in a way critics later called revolutionary.
I had described the idea in interviews for years.
Then I found an old photograph.
Isabelle wore the unfinished dress in our apartment.
She had pinned the hem herself.
On the back, in my handwriting:
ISA’S ACCIDENT IS BETTER THAN MY DESIGN.
I sat down.
I had known.
Once.
Before success turned collaboration into biography.
I called my communications director.
“I want all official historical materials frozen.”
“What?”
“Website archive. Museum texts. Designer biographies. Everything.”
“Gabriel, we have a major launch in three weeks.”
“Freeze the historical section.”
“Why?”
“Authorship review.”
Silence.
“Oh.”
Everyone in Laurent Group had learned that word.
Authorship.
A polite corporate term for a marriage being excavated in public.
By noon, Richard Voss called.
“The board wants you on leave.”
I leaned back.
“For ordering an audit?”
“For instability.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you ended a nine-month affair, initiated an intellectual-property investigation against yourself, and froze brand history during our most important quarter.”
“I see.”
“You need time.”
“No.”
“That was not a suggestion.”
I laughed.
“You cannot remove me as creative director without a vote.”
“We have one scheduled.”
That got my attention.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“How many votes?”
“Enough.”
The company bearing my name was preparing to remove me.
Six months earlier, the idea would have caused rage.
That afternoon, it caused something closer to relief.
“Do it.”
Richard went silent.
“What?”
“If the board thinks Laurent Group needs distance from me, I’ll step aside.”
“Gabriel.”
“You expected a fight.”
“Yes.”
“So did I.”
I hung up.
At six, Isabelle called.
I stared at her name.
Answered.
“Hello.”
“You froze the archive.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s wrong.”
“The archive?”
“The story.”
Silence.
“You don’t have to destroy your company to prove something to me.”
“I’m not.”
“It looks like you are.”
“The board is probably removing me tomorrow.”
“What?”
Her concern was immediate.
I hated how much hope it gave me.
“I’m stepping aside.”
“Gabriel, no.”
“Why?”
“Because Laurent is your life.”
“No.”
The answer came easily.
“It was.”
She became quiet.
I continued.
“Laurent was supposed to be our life. Then it became mine. Maybe stepping away is the first honest thing I’ve done with it.”
“Don’t make me responsible for this.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No. If I stay simply because losing it scares you on my behalf, then we’re still building my choices around your guilt.”
She inhaled sharply.
I realized I had finally said something she could not dismiss as manipulation.
“I’m responsible for what I did,” I said. “Not you.”
Another silence.
Then:
“Arden Capital invested in Bellamy.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Corporate records.”
“Why haven’t you asked me?”
“I assumed you would tell me if you wanted me to know.”
This silence lasted longer.
“Who are you?”
I smiled despite myself.
“Currently unemployed, apparently.”
She almost laughed.
I heard it.
A tiny sound.
It felt like sunlight.
Then she became serious.
“Étienne Arden offered the investment before he knew I was leaving you.”
My body tightened.
“When?”
“Eight months ago.”
During the affair.
“How did he know about your work?”
“He saw a private portfolio.”
“Whose?”
“Mine.”
“You were planning Bellamy while we were married?”
“Yes.”
The honesty hurt.
“Were you leaving me?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because I wanted something that belonged to me.”
I closed my eyes.
Fair.
“How did Étienne get involved?”
“Celeste.”
Of course.
“She introduced us. He offered financing. I refused the first two times.”
“Why accept eventually?”
“Because after surgery, I realized I was tired of waiting for permission to start my own life.”
I absorbed that.
“Does Camille know?”
“Know what?”
“About the investment.”
“I assume so.”
“She came to my office with photographs suggesting Bellamy stole unreleased Laurent designs.”
Isabelle became completely silent.
“Isabelle?”
“What photographs?”
I explained.
Her voice changed.
“Gabriel, we haven’t seen Laurent’s new collection.”
“I know.”
“Then why would—”
“I don’t believe the accusation.”
Another silence.
“Thank you.”
Two words.
They mattered more than they should have.
“But the designs looked similar,” I said.
“That’s impossible unless—”
She stopped.
“Unless what?”
“Unless someone copied mine.”
I stood.
“What?”
“Our collection was finalized five months ago.”
Laurent’s upcoming collection had been designed three months ago.
My pulse changed.
“Send me your dated files.”
“No.”
I almost snapped.
Then stopped.
“Right.”
“I’ll send them to an independent attorney.”
“Good.”
“Gabriel.”
“Yes?”
“If Laurent copied Bellamy—”
“I’ll find out.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Don’t protect me by burning everything around you.”
“I’m not.”
“Promise.”
I stared out my office windows.
“I promise to find the truth.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s what I can promise.”
She sighed.
“Still difficult.”
“Apparently.”
After we hung up, I called Laurent’s current design director, Adrian Cole.
Adrian had worked under me for twelve years.
Talented.
Ambitious.
Loyal.
I thought.
“Come upstairs.”
He arrived twenty minutes later.
I placed Camille’s photographs on the table.
His face changed.
Only slightly.
Enough.
“Where did these come from?”
“Camille.”
“They’re private Laurent designs.”
“I know.”
“Then why does she have them?”
“Good question.”
I pointed at the photographs of Bellamy garments.
“Why are these similar?”
Adrian looked.
Too long.
“Trends overlap.”
“No.”
“Gabriel—”
“I know pattern construction.”
He looked away.
My voice lowered.
“Did you see Bellamy’s portfolio?”
“No.”
“Did someone at Laurent?”
“I don’t know.”
Bad lie.
I stood.
“Adrian.”
He swallowed.
“I received reference images.”
“From whom?”
“Marketing.”
“Who in marketing?”
“I don’t know.”
I stepped closer.
“Then you’re either incompetent or lying.”
His face hardened.
“Do you understand the pressure we’re under? Bellamy is launching the same season. Press is obsessed with Isabelle. Everyone wants to know whether she was the real Laurent talent.”
“So you copied her?”
“I didn’t know they were hers.”
“Whose images did you think they were?”
“Trend references.”
“From where?”
He hesitated.
Then said, “Camille.”
Everything stopped.
“Camille gave you Bellamy designs?”
“She said they were unpublished European references.”
I stared.
“Why would you take design references from a model?”
“Because she said they came through Arden.”
“And that didn’t concern you?”
“She said her father wanted Laurent to stay competitive.”
My hands clenched.
Camille had access to Isabelle’s work through Arden Capital.
She had taken photographs or files.
Then quietly fed them into Laurent.
Not to help me.
To create a future scandal.
If Bellamy launched first, Laurent could be accused of theft.
If Laurent launched first, Isabelle could be accused of copying me.
Either way, Isabelle’s credibility would be destroyed.
“Who else knows?”
Adrian’s face went pale.
“Richard.”
The chairman.
I sat slowly.
“Richard Voss knew?”
“He approved using the references.”
“Why?”
“He said Bellamy was a threat.”
A cold clarity settled over me.
My affair had not merely destroyed my marriage.
It had opened a door into my company.
Camille used me.
Perhaps not from the beginning.
Perhaps completely.
It almost didn’t matter.
Because betrayal was still betrayal even when the betrayer had once been someone you betrayed with.
The next morning, the board gathered to remove me.
I arrived with three attorneys.
Richard looked irritated.
“This is unnecessary.”
“No.”
I placed a folder in front of every director.
“This is extremely necessary.”
For thirty minutes, my attorneys explained the Bellamy design theft.
Digital metadata.
Access logs.
Internal emails.
Camille’s transfers.
Adrian’s messages.
Richard’s approval.
The room became silent.
Richard removed his glasses.
“This can be managed.”
I stared.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The sentence that created everything wrong with this company.”
He leaned back.
“Be careful.”
“No.”
I stood.
“For fifteen years, we managed the story. Managed Isabelle out of credits. Managed my ego. Managed creative history. Now you want to manage theft.”
“Those are not equivalent.”
“They are connected.”
“You are emotional.”
“Yes.”
The word surprised him.
“I should have been emotional fifteen years ago.”
I looked around the table.
“I resign as chief creative officer, effective immediately.”
Several directors started speaking.
I raised a hand.
“I also request Richard Voss be removed as chairman pending investigation.”
Richard laughed.
“You don’t have the votes.”
“I do now.”
Our largest independent shareholder joined by video.
Then another.
The vote passed nine to three.
Richard stared at me like I had stabbed him.
Perhaps I had.
Without violence.
A new experience.
That afternoon, Laurent Group issued a statement acknowledging potential historical misattribution and recent improper use of Bellamy Studio reference material.
The stock fell twelve percent.
My reputation collapsed another ten floors.
Headlines called me fraud.
Thief.
Adulterer.
Finished.
For the first time, I did not ask public relations to fix it.
I went home.
At eleven that night, someone knocked.
I opened the door.
Isabelle stood there.
I forgot how to breathe.
She looked past me.
“You live here?”
“Yes.”
“It’s small.”
“It has two bathrooms.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Of course.”
I stepped aside.
“You can come in.”
She hesitated.
Then entered.
For several seconds, she looked around.
No assistants.
No art worth millions.
No giant dining table.
Just books, a couch, an open laptop, and two pizza boxes.
“What are you doing here?”
I asked.
“You publicly admitted Laurent used Bellamy designs.”
“Yes.”
“You resigned.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it was true.”
“That answer is becoming annoying.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“Fair.”
She turned toward me.
“Camille gave them the designs.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Her father?”
“I don’t think so.”
Isabelle frowned.
“Étienne would never risk an investment like that.”
“I agree.”
We stood quietly.
Then she noticed the kitchen table.
Her copyright registration was there.
Beside it were seventy-two audit files.
She touched one.
“You’re still doing this.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I answered carefully.
“Because whether you forgive me or not, the record should be true.”
Her eyes filled.
She looked away.
I did not touch her.
That was one of the hardest things I had ever done.
Finally, she whispered, “I used to imagine hearing you say that.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You don’t.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“I used to stand backstage while people applauded you for dresses I helped create and tell myself it didn’t matter because I went home with you.”
My chest tightened.
“Isabelle—”
“Then eventually I stopped going backstage.”
I nodded.
“I remember.”
“You didn’t ask why.”
“No.”
“Then I stopped attending shows.”
“I remember.”
“You didn’t ask why.”
“No.”
She wiped her face.
“Then I stopped sketching around you.”
I closed my eyes.
“I remember.”
“And you still didn’t ask.”
“No.”
She laughed through tears.
“You didn’t lose me in Rome.”
“I know.”
“You lost me slowly.”
“Yes.”
“And that is harder to forgive.”
“I know.”
She stared.
“Stop saying you know.”
I took a breath.
“You’re right.”
She looked down at the papers.
“I came because there’s something else.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Bellamy’s debut show is in six weeks.”
“That’s good.”
“It was.”
“Was?”
She handed me her phone.
A fashion-news alert covered the screen.
BELLAMY ACCUSED OF COPYING LAURENT ARCHIVES.
Anonymous sources claimed Isabelle’s entire debut collection was derived from my old designs.
Attached were side-by-side photographs.
Some were manipulated.
Others deliberately misleading.
The story had gone global.
Isabelle’s face was calm.
Too calm.
I recognized the expression.
The hospital smile.
Fear disguised as composure.
“Who did this?” I asked.
“I think you know.”
Camille.
I looked at Isabelle.
“What do you need?”
The old answer would have been:
I’ll fix it.
This time I waited.
Isabelle swallowed.
May you like
Then said:
“I need you to tell the truth.”
